Roughneck Cowboy (9 page)

 

H
ORSES GRAZING NEARBY
, Sara and Travis lounged in the sun near the bank of a small pond on his sister's property.

“This is nice.” Sara stared at the cloudless blue sky.

Travis rolled to his side, wincing.

“Sore?”

“Yeah, the rump's a tad tender.”

Travis had been a quick study when she'd demonstrated how to use the reins. He might be a roughneck but he rode like a real cowboy—slouched low in the saddle, lean hips swaying to the rhythm of the horse's gait. “You're a natural.”

His lazy grin sent her heart stumbling.

Don't even think about it
. Startled by the voice in her head, she dropped her gaze to her lap. Something about Travis—his smile, the soft glow in his eyes when he watched his daughter, that same glow intensifying when he stared at her—begged Sara to allow him to get closer to her. She'd trusted a man once before and had been fooled by his handsome face and purple prose. She'd rather be alone than risk heartache again.

Josh was four years ago. You're wiser. Stronger. A better judge of character.

Maybe she should consider an affair—no expectations. No messy emotions. Females all over the world engaged in sexual flings and one-night stands and survived the experience. The idea had merit, but Sara was too old-fashioned. She didn't want to give herself to a man unless she was certain he loved her and she loved him. After her experience with Josh, she'd lost confidence in her instincts where men were concerned.

Travis isn't Josh
. She feared the more time she spent with Travis, the more she'd find to admire, respect and appreciate in him. Before long she'd find something to love about him and then she'd be in big trouble.

Needing to lighten the mood she nudged his shoulder. “Tell me more about life on an oil rig.”

“Why so curious?” he asked.

“It's different from my job as a schoolteacher.” All those strong, muscular, tanned men working in rough, dangerous conditions seemed…well, romantic.

“It's a lot more dangerous than people realize.”

“How?”

“Not a week goes by that one of the crew members doesn't get hurt. Most injuries aren't serious, but some are. And there's always the risk of exposure to chemicals and gas leaks. Once in a while you hear about a helicopter going down in the ocean while ferrying oil workers back and forth between the rigs and the mainland.”

Until Travis mentioned helicopters, Sara hadn't given much thought to how the crew members got to and from the oil platform.

“We work in difficult conditions. High winds and rain. Hands become stiff from the cold and it's easy to
lose our grasp on the equipment. Once, I helped install a length of pipe and the support chain snapped.”

“What happened?”

As soon as the question left her mouth, Travis removed his jacket and pulled his shirt tail from his jeans. He turned away and she gasped. “The chain whacked me across the back and knocked me to the deck. I was stunned and couldn't move out of the way in time to avoid the end of the pipe rolling over my leg. I was out six weeks with a broken ankle and two cracked ribs.”

Sara caressed the puckered scar that dissected his back. “I'm amazed a blow like that didn't break your spine.” Realizing how intimately she touched him, she yanked her hand back. His shirt fell into place and she curled her fingers against her palm, savoring the heat from his skin.

“A couple of years later—” he wiggled the pinky finger on his left hand and she noticed the digit was missing its tip “—this happened.”

She mentally added courageous to Travis's list of admirable qualities. “You're very brave.”

“My sister's the one with all the guts,” he said.

“Samantha told you about her accident?”

“Yeah, and Dominick filled in the details. He said she'd been hosing down a horse when he spooked and kicked out, catching her in the head.”

“No one thought she'd live. Her recovery amazed the doctors,” Sara said.

“It's too bad Samantha still has trouble with her memory.”

“The gossipmongers believe—” so did Sara, but she kept her opinion to herself “—that Wade's the reason Samantha's memory has improved dramatically these
past few months.” The love in Wade's eyes when he looked at his wife almost made Sara believe fairy-tale endings were possible.

“Real love heals all wounds, I guess.” Sara studied Travis out of the corner of her eye. What if she and Travis fell in love—could that love heal decades of hurt and animosity between their families?
Dream on
. There was no happy-ever-after in the cards for the Cartwrights and the Sanders.

