was good. What was the use of even trying to compete with him? He could beat her with both his hands tied behind his back. Once again he’d proved that her hard work and discipline and careful planning were nothing against his gut instinct, common touch and savvy charisma. While he was too busy to believe manning his armadillo races and chicken-flying contests, she’d hardly sold a pie. Anytime he had a free second, he strode up and down among the throng hawking his wares.
She clicked her nails against the counter and tried not to feel bored or depressed at her failures or resent the excellent job Matt and his brother, Jerry Keith, had done building booths for her under the bleachers of the baseball stadium. They’d worked cheerfully until nearly 2:00 a.m. last night. Even though Matt had been exhausted, he’d insisted on following her home, which was out of his way.
“Just to make sure you get there safely,” he’d said.
“Like you really think there might be a criminal lurking behind every mesquite tree and cactus bush,” she’d replied.
“Is it a major crime I want to protect you?” His handsome face had been touchingly earnest as she’d slid behind the wheel.
She was fighting to be a good sport about his popularity. After all, he was outdoing himself for a good cause. Her cause. The nagging question was—why? To help her? For the cause? Or to improve his position as contender for director of market research?
She was afraid she knew the answer.
While stragglers trickled by her booth to buy cakes or pies or bicker about her prices, Matt patiently answered his young fans’ nonstop questions in between armadillo races. For the most part, Jerry Keith was manning the chicken-flying booth, which was almost as popular. Feathers were flying, chickens were squawking and kids were running wildly about inside the screened booth, screaming in delight.
Upon the rare occasions when Jane sold a cake or pie, she couldn’t help glancing at Matt, hoping he’d see she wasn’t a total loser. He always smiled back at her.
“Are armadillos really really fast, Mr. Harper?” squealed cute little ten-year-old Susanna Hays, who was jumping back and forth, causing her red pigtails to bounce.
Matt knelt so that he was at eye level with the excited little girl. “When they think you’re tracking ’em down to carve out their insides so you can sell ’em on the side of the road as baskets, they can skitter away over the rocks mighty dern fast.”
Susanna stilled. “Do bad people really do that?”
“Mostly they’re slow though,” said Beaver Jackson, pushing his rumpled black Stetson back. His tone was authoritative because he was in the sixth grade. “I got one. Wumpus I call him. He’s my pet.”
“I’ve got one too,” Matt said, looking up and winking at Jane.
Oh, why didn’t somebody, anybody, come up and buy a pie?
“I got a scorpion for a pet,” another little boy said. “In a bottle with holes in the cap.”
“Well, don’t let him out in the house,” Matt warned, patting him on the head.
Pretty Annie Grant, the bank teller, and Greg Flynn, a local cop, were ambling among the tables side by side, pretending not to be too interested in each other as they eyed the items to be sold in the silent auction. Annie wrote her name down beneath several items, including the card to buy Jane’s cooking services.
Matt watched Annie and then nodded at Jane.
Good. She was glad he’d noticed that at least somebody appreciated her cooking skills. She said a quick prayer that somebody would buy more of her pies so she could sell out and leave. Just being around Matt made her hot and edgy.
“Got any ideas about who wrote that love letter?” cracked a voice to her right as he slapped a ten-dollar bill down. “Two strawberry pies, please.”
Jane turned. Ol’ Bill Sinclair’s weather-beaten face looked like a human road map, but his bright blue eyes twinkled at her with more mischief than most youngsters. Obviously he knew Matt wrote it.
“I have an idea or two,” she said, not looking at him as she rung up the sale.
“A lot of people do,” he said, glancing toward Matt. “You two did a mighty good job together on these booths.”
“Matt and his brother did most of it.”
“Matt damn sure has a way with kids.”
No sooner had Ol’ Bill Sinclair paid for his stacks of pies than Matt left his own booth and fans. He stalked straight to the display that described her cooking services, which were to be auctioned.
Feelings of triumph turned to horror when he leaned over and studied the paper with an air of intense interest. A lock of inky hair fell across his dark eyebrow when he lifted the paper and took out a pen.
No! No! Don’t you dare!
Bending lower, he scribbled something on the paper, glanced her way and smiled wickedly before returning to his cheering horde. Soon afterward a crowd began to gather around her display. She sucked in air.
What had he done?
Soon, she was so curious and terrified to know, she was wringing her hands when Ol’ Bill patted her shoulder and said, “Don’t you fret. I’ll go check it out.”
Was she so obvious?
Ol’ Bill was back at her booth before she could blink twice. Not that she much liked the mischievous glint in his blue eyes.
“Looks like your Harper’s done gone and bought himself the prettiest little cook in town.”
“He’s not my Harper.”
“Well, maybe you’re his then. He bid five thousand dollars for your cooking services.”
Her cheeks flamed. Her heart raced. She’d kill Harper for this. She would!
“With conditions,” Ol’ Bill amended softly.
“With conditions?” she parroted.
“Girl, I knew you was a cook, but he must want your services mighty bad. Ain’t nobody but a fool with money to burn gonna top that bid. You and he go back a long way, don’t cha?”
She could feel her cheeks heating now. “We don’t go back at all. And don’t you dare print a word about this in the Gazette. And don’t you dare tell my mother about this either.”
Ol’Bill chuckled. “She’s psychic, remember. She predicted you’d be born in a special way, just didn’t see how.”
“Don’t you dare go into the particulars of that event either.”
“What I’m trying to say is everybody in town already knows about you and Matt.”
“Did he write that love letter?”
Ol’ Bill winked at her. “He’s never been one to declare himself. But don’t you worry none. It’ll
