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  She hung on his words, her mouth a perfect cupid’s bow. He thought of when he’d kissed her, wishing that they were alone now so he could kiss her again. “Like do what?”

  Her words didn’t quite penetrate; he was visualizing her mouth against his. “I don’t know,” he replied in a voice too gritty to go unnoticed. Fingering the bill, he picked up the edge and palmed the paper. “You’re the expert in that area. You’ll have to come up with something.”

  Wyatt stuck his hand into his pocket to retrieve some coins, finding the pressure of fabric against his crotch somewhat tighter than when he’d first sat down. At least he was able to buy her the Coca-Cola. He’d gotten paid and took satisfaction in flipping a dime and a penny on the table. It was a hell of a note when spending eleven cents made him feel like he was something. Wyatt finished his cold cola, letting it chill down his body.

  “I’ve got to be heading over to the restaurant,” he said, setting the empty bottle on the table.

  “Hmm.” Her reply was noncommittal, as if she was thinking over what he’d said and trying to produce an image that would be beneficial to winning that contest.

  Wyatt stood, went around the table, and helped Leah with her chair. She smiled at him over her shoulder, and he captured in his mind for later recollection the way her lips curved ever so slightly and were of the softest shade of pink he’d ever seen.

  “I appreciate the advice,” she said while they walked toward the door. “Though I’m not quite sure what type of photograph I should take. There are so many avenues . . . I just don’t know what would be doing too much.”

  “Do whatever inspires you.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Her answer was heavy with thought. Then as they crossed Main Street, she abruptly put her hand on his forearm. The contact left him hot where her fingers were on the thin cotton of his shirt. Her exclamation bordered on being distraught. “You only have a week to practice before the rodeo.”

  “I know that.”

  “But that’s not enough time.”

  “It’ll do.”

  “I guess it will have to,” she murmured, a furrow on her brow. “Just be careful, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  “All this cowboy talk. It makes me think about Tug and his wanting to be one. He’ll be tickled to know you’re entering in the contests.”

  “You’ll be there to watch?”

  “Of course. The whole town comes.”

  “Then I reckon Scudder will be there.”

  “He wouldn’t miss it. Why, every year he enters the Whopper Mustache contest. He’s won five years in a row.” Leah let her hand slide from his arm, and her expression grew thoughtful. “Tug has his heart set on being a cowboy. I’ve never said this to you, but I think it’s a dangerous occupation.”

  “It’s only dangerous when you don’t know what you’re doing. When Tug’s older, you can talk him out of it if you still have a mind to. But for now, why don’t you let him keep on pretending? I think it’s good for a boy to have a fancy that he lives and breathes.” Wyatt paused, wondering if he’d overstepped. He’d never given her an opinion about Tug before. Maybe he shouldn’t have now. He wasn’t the boy’s father.

  Any qualms that he’d had were laid to rest when Leah laughed softly. “Well, of course you’d encourage him to be a cowboy.”

  They were at the Happy City’s doors where the plump statues stood guard on either side. Leah fidgeted with the letter in her pocket before saying, “Thanks ever so much for the cola. And the advice.”

  “No problem.”

  She gave him another tentative smile. Nervous. Blushing. “Well . . .”

  “Well.”

  “Well . . . I don’t mean to be following you, but I’d like to talk to Leo and tell him what happened. He knew about Italy.”

  Wyatt opened the door for her. “Leo’s probably in the office.”

  As they walked past the Chinese watercolors on the walls, and the grinning cat, Wyatt was thinking that it wasn’t going to be so bad washing dishes early in the day when he could catch glimpses of Leah sitting at her usual table talking to Leo.

  It dawned on him then that there really wasn’t anything shameful about doing menial labor. Especially versus robbing banks. He still didn’t want to accept that his lot in life was to be elbow-deep in suds. But being able to buy Leah that cola to make up for the root beer put him in a good frame of mind. If she only knew how rich he was going to be. He could buy her new cameras, get her the best equipment. He wanted to make her happy.