“Everybody's got their own definition of real love.” Travis stared into the distance. “When I think of Julie walking out on Charlie after she was born and my mother abandoning two of her children and raising me alone…” He frowned. “How is that real love?”

“Some women aren't cut out to be mothers.” The possibility of never marrying and having a child of her own bothered Sara deeply. She loved her students and enjoyed nurturing them in the classroom, but she wanted a son or daughter of her own to love. “You've shown Charlie real love.”

“You're wrong.” Travis grasped Sara's hand and squeezed. “I've failed Charlie. Before my mother died, I believed I was doing right by my daughter. I brought home a paycheck. Kept a roof over her head. Clothes on her back. Food on the table. But I left the parenting to my mother.”

Then Charlotte died.

“I'm winging it with Charlie.” Travis got to his feet and stood at the water's edge. “I came here with a grudge against my father only to learn he didn't even know I existed all these years. I don't have that excuse. I lived in the same house as Charlie and I still spent very little time with her.”

“You're making up for that now.” Sara joined him. “Don't be too hard on yourself. Now that your mother's gone, you and Charlie will form a different, better, closer relationship. Give it time.”

“Hey, you guys!” Samantha called out as she approached on horseback. Once she dismounted, she said, “Thought I'd find you two here.”

“Is something the matter with Charlie?” Travis asked.

“The kids are fine. Wade's playing Yahtzee with them.” Samantha waved a fancy black envelope in the air.

“What's that?” Travis asked.

“An invitation to the annual Oilmen's Christmas Ball in Tulsa.”

The ball was scheduled for the last Saturday before Christmas—next week. The party was considered
the
social event of the season in Tulsa.

“Dad expects you to be there.” Samantha blushed. “I meant to tell you about it last week, but I forgot until Wade asked me a short while ago if you were coming.”

Travis scuffed his boot against the ground. “I'm not a fan of big shindigs.”

Sara's heart plunged at his words. A tiny part of her had hoped he'd agree to go to the ball, then ask her to accompany him. She'd never attended a high-society event and would love to experience a lavish evening of dancing and dining.

“I'll sit this one out, Sam,” Travis said.

“You have to attend.” Samantha slapped the envelope against his chest. “Dad plans to introduce you to all the movers and shakers in the oil industry.”

Sara held her breath.
C'mon, Travis. Say you'll go. Then ask me to be your date
.

“You work for Cartwright Oil. The company executives will expect you to be there,” Samantha insisted.

“I won't fit in.”

“If you wear a tux, no one will believe you were a roughneck.” Samantha glanced at Sara. “Right?”

Fighting a smile, Sara said, “Your sister makes a valid point. You're working for Cartwright Oil now.”

“Fine. I'll go. But—” Travis turned to Sara “—you got me into this. The least you can do is be my date.”

Heart pounding, Sara opened her mouth to accept, then chickened out. “I can't.”

“Why not?” Travis and Samantha spoke in unison.

“Dominick will be upset if a Sanders crashes his party.”

“Dad won't dare make a scene in front of all his business associates,” Samantha said.

Sara made one last feeble protest. “There isn't enough time to find a dress before Saturday.”

“I'll take you shopping in Tulsa,” Travis said.

Dress shopping with Travis was out of the question. “I'll be your date for the ball.” She raised a warning finger. “But I'll find my own dress.” Sara prayed she'd stumble upon something suitable on a clearance rack for under a hundred dollars.

“O
h, dear.” Tulapoint's lone hairstylist chewed her lip as she eyeballed Sara from head-to-toe.

“Oh, dear, what, Mazy?”

“We have a lot of work to do.”

Sara yawned and rubbed her swollen eyes. “I didn't sleep well.” She hadn't gotten a wink of rest last night—tossing and turning in bed, fearing she'd humiliate herself tonight at the Oilmen's Ball.

