Bob,” Sara mused.
“Boss said if Johnny Cash could have a boy named ‘Sue,’ he could have a girl dog named Bob.”
“She’s so pretty,” Sara said. “And the puppies are just precious!”
“Three males, two females,” he said. “Tom’s got first choice, since they’re Moose’s grandkids.” He shook his head. “He’s taking Moose’s loss hard. He loved that old dog, even though he was a disaster in the house.”
“Moose saved Tom’s daughter from a rattler,” Sara reminded him. “He was a real hero.”
“You want a chair?” he asked.
“This old stool will do fine. Thanks anyway.” She pulled up the rickety stool, opened her pad and took her pencils out of her hip pocket.
“Will it make you nervous if I watch?”
She grinned up at him. “Of course not.”
He lolled against the stall wall and folded his arms, concentrating on the way her hand flew over the page, the pencil quickly bringing the puppies to life on the off-white sheet. “You’re really good,” he said, surprised.
“Only thing I was ever good at in school,” she murmured while she drew. She was also noting the pattern of colors on the pups and shading her drawing to match. Then she wrote down the colors, so she wouldn’t forget them when she started doing the illustrations for her book in pastels.
“I can fix anything mechanical,” he said, “but I can’t draw a straight line.”
“We all have our talents, Harley,” she said. “It wouldn’t do for all of us to be good at the same thing.”
“No, it wouldn’t, I guess.”
She sketched some more in a personable silence.
“I wanted to ask you in the bookstore, but we got interrupted,” he began. “There’s going to be a concert at the high school this Saturday. They’re hosting a performance by the San Antonio Symphony Orchestra. I wondered if, well, if you’d like to go. With me,” he added.
She looked up, her soft eyes smiling. “Well, yes, I would,” she said. “I’d thought about it, because they’re doing Debussy, and he’s my favorite composer. But I didn’t have the nerve to go by myself.”
He chuckled, encouraged. “Then it’s a date. We could leave earlier and have supper at the Chinese place. If you like Chinese?”
“I love it. Thanks.”
“Then I’ll pick you up about five on Saturday. Okay?”
She smiled at him. He was really nice. “Okay.”
He glanced out of the barn at his horse, which was getting restless. “I’d better get back out to the pasture. We’re dipping cattle and the vet’s checking them over. I’ll see you Saturday.”
“Thanks, Harley.”
“Thank you.”
She watched him walk away. He was good-looking, local and pleasant to be around. What a difference from that complaining, bad-tempered rancher who hadn’t even sympathized with her when she’d almost drowned delivering his stupid books!
Now why had she thought about Jared Cameron? She forced herself to concentrate on the puppies.
Harley picked her up at five on Saturday in his aged, but clean, red pickup truck. He was wearing a suit, and he looked pretty good. Sara wore a simple black dress with her mother’s pearls and scuffed black high-heeled shoes that she hoped wouldn’t be noticed. She draped a lacy black mantilla around her shoulders.
“You look very nice,” Harley said. “I figure there will be people there in jeans and shorts, but I always feel you should dress up to go to a fancy concert.”
“So do I,” she agreed. “At least it isn’t raining,” she added.
“I wish it would,” he replied. “That nice shower we got last Saturday is long gone, and the crops are suffering. We’re still in drought conditions.”
“Don’t mention that shower,” she muttered. “I was out in it, sliding all over Jeff Bridges Road in my VW, bogged up to my knees in mud, just to deliver Jared Cameron’s books!”
He glanced at her. “Why didn’t he go to the store and get them himself?”
“He’s very busy.”
He burst out laughing. “Hell! Everyone’s very busy. He could spare thirty minutes to drive into town. God knows, he’s got half a dozen cars. That big fella who works for him is something of a mechanic in his spare time. He keeps the fleet on the road.”
“What sort of cars?” she asked curiously.
“There’s a sixties Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, a thirties Studebaker and several assorted sports cars, mostly classics. He collects old cars and refurbishes them.”
“He arrived at our store in a truck,” she said flatly.
“From time to time that big fella wearing fancy suits drives him around.”
“Do you know where he came from?”
Harley shook his head. “Somebody said he was from Montana, but I’m not sure. He came here for a funeral about eight months ago. Nobody can remember whose.”
“A relative, you think?”
He shrugged. “It was at one of the old country churches. Mount Hebron Baptist, I think.”
“That’s where I go to church,” she said, frowning. “Grandad’s buried there. But I don’t remember reading about any funeral in the bulletin for out-of-town people.”
“It was a private service, they said. Just ashes, not even a coffin.”
She pursed her lips and whistled softly. “I wouldn’t like to be burned.”
“I would,” he said, grinning at her. “A true Viking’s funeral. Nothing wrong with that. Then they can put you in a nice-looking urn and set you on the mantel above the fireplace. Nice and neat. No upkeep.”
She laughed. “Harley, you’re terrible!”
“Yes, but I do have saving graces. I can whistle and carry a tune. Oh, and I can gather eggs. Just ask the boss’s wife!”
* * *
They had a nice meal at the local Chinese restaurant and then Harley drove them to the high school. There were a lot of people on hand for the rare big city musical talent. Both Ballengers and their wives and teenaged kids, and a few of the Tremaynes and two Hart brothers and their families.
Harley caught Sara’s arm gently to help her up onto the sidewalk from the parking lot, and then let his fingers accidentally catch in hers. She didn’t object. She’d always liked Harley. It was nice, to have a man find her attractive, even if it was just in a friendly way.
He was smiling down at her when they almost collided with a man in line. The man, nicely dressed in a suit and a wide-brimmed top-of-the-line John B. Stetson cowboy hat, turned his head back toward them and green eyes glared belligerently.
“Sorry, Mr. Cameron,” Harley said at once.
Jared Cameron gave them both a speaking glance and turned his attention back to the line, which was rapidly moving inside. When he was out of earshot, Sara muttered, “He ran into us. You didn’t have to apologize.”
He chuckled. “It isn’t the place for a skirmish, you know,” he teased.
She grimaced. “Sorry, Harley. I don’t like him, that’s all. He’s too full of himself.”
“He’s just bought that huge ranch,” he reminded her. “He must live on a higher level than most of us. I guess he