  Real love was a rare thing for him. Aside from the way he felt about his family, he’d never experienced love before. He’d desired many women and had had many, but he had never craved for what was beyond: a soul and a spirit. It was difficult to know when his thoughts of Leah turned to such, and even more difficult to know what to do with them, seeing as how he had no experience in sorting out such feelings.

  Right now, he had nothing to offer her. So there was no point in thinking along such premature lines. Until he could make himself financially sound enough to support her and her children, he had to remind himself not to let his imagination run away.

  And there was no sense in wishing he could change his past and be honest with her about being an ex-con, because he couldn’t ever come clean about who and what he’d been. She might turn away from him, and he wasn’t willing to jeopardize losing her to a man who no longer existed.

  15

  A great fortune depends on luck.

  —Chinese proverb

  Wyatt undoubtedly could have used more than a week to get the kinks out of his wrangling technique. He was no match for B. B., whose initials stood for Ball Buster. An apt name for the green roan, as Wyatt’s backside and crotch had taken abuse each time he managed to land a ride on the bucking and kicking horse.

  By Tuesday, Wyatt was so saddle sore he spent a full hour soaking in a steaming tub bath, trying to ease the aches out of him before going to bed.

  Leaving the bathroom wearing a fresh change of clothes and a damp towel slung over his shoulder, Wyatt hobbled down the hall on stockinged feet to his room. He fell short when he saw Hartzell Kirkland jiggling a key into the lock of the door across from his. An alligator traveling bag sat on the carpet beside him.

  Hartzell lifted his head and swore, “The damn lock is gummed up. See if you can get the key in there for me, would you, Wyatt?”

  Wyatt eased forward, wondering what Hartzell was doing at Almorene East’s place when he had a stylish house up on Colorado Street.

  Taking the key from Hartzell’s trembling fingers, Wyatt wiggled the end into the lock and clicked the door open.

  Hartzell bent to pick up his bag, reached around the edge of the wall to switch on the light, and stepped inside while Wyatt stayed back in the open doorway. He needn’t go in. The room was much like his. Plain, but clean. He could tell by the slump of Hartzell’s shoulders that disappointment hit him as soon as he saw the patched quilt and yellowed curtains.

  Leaning into the frame, Wyatt wasn’t sure if he should ask the set of circumstances that had brought the well-to-do Hartzell Kirkland, esteemed owner of the Eternity Security Bank, to such a humble establishment.

  Hartzell turned and unceremoniously released the handle of his traveling bag. Thump. The bottom smacked an oval rag rug at the side of the bed. “I’ve left Geneva,” he announced just as unceremoniously, causing Wyatt to lift a brow. “It looks like you and I will be neighbors.”

  Then Hartzell choked back a sob and sat on the sagging edge of the mattress with his face in his hand. “I gave that woman the best years of my life . . . and how does she repay me? She spends money as if I printed every last dollar of it.” Raising his chin, he gazed at Wyatt. “But I’m through with her. From now on, it’ll be just us men. And I, for one, intend on living the good old bachelor life again. Just like you, Wyatt.”

  Wyatt straightened, the weight of Hartzell’s words sinking in. “My life’s nothing to pine after.”
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  Ignoring Wyatt’s counsel, Hartzell took out a handkerchief and loudly blew his nose. “Take it from me, don’t get married. We’re going to have one rip-roaring time, you and I. We’ll go down to the Bon Ton Saloon for brandy and take in a girlie show at the Temple of Music, then go fishing every Sunday because that’s what men do, and eat bacon, fried eggs and potatoes over at the Coffeepot Cafe seven days a week. It’s going to be living on the high hog, Wyatt.”

  Drawing in a breath, Wyatt folded his arms across his chest. His mind filled with questions, but he broached the one that was foremost. “It seems to me that you’ve been happy with your wife up until now. I’m sure whatever happened between you and Mrs. Kirkland will work itself out. So, seeing as your accommodations are likely temporary, what made you choose the Starlight when you could have gone to the Beaumont Hotel?”

  Hartzell propped his elbows on his knees. “Well, there are two reasons for that. One, that Tiberious N. Tee is staying down at the Beaumont, and he’s to blame for all this trouble. And two, you’re here, Wyatt.”

  No answer could have surprised Wyatt more. “Me?”