She'd spent the week following her visit to Samantha's ranch attempting to talk herself out of attending the social event with Travis. If not for her busy schedule at school, she might have had time to conjure up a good excuse. But before she knew it, winter break had arrived and here she was expecting Mazy to work miracles and transform her from a plain boring schoolteacher to a stunning debutante.

Mazy pushed open the screen door and motioned Sara inside. “Hurry, before someone sees you.”

The enclosed back porch had been converted into a hair studio. Mazy and her fifteen-year-old son lived with her mother, who'd been a widow for as long as Sara had known Mazy. Their white clapboard house sat at the edge of town off the main road.

“Sit.” Mazy motioned to the salon chair at the far end of the porch, then disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later, she reappeared with two pieces of fresh-cut cucumber, which she laid over Sara's eyes. “That should help the puffiness. Concealer will hide the dark circles.”

“Thanks for agreeing to do my hair on short notice.” Sara had booked the appointment an hour ago when she'd faced reality and accepted that she couldn't back out on Travis at the last minute.

“No problem. Mom took Billy to that fancy skate-board park in Tulsa. All I had on my agenda was house-cleaning and I'd rather cut hair any day than scrub toilets.”

Mazy's ex had left her for another woman two years after Billy had been born. “Is Billy spending Christmas with you or his dad?”

“Me. Neil's driving his wife and stepchildren to Arkansas so she can be with
her
family.”

Hoping to avoid a drawn-out discussion of Neil's failings, Sara asked, “Did you finish your Christmas shopping?”

“Yes, but I need to pick up a few stocking stuffers.” Mazy peeled off the cucumbers and shoved a hair-color chart into Sara's hands. “Blond or red?”

“Blond or red what?” Sara stared at the fake hair samples glued to the cardboard.

“Highlights. I'm thinking blond.” Mazy fluffed the hair along Sara's jawline. “Blond will frame your face and emphasize your brown eyes.”

Sara was reluctant to draw attention to any part of her body, but she desperately wanted to make an impression
on Travis and if that meant going a little overboard, then she would. “Blond it is.”

“Next question.” Mazy set aside the hair-color samples. “Conservative or sexy?”

There was a fine line between sexy and trampy. What the heck. “Sexy.”

While Mazy mixed the hair dye, she pummeled Sara with questions. “Describe your dress. Is it cut low in the back or the front?” When Sara didn't immediately answer, Mazy stopped swirling the color cream in the ceramic bowl. “You have a gown to wear tonight, right?”

“Yes.”

“What's wrong with it?” Mazy propped her hands on her hips. “I can tell by your droopy mouth that you're not thrilled with the gown.”

Droopy mouth? Sara made a conscious effort to smile. “I like it just fine.” The olive-green ruffled sheath had been the only one in her size on the clearance rack at Dillard's. She hadn't even bothered trying it on, because she knew she'd hate it. But the price fit her budget, so she'd bought the dress. As soon as she returned from the ball, the garment was going into the Goodwill bag sitting in the hall closet.

Mazy sectioned off clumps of Sara's hair, then used a small paintbrush to apply the dye before rolling the hair in a piece of foil.

“What do your brothers think of you going with Travis to the Oilmen's Ball?”

“Gabe left town after Thanksgiving and Cole doesn't know I was invited to the ball.” Travis had yet to bring her an official bid from Dominick, and until he did, she refused to discuss anything related to the Cartwright's
with Cole. She hated to get her brother's hopes up that they'd come to an agreement with Dominick that would save the Bar T.

The morning passed quickly. Mazy colored, cut and styled Sara's hair, then gave her a makeover. “What do you think?” Mazy spun the chair to face the mirror.

The woman staring back at her was a stranger. Her hair was pinned up in a messy bob that was both sexy and sophisticated. The blond highlights framing her face made her appear younger than her thirty years. “What kind of makeup did you use?” Sara was afraid to touch her skin for fear she'd smudge the blush.

“Mineral powders. It's the latest craze.”

