his parents had dragged him to. They might not have given him everything, but he did have good teeth.
Instead of answering the man—or thinking about where veal came from—he turned back to the action in the ring. The cowboy finished looping the rope, then stood up and thrust both hands in the air. Showoff, Greg wanted to mutter. So what if the guy could wrestle a poor defenseless animal to the ground and tie it up? Should he get some kind of medal?
“Ten point three seconds,” the announcer reported. “That puts Tim Roberts in third place. Nice try, Tim. And that wraps up today’s calf roping competition.”
A smattering of applause and a few “whoops” followed the recitation of the winner and second-place finisher. From the end of the arena, a loud tractor entered, pulling a devise that smoothed the surface of the dirt into some version of level. A small cloud of dust rose only slightly from the ground, then settled back as though it was also hot and tired in the summer heat.
If the rest of the crowd could tolerate dust up to their knees and sweat pouring down their backs, Greg could, too. Besides, he had a real good reason for traveling to Texas in August, then standing in a metal barn that could have doubled as one of Huntington Foods’ huge ovens. He wasn’t going to let the dirt and hot temperatures keep him from his goal.
The man who had been standing beside Greg wandered off. Unsure what was coming next, he reached into his back pocket—where his round, flat canister of snuff would have been if he were a real cowboy—and retrieved the rolled-up flyer listing the county 4-H events. Sure enough, the junior steer competition was next. Greg wasn’t sure whether that meant the people showing them were young, or the steers were young, but whatever was going to happen next in the arena involved Ms. Carole Jacks.
And she was the only reason he was standing in this hellish Texas inferno, sweat pooling inside his new Justin ropers and running down the legs of the stiff boot-cut jeans he’d bought hours earlier in Austin. His secretary had laughed at the idea of dressing like a cowboy to visit this small community, but Greg wanted to make a good impression. He knew he wouldn’t fit in if he were wearing a suit, or even his normal Chicago casual attire.
One of the principle rules of salesmanship he’d learned at Ohio State was to blend in with the customer, to make them feel comfortable. He wasn’t sure his professors would have encouraged him to go quite this far to make someone believe he fit in, but the disguise had seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, his mother had warned him that Carole Jacks didn’t take to outsiders. She rarely left Ranger Springs, Texas, and preferred all her correspondence by mail.
No e-mail. No fax. There wasn’t even a photograph of her in the file. For all he knew, she could be pushing ninety and senile. Personally, he imagined her as the no-nonsense Alice on The Brady Bunch. At best, she’d resemble a kind, portly Aunt Bea. He just hoped she’d accept the wardrobe and makeup consultants necessary before her photo sessions and public appearances. As long as she managed to smile and remained well mannered while in public, she was the best hope they had for reforming Huntington Foods’ image.
Of course, it would have been nice if his mother had given him a description of the formidable Carole Jacks. Instead, Roberta Huntington Rafferty had shrugged, smiled, and told him to have a nice trip. If he hadn’t known for a fact that his mother possessed a very limited sense of humor, he would have suspected she’d been laughing at his first big challenge as C.E.O.
Whatever her age or disposition, Ms. Jacks had negotiated a hell of a contract. She’d gotten the privacy she wanted in exchange for her recipes. He’d tasted each selection Huntington produced, and the “food police” might have a point; they weren’t low cal, low carb or low fat. They were, in fact, delicious.
The tractor chugged by, sending dust and diesel fumes Greg’s way. He rubbed his watering eyes and wished he’d bought something cold to drink from the refreshment cart he’d spotted on his way into the arena. He wished he knew what he was looking for. All Ms. Jacks’s neighbor had said was that she’d be at the ring for the junior steer competition, and no, there was no Mr. Jacks. Maybe she wasn’t related to anyone showing. She could even be a judge.
As the dust and diesel fumes settled, a flash of silver caught his eye. Blinking against the bright sunlight coming through the open windows, he needed to make sure he wasn’t seeing a mirage. No, she was real.
Standing directly across the dusty arena was a woman who would make any man forget his parched throat. Blond hair, tied back in a low ponytail, escaped the black cowboy hat she wore. A white T-shirt left little to his imagination, molding to breasts that appeared just the right size. And that big silver belt buckle fastened around a waist that obviously hadn’t eaten too many of “Ms. Carole’s Cookies.” He could tell she wasn’t too tall, but in those tight blue jeans, her legs looked as if they went on forever.
She stepped onto the bottom rail of the fence, then folded her arms along the top and rested her chin. The position caused her to bend a little, curving her rear out just enough to send a stampede of wicked fantasies through Greg’s imagination. Unfortunately, the pounding affected more than his mind. He propped one boot on the bottom rail and hoped no one noticed his new jeans were even tighter than before he’d fantasized about the blonde. Or worse yet, thought that he had a predilection for either tractors or cows.
She must be waiting for something…or someone. The thought of her watching one of those overposturing cowboys sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body. He gripped the top rail and vowed not to leap over the fence, no matter what she did or who she cheered for. He would not make a fool of himself over the blond cowgirl, not in front of the formidable Carole Jacks. Not when he was here on a mission to save his family’s company from the unfortunate remarks of his hotheaded older brother, who just happened to be the former C.E.O. The man who’d publicly insulted the “food police” on national television not once, not twice, but the magic three times. And now he was “out” of Huntington Foods.
Greg tore his eyes away from the blonde when some official-looking people began filing into the arena. He forced himself to focus on his image of Carole Jacks, but none of the people standing there looked like America’s favorite “cookie queen.”
“And now for our final event, the Junior Steer Championship. After the grand champion is named, we’ll have our annual auction this afternoon at two o’clock. The highest bid will help send one of these young people to college. Let’s have a round of applause for these 4-H-ers who have raised these fine steers.”
Before the applause ended, the cows—no, steers—entered the ring. They were led by a variety of kids, which obviously explained the “junior” part of the competition. Perhaps one of them was Ms. Carole’s grandkid. Greg forced himself to scan the bleachers, but his gaze came back to the blonde. He couldn’t stop looking at her, especially when she tensed, then waved at one of the kids entering the arena.
A brown-haired girl smiled back, then tugged on the rope leading her huge steer into the ring. The large black creature had big dark eyes and looked around calmly, as though it trusted the girl to lead it to victory.
Surely this ten-or eleven-year-old child wasn’t the blond cowgirl’s daughter. Greg looked between the alluring curves at the rail and the pixyish braids of the girl and couldn’t reconcile the image. Still, the look of love on the face of his cowgirl seemed to confirm a strong relationship.
His cowgirl. Now that was a surprise. He’d never developed such strong fantasies or compelling questions about a woman he had yet to meet.
As the competition progressed, he watched the steer, the child and the cowgirl. When the judges motioned for the little girl to lead the animal to the center of the ring along with four others, his cowgirl put her hands over her mouth and tensed even more.
Greg turned to the man with the battered soft drink can. Apparently he’d returned sometime during the steer judging. “Is it good that they’re in the center of the arena?”
“Means they’re in the final round,” the man explained before spitting into the can.
Greg winced at the disgusting habit and turned his