  “You’re the only young single man I know. And I wanted to get in on all the bachelor fun you have.”

  “I don’t know about my being so young, and I have to tell you, the bachelor life isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.”

  Hartzell’s face fell, and the color in his eyes faded.

  * * *

  The back door to the Happy City was open, allowing the cooling September breeze to filter in and bring a fresh fall atmosphere to the kitchen. Wyatt had always liked autumn and places where the four seasons were prominent. The palettes of golden color on the leaves of aspens and oaks brought a good feeling to him.

  With his hands sunk into warm dishwater, Wyatt eased the stiffness from his knuckles by rubbing them. Tomorrow was the rodeo, and he wasn’t as ready as he would have liked.

  His mind kept on wandering to how he would do. He hoped like hell that his competitors were unskilled, and that he’d out ride them all with his best scores ever. But Wyatt doubted it would be so. He massaged a bruise on the top of his right hand. Jesus, thirty-eight years old, and he was feeling it.

  He was getting on in age to be putting in an eight-hour workday, exercising his horse, quarrying for money that wasn’t showing up, and getting himself thrown off a bronc. It was a lot to take for any man. Jesus . . . all this for four hundred dollars. But four hundred was a fortune to him right now.

  Every fiber of every muscle and every bit of marrow in his bones was screaming out at him for mercy. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t strong. He was just as strong as he’d been when he was a kid. But now he had more body to keep on the horse’s back, and more weight to use to try and heft a steer to the ground.

  Tinhorn had come through with the bull, and that had gone about as smoothly as with B. B. flinging him over the corral post. All Wyatt could hope for was the best. That and drawing a bronc and bull that weren’t snorting for blood.

  It might not have been so bad if he’d been able to leave the Happy City and fall into bed for some much-needed sleep. But he swore Hartzell listened with a glass to the wall to hear when he was unlocking his door. The other man would spring out from his room wanting to play a hand of gin rummy, since Wyatt wouldn’t go to the Bon Ton with him.

  If Wyatt had known a way out without sending the other man into a worse depression, he would have declined. But the expectant look on Hartzell’s face while he held on to a pack of Bicycle cards was just too much for even Wyatt to close the door on.

  Hartzell and Geneva were no closer to reconciling than they had been the first night Hartzell had checked into the Starlight. Wyatt had talked to Leah about it the next day, but she was at a loss over what to do. Geneva was being stubborn, refusing to talk about patching things up. In fact, she’d been stepping out with Tiberius N. Tee while he waited in Eternity for the Standard Oil shipment to arrive with a supply of gasoline.

  A gust of early evening wind shot through the kitchen, ruffling the proverbs Tu Yan kept tacked to the wall. A few tore free and floated around the room. Tu looked up from the cookie batter he was stirring and spouted a few harsh words of Chinese as he left the mixture to grab the flying papers.

  “Howdy, partner.” The tiny voice came from the bamboo curtain doorway, and Wyatt glanced at Tug. He was armed to the teeth with his toy guns and western gear. He’d been routinely stopping by the Happy City ever since Wyatt had shown him how to lasso his hobbyhorse. And in the evening when he came for supper with Leah and Rosalure, he’d waltz into the kitchen to check on what Wyatt was doing and talk about cowboys.

  “Howdy, partner,” Wyatt returned.

  Punching through the curtains, Tug approached. The sound of metal scraping across the floorboards sang through the kitchen. Wyatt lowered his gaze to the two tin cans Tug had smashed over the heels of his boots.

  “What’s that you have on your boots?”

  “Spurs.”

  Smiling, Wyatt wiped the suds from his hands with the towel tied around his waist. “They look like authentic Mexican spurs.”

  “Yup. They’re the real thing.”

  “They’re as big as soup plates.”

  Tug clamored to a halt directly in front of Wyatt. “I know that.” Standing on tiptoes, he poked a hole with his pudgy finger in the mound of bubbles filling the sink before he swirled the white clouds around as if he was stirring sourdough. “I’ve decided I’m going to be a dishwashing cowboy when I grow up. Just like you, Wyatt.”