Dark blue eyeliner and a light pink shadow accentuated the size and shape of Sara's brown eyes. Rose-colored lipstick made her mouth appear fuller. She wondered if Travis would be tempted to kiss her again.

“Take this with you.” Mazy held out a sample-size tube of lipstick. “Peach might go better with your dress.”

“Thank you.”

Mazy grasped Sara's hands. “Do you have time for a manicure? Won't take but a minute to put nail tips on your fingers.”

Sara grimaced at the hangnails and calluses. “Sure.”

Mazy spent a half hour on Sara's hands, then glued half-moon tips to the end of her nails and painted them in a French manicure. “Much better. What about your toenails.”

“I'm wearing close-toed shoes.” She didn't own a pair of strappy high heels.

“Do you intend to wear shoes in bed with Travis, too?”

Face flushing, Sara stuttered. “I'm not…We're not…”

“Slip off your socks and shoes. I'd give you a bikini wax but—” Mazy checked her watch “—Doris asked if I could squeeze her in for a haircut after your appointment.”

Doris got her haircut once a week so she could keep up on the local gossip. News of Sara attending the ball with Travis would be all over town by noon today.

Mazy made quick work of painting Sara's toenails, then used a handheld fan to dry the polish before applying a top coat. “Done.” She dug through a wicker basket on the porch and produced a pair of flip-flops, then slid them on Sara's size-ten feet, leaving her heel hanging off the back. “Don't put shoes or nylons on for a couple of hours.”

“I love my hair and the nails are perfect.” Sara admired the tiny white flowers Mazy had drawn on each toenail, then she removed her wallet from her purse.

“This one's on me,” Mazy said. “Neither of us has had a date in eons.”

“At least let me leave a tip.” Sara set two twenties on the counter.

Before she opened the door, Mazy said, “Hey, Sara.”

“What?”

“If you get the chance, have wild, crazy sex with Travis tonight so I can live vicariously through you.”

The outlandish comment replayed in Sara's mind all the way home. Back in her bedroom she decided to try her gown on to see which lipstick went better with the
olive-green. The fit was a little tight. When she tugged hard to close the zipper in the back of the dress, the sharp sound of material tearing echoed through the room.

She spun in front of the mirror and gasped. The material had torn away from the zipper. Now what? She had three hours before Travis arrived. She picked up the phone and dialed a friend and fellow schoolteacher.

Kathy arrived at Sara's house ten minutes later and pronounced, “It's ruined.” She studied the torn material. “The rip is too large. People will notice if you try to sew the ends of the material together.”

“What am I going to do? There's no time to buy another dress.” Sara felt a migraine coming on.

“Go have a glass of wine while I make a few calls.”

Fighting tears, Sara left the room and headed for the kitchen. She'd guzzled half the wine in her glass when Kathy entered the room. “Okay, here's the plan. Beulah's going to let you borrow one of her mother's dresses.”

“Beulah's mother was a prostitute.”

“No, Viola was a madam.”

Madam, prostitute—what's the difference?
“I can't.”

“Do you have a better plan?” Kathy quirked an eyebrow.

No.

“Viola was one of the most respected madams back in the day, and rumor has it, her dresses were the envy of every madam west of the Mississippi.”

Oh, brother
.

“At least go out to Beulah's and look at the gowns,” Kathy said.

What other choice did Sara have? There was no time to drive into Tulsa to shop and there was no one her size in town to borrow a dress from. “Fine. I'll head over there now.”

Kathy walked to the front door. “Let me know how things go.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sara entered the pink Victorian and Beulah met her in the foyer. “Wow. Mazy did a heck of a job on your hair and makeup.”

“Maybe now isn't a good time to try on dresses.” Sara noticed the place was packed.

“Don't worry about the customers. They're too busy shoveling food into their mouths to pay attention to us.” Beulah escorted Sara to the second floor—her private living quarters. “I set out Mama's prettiest dresses. Try one on, then come to the top of the stairs and call for me.” Beulah opened a door at the end of the hall and ushered Sara into the turret room.

