The Fantasy Factor by Kimberly Raye Page B

pie to choir practice tomorrow night. Why, I bet she’s even trying to impress Spur.”
    “Spur? Spur Tucker?” He remembered the wiry old man from the wedding reception. “Cheryl Louise’s great uncle? The old guy who told anybody and everybody that he was here to find himself a filly to take back to his ranch?”
    “That’s him. Why, she knows I like Spur and she wants to show me up. She’s always been competitive with me.”
    “You like Spur Tucker?”
    “But she just thinks she’s going to show me up.” She went on as if he’d never said a word. “I’ll teach her. I’m on to her. Why, I bet she switched my sugar and salt last week when I had the sewing group over here—we were finishing up the wedding quilt for Cheryl Louise.” She shook her head. “She’s good. Why, I was gone only five minutes when I stabbed my finger.”
    “You stabbed your finger?”
    “A fluke accident. That needle looked so small and my finger was a good few inches shy. Anyhow, I was in the bathroom. That lying, cheating, sugar-switching—”
    “You never used to stab yourself when you quilted.”
    “Accidents happen.”
    “Maybe you ought to talk to the doc about getting a stronger eyeglasses prescription.”
    Though none of his questions had gotten her attention, that one suggestion drew her full gaze.
    “Why, I don’t need a stronger prescription. I’ve worn the same one for years and it suits me just fine. My eyes are the same as they’ve always been and the last thing I’m doing is letting some doctor cut on them just because I’ve been making a few mistakes here lately.”
    “The doctor wants to do surgery?”
    “They all want to do surgery. It’s a scheme to milk my insurance.”
    “Doc McCoy doesn’t strike me as the insurance-milking type. Maybe you should listen to him.”
    “And maybe you should have some eggs.” She walked back to the table. “I bet Imogene can cook a mean egg. Not as good as mine, but close.”
    “Speaking of Imogene,” he interrupted. “I want you to call her off.”
    “Nonsense. She’s got her hopes up. She’s so nice. And sweet. And she really can cook. Why, Myrtle told me she pickles her very own cucumbers with a teaspoon of honey, which makes them so divine. I’ve pickled my entire life, and not once have I ever even thought about using honey with my cucumbers. But they’re wonderful. I tried them myself.”
    “I don’t like cucumbers.”
    “Sure you do.”
    “I don’t like Imogene.”
    “Sure you do. Everybody likes Imogene. She may be young like you, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders. And she’s as sweet as a plate of flapjacks and syrup. She’ll make a perfect wife, and she can plow. She used to plow over at her grandpa’s place. So if you and she decided to forgo the cattle and plant crops, you’re all set.”
    “I don’t want your land.” There. He’d said it.
    She simply smiled and told him, “Not yet, but you will. This is your home. This is where you grew up.”
    Yes, he’d spent the best moments of his life here. But inside, not outside. He hadn’t spent his time here running crazy on her land, or cutting the grass or rounding up stray steers. He’d left those chores to his older brother, who’d taken to the land like a stud to a mare.
    Houston had been different. He hadn’t looked at the animals as a practical way of making a living. He’d looked at them as a challenge. As a means to escape a dead-end town and his going-nowhere life. He’d looked at them as his chance to be different. Special. A winner.
    And so he’d spent much of his time over at Hank’s spread, watching real cowboys—rodeo men who spent their time on the road and on the back of a bull or a bronc hell-bent on tossing them in the dust. Hank had not only ridden himself, but he’d trained the best, using the only mechanical bull in the state of Texas crafted specifically for rodeo training.
    Houston’s dad had trained on Hank’s bull, and he’d been good.