  A frown drew Wyatt’s brows down. “I’ve got nothing against dishwashers, but I think a boy with your potential ought to be planning on a college education. Your grandfather told me he’s got expectations of you taking over the bank for him when you get old enough.”

  “Nope.” Tug withdrew his hand. “Money stinks like dirty socks.”

  But it was sure a nice stink to have wadded in your pocket, Wyatt thought. He could have used some smelly green stuff right about now, but it wasn’t to be. So for tomorrow’s big event he was going to have to settle on wearing his old boots with the loose rowel spurs, and a hat that was just about done for, with denims so thin in the seat he might just disgrace himself before the day was over.

  Wyatt began to dry the dishes stacked in the drainer. “I just think you should consider your options before you go making up your mind.”

  The boy’s face screwed up like a jar lid clamped on too tight. “What’s an option?”

  Leaning against the counter, Wyatt paused. He wasn’t very good with words and even had a harder time putting them to paper. He knew what option meant, but wasn’t quite confident he could get the exact definition across. “Well, an option is like a choice. Let’s say you go to Corn’s Hardware and he’s got a black licorice rope and a red licorice rope; you have the choice to decide which one you want. It’s your option whether or not you buy the red or the black.”

  “I don’t like the black.”

  “Then your choice would be red.”

  “My choice is to be a dishwasher cowboy like you,” Tug replied with a straighter face than any poker player.

  The boy was dead serious, and it distressed Wyatt that his presence could make such an impression on him. Wyatt didn’t want anyone, much less Leah’s son, pining to take after him. He was not a good example. The road he’d traveled to get to the man he was had been hell. He wouldn’t want that for Tug.

  Wyatt put a stack of plates up onto the cupboard shelf. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to choose until you’re at least—” He cast a glance over his shoulder at the boy’s upturned face. “How old are you now?”

  Tug held up five fingers. “And a half.”

  “Until you’re at least ten.” That’d give him twice his age to ponder the prudence of having his hands stuck in dirty water for a living. Choosing the cowboy life was hard enough. There were kitchen duties a man could opt for if he wanted to be on the range. “Maybe you ought to take up
cooking if you like being in a kitchen.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Then don’t wash dishes.”

  “But I could like it because you do.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “I like the stinky smell of money.”

  That went a hair past Tug’s head, and his velvet-brown eyes wrinkled at the corners.

  “There you are,” came Leah’s voice from the curtain. “It’s time to sit down. Supper is being served.”

  Tug scuffed toward his mother.

  Pointing to the cans, Leah directed, “And take those off. You’re going to ruin Mr. Wang’s floor.”

  “They’re my spurs.”

  “Real cowboys don’t wear their spurs indoors.”

  Tug quickly glanced at Wyatt’s boots, but he didn’t have the opportunity to stand out of reach from the boy’s gaze. Wyatt was indeed wearing his Texas stars with jingle bobs. He hadn’t taken them off after riding B. B. before coming on shift. It was a bad habit of his, keeping his spurs on after a workout with a horse. He rather liked the sound they made across Leo’s kitchen floor. The jangle kept him focused on what was important to him in life. Securing a ranch and becoming a full-fledged cattle owner.

  “Wyatt’s got his on,” Tug debated hotly.

  “Mine are the indoor models,” Wyatt said before Leah could respond. “They’re guaranteed not to scratch floors.”

  Tug turned to Leah. “I want some genuine spurs, Momma.”

  “We’ll talk about it at the table.”

  She put her hand on the crown of Tug’s cowboy hat and steered him toward the beads. Whispering over her shoulder to Wyatt, she said, “No luck with Geneva. Mr. Vibratrel Home Wrecker is still in town and he’s taking her to the exposition tomorrow.”

  “Hartzell is going, too.”

  “Oh, dear. If they run into each other . . .”

  “It won’t be pretty.”

  “We’ll have to think about what to do,” she said as she left to return to her table.

  Wyatt nodded. He was no marriage fixer, but he and Leah had been talking about getting Hartzell and his wife to settle their differences and make up. Geneva was driving Leah to distraction on her end, and Hartzell was making it near impossible for Wyatt to get any sleep.