Decorated in pink and black, the walls were covered in fabric wallpaper—pink background with a black velvet fleur-de-lis pattern. Pink and black feather boas hung from crystal doorknobs mounted on the wall. Antique hat and shoe boxes littered the floor, and three gowns lay across the black satin comforter on the four-poster bed.

“They're stunning.” Sara fingered a crystal bead on the sapphire-blue gown.

“Mama had style. Holler when you're ready.” Beulah left, closing the door behind her.

All three dresses appealed to Sara, but she selected the least-revealing dress to try on first. The burgundy
off-the-shoulder gown had two draped panels of black lace across the front of the skirt and a huge bow with black lace accents covering the bodice. The dress was suggestive yet elegant.

The dress, however, was a bit tight around the waist and she feared she'd pass out if she had to suck in her stomach the entire night. Maybe Beulah had a girdle she could borrow. The narrow skirt made long strides impossible, so she waddled like a duck to the top of the stairs. She hesitated calling Beulah's name, hoping to catch the woman as she passed through the foyer. No such luck. Sheriff's Deputy Ronny Dunlap noticed her and let out a wolf whistle.

“Is that you, Sara Sanders?” He grinned. “That dress suggests you're participating in an activity I might have to arrest you for.”

“Go on with you now and leave Sara alone.” Beulah paused at the foot of the stairs. She eyed the dress, then shook her head. “Nope. Try the next one.”

Sara returned to the bedroom, where she put on the gold-and-brown gown with a full skirt, pleated bodice and a stylish twist at the waist. When she practiced walking around the room, she noticed the hem of the skirt ended an inch above the top of her foot. She'd have to wear flats with this dress.

When Sara returned to the stairs the foyer was packed with men.

“Hey, sweet thing, you can be my date tonight!” a voice in the crowd called out.

“I saw her first,” the deputy shouted.

Beulah pushed her way through the men. “Twirl around.” Sara obeyed. “Nope.” Beulah shook her head. “Try the last one on.”

Face flaming, Sara retreated to the turret room and studied the sapphire-blue gown that screamed
siren
. The dress was by far the sexiest of the three and one a schoolteacher would never buy in a million years.

Tonight you're not a teacher—you're Travis's date.

Made of silk taffeta the gown cinched at the waist. Silver rhinestones dangled from the plunging V-neck halter, which pushed Sara's breasts together, creating eye-popping cleavage. She shoved her girlfriends every which way but there was no making them less conspicuous. The flowing skirt draped gently over her hips and swirled around her legs when she walked.

Taking a deep breath, she left the room.

Dead silence greeted her at the top of the stairs.

“No?” she whispered, studying the slack-jawed gapes in the foyer.

Seconds ticked by, then a resounding “Yes!” exploded from the group.

“That's the one,” Beulah said. “There's a pair of shoes dyed the exact color of the dress. Wear them, even if they hurt your feet.” Beulah turned to her customers. “You morons quit gawking and go back to your tables.”

Grinning like a brainy teenage girl who'd been asked to the prom by the quarterback of the football team, Sara returned to the bedroom and spun in a circle in front of the mirror. Hopefully the dress would have the same effect on Travis as it had had on the
morons
.

 

“H
OW COME
I
CAN'T GO
?” Charlie sat on the bathroom counter watching Travis shave for the Oilmen's Christmas Ball.

“The dance is for adults only and it won't end until
way past your bedtime.” He stroked the razor along his cheek, removing the last bit of shaving cream, then he wiped his face with a damp towel.

“I like to dance.”

Since when?
“Remember the dance lessons you had a few years ago?” Charlie nodded.

“Grandma took you to three sessions, then you quit.”

“The pink tights itched me.” She wrinkled her nose. “What's Ms. Sanders gonna wear?”

“A pretty dress.” Travis ignored the nervous twinge gripping his gut at the idea of dancing a waltz, fox-trot or the box step.

“Does Ms. Sanders like to dance?”