Clint walked over to the boxes filled with jeans, shirts and work gear from his sponsors, he reminded himself to fire up his laptop and transfer funds. He’d heard on the stock contractors’ grapevine that a couple of rank bulls might be going on auction with a starting bid of seventy-five thousand each. He’d been waiting and watching for those bulls and would pay any amount for them. They’d make a good addition to his stock.
He grabbed a new shirt from one of the cardboard boxes stacked in the corner. Pulling it out of the plastic wrap, he slid off the little white clips and shook out the shirt. Slipping it on, he could still see the fold marks. He puffed out his chest, and the creases faded. Well, he couldn’t do that all night. He’d just have to hope for dim lighting.
He swung by the mess hall and collected a picnic basket loaded with food for Susan’s dinner, and soon he was heading back to the Homesteader Cabin to see her again.
Ahh, Susan. She was so tense, so coiled up, she appeared to be about to spring. There was a sadness about her—he could see it in her deep purple eyes. Maybe he could distract her for a while.
He had a feeling that Susan Collins would dig her own subway back to New York when she looked out the window tomorrow morning and saw a couple hundred kids engaged in various activities. She didn’t seem the kid type, but then again, he’d just met her. And he wanted to get to know her better.
Clint walked down the dimly lit path from the campgrounds that led to the cabins, a wine bottle gripped in one hand, the picnic basket that Cookie had given him for Susan swaying in the other.
He took the steps of the Homesteader Cabin two at a time and gave a light knock on the door.
“Who is it?” Her voice was slurred, sleepy.
“It’s Clint. I brought your dinner.”
“Just a minute.”
She opened the door and Clint immediately liked what he saw. She’d changed into a dark pink golf shirt. On the pocket was bright embroidery in primary colors—her company logo, a halo of stars surrounding “Winners Wear.” Printed underneath that, in bright orange, was her motto—For Those Who Try Their Best. Khaki pants clung to a great pair of hips. On her feet were fuzzy pink socks. Her auburn hair was in a ponytail high on her head, and a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses were barely hanging on to the tip of her nose.
She held up the latest issue of Pro Bull Rider Magazine. “It was on the coffee table. Interesting sport, bull riding.”
He set the picnic basket and wine down on the kitchen table. “You’ll have to see it in person sometime.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know about that.”
“I guarantee you’ll love it.”
“Care to wager that bottle of Chardonnay against that?”
He opened the picnic basket and pulled out several items wrapped in waxed paper. “You know, we’ve had a few bull riding events at Madison Square Garden.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. Now, grab a chair and let’s see what Cookie made for us.” He opened one of the bigger packages. “Roast beef sandwiches.”
He kept unwrapping and found pickles, a container of macaroni salad, two apples, potato chips and a couple of cans of cranberry-grape juice.
“Cookie thinks of everything,” Clint said.
“What’s his real name?”
“I don’t know, actually. Every cook is called Cookie. It’s a throwback to the chuck-wagon and trail-drive days.” He held up the bottle of Chardonnay. “Some wine?”
“Why not?”
Clint opened the wine and found a couple of glasses in the cabinet next to the sink. Filling them halfway, he handed one to Susan. “Here’s to your stay at the Gold Buckle Ranch.”
“Thank you.” They clinked glasses. “You like it here, don’t you, Clint?”
“I do. I love the kids. They have a lot of heart and what we cowboys call try. The volunteers that come every year are special people, and the Dixons are the epitome of try. I see that you have the word in your logo.”
“Emily liked my logo, too. That’s why I’m here, I guess. But I can’t take all the credit. My mother and I came up with our motto, theme, mission statement, whatever you want to call it when we were making nurses’ uniforms in our kitchen. Trying our best is what got us through some tough years.”
“And now you’re the CEO of your own company.” He shook his head. “That took a ton of ‘try.’”
The way her eyes brightened and the way she smiled, he could tell she was proud of herself. She should be. But there was still that haunting sadness in her eyes.
They ate and talked about nothing in particular and everything in general until he noticed that she was trying to stifle a yawn.
He was just about to leave when Mrs. D came up the steps of the Homesteader Cabin.
“I saw your light on, Susan, and I wanted to stop by and welcome you to the Gold Buckle Ranch,” Emily said. “Evening, Clint. Did you see to our guest?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I knew you would.” She flashed him a teasing smile.
“Emily, do come in.” Susan stood, looking for her sample books. “Would you like to talk about the merchandise now?”
“Heavens no, sweetie. It’s late and you must be exhausted. I just wanted to welcome you and make sure you have everything you need.”
Mrs. Dixon enveloped Susan in a big bear hug. Susan closed her eyes and looked uncomfortable at first, but Emily didn’t let go. Eventually, Susan’s tense expression turned into a big grin.
And Clint realized that Susan seemed to need just such a hug.
Emily was about Susan’s height, and was one of those women who perpetually smiled. She wore her brown hair short, tucked behind her ears, and she seemed like a bundle of controlled energy.
Emily took a couple of steps into the Homesteader Cabin. “Maybe I will come in for a minute. It’s been a stressful day—nothing big—just a bunch of little things.”
“Anything I can help you with?” Clint asked.
Emily made her way to the living room and sat down on the couch, clearly exhausted. “I don’t think so, Clint, but thanks, anyway. My biggest problem is that my arts and crafts teacher had to leave tonight. She was going to chaperone on the trail ride, too. Her daughter is having a baby, and it’s coming earlier than they thought.”
“I hope you find someone,” Susan said.
“Me, too. I’d hate to cancel the arts and crafts program next week when the Gold Buckle Gang program begins. The kids just love making things and taking them home as presents.”
“How about someone from town?” Clint asked.
“I’ve already put out feelers, but so far, there have been no calls, and I’m running out of time. Beth wanted to help—” She turned to Susan. “Beth’s my daughter-in-law, Jake’s wife. But she’s due to deliver her baby in a couple of weeks, and the doctor wants her to stay off her feet.”
Susan knew she should offer to help, but she’d be leaving in a couple of days herself. Besides, she truly didn’t know if she could handle working with the kids in such close proximity.
She’d kept her charity work at a distance by donating money and by organizing and running fund-raisers. She did everything she could for handicapped children in Elaine’s memory. But she had never worked with children on a one-on-one basis. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to face that pain.
“Well, this is my problem,”