hadn’t heard a word from Jensen or anyone remotely related to the Drummonds or the Fortunes since she’d run interference for them two days ago. And while she’d hoped someone would call to give her news about Amelia, she really hadn’t expected them to. She just hoped that everything went okay—and that the baby was healthy.
Other than her scattered thoughts, it had been business as usual on the Broken R. After breakfast, she’d lined up the foreman and ranch hands on the chores that needed to be done. Then she’d checked on the broodmares and worked with Lucky Charm, a gelding who was showing a lot of promise.
It had been a productive morning. That afternoon, Gram drove into town to run some errands and to pick up groceries at the Superette, while Amber went into the office and spent the next two hours paying bills, reconciling the checkbook and catching up on some year-end bookkeeping.
She’d no more than printed off a report for the accountant when the sound of an approaching vehicle caught her attention. She glanced out the window just in time to see Gram’s Ford Taurus speed into the yard and skid to stop, a swirl of dust settling around the black sedan.
The mild-mannered woman never drove over the speed limit, and to come racing home...? Why, that bordered on recklessness.
See? Elmer Murdock was a bad influence on her.
Determined to ignore the behavior and not make any more fuss about Gram’s dating habits, hoping that the excitement would run its course and fizzle out, Amber glanced down at the printout. That was, until Gram’s shrill voice called out from the kitchen.
“Amber Sue Rogers! Get on out here as fast as your little legs will carry you. What in blue blazes is this all about?”
It had been ten or more years since Gram had lit into Amber, although even then, she’d been fairly soft-spoken and mellow about it. So she was clearly worked up about something, and the angry shriek kicked Amber’s pulse rate up a notch.
So after pushing back the desk chair, Amber hurried to the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about.
She found Gram standing beside the scarred oak table, holding a newspaper—or rather a tabloid— clucking her tongue and shaking her gray head.
“What’s wrong?” Amber asked.
Gram turned the paper around and flashed a front page photo of a couple kissing. Well, not just any couple. It was Amber and Jensen standing smack-dab on Quinn Drummond’s front porch.
Her heart thudded and rumbled like flat tire on a wheel that was falling off its axle.
How the heck did a national tabloid get a photo printed so quickly? Those dang reporters must have emailed it to the home office as soon as they took it, along with some cock-and-bull story to explain what they imagined they saw. Because other than the pictures they took of her riding the mare, there was nothing to report because she hadn’t said a single word to them.
“Girl,” Gram said, “you’re front-page news. It doesn’t list your name, but I know it’s you. And so will everyone else in town.”
Sure as shootin’, it was Amber, all right. And there was no mistaking the headline, either. Sir Jensen and Texas Cowgirl Caught in Royal Liplock!
“What’s this all about?” Gram asked.
“It wasn’t a real kiss, if that’s what you mean. And there’s no romance going on between us. It was just an act, a ploy to distract a tabloid reporter who was hanging around the Drummond ranch.”
“Distract him from what?”
“From learning that Amelia was in labor and that she’d been taken to the hospital.”
Amber snatched the paper and scanned the article, which didn’t appear to mention the Drummonds at all, other than to say that the Fortune Chesterfields seemed to be fixated on the “bucolic commoners in quaint Horseback Hollow.”
What a crock of bull. They made normal, down-home country folk sound like a novelty that the rich and famous would soon grow tired of.
“Did the ploy work?” Gram asked.
Amber glanced up from her reading. “In terms of taking the heat off Amelia? Yes, it appears that way.”
But now, it seemed that heat had been transferred on to Amber, who’d gotten her fifteen minutes of unwarranted and unwanted fame.
As she continued reading about how a brazen cowgirl had launched herself into Sir Jensen’s arms in an attempt to rope a British royal...well, heck. She wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
Better yet, maybe she ought to rope herself a couple of reporters and hog-tie them until they wanted to crawl into a hole and die. It’d serve the nosy snoops right. She did have to admit, though, the shots of her in the saddle were pretty good. She smiled, remembering the clicking of shutters and photographers’ gasps as she nailed several of her trademark riding tricks. When it came to showmanship, she definitely had the knack.
“Speaking of Amelia,” Gram said. “How is she? Did she have her baby?”
“I don’t know.” Amber set the tabloid on the table and tapped her finger at the photo that took up most of the front page. “After that silly kiss, I went outside and took the filly out of the trailer. Then I saddled her and proceeded to ride around the yard, doing a few tricks. If you turn the page, you’ll see a couple of shots where I’m showing off for the cameraman and the reporter, which is how Jensen was able to slip away and head to the hospital.”
Gram reached into the grocery bag, withdrew a tub of spreadable butter and placed it in the refrigerator. “I hope he appreciated your help because I’m afraid that article is going to make you look like a hussy.”
Amber lifted her hand and fingered her lips, recalling the kiss that had shocked the wits out of Jensen—and had nearly stolen the breath out of her.
He seemed to have appreciated the diversion, although now she wasn’t so sure. She might have just helped him exchange one sticky wicket for another.
The telephone rang, and Gram answered. “Hello? Yes, it is.”
Amber didn’t give the call much mind, thinking it was some kind of telemarketer or one of Gram’s quilting friends wanting to be the first to know whether it was truly little tomboy Amber Rogers plastered all over the racks above the grocery store checkout aisles.
“Goodness, it’s no bother at all. And yes, she’s right here.”
Her? As in Amber? Who could it possibly be? She didn’t give people of any importance, like friends or someone from the casting department of Cowboy Country USA, the telephone number to the house. They called her cell. And speaking of that casting director—Perry or Terry What’s-His-Name...
The guy had gotten it in his head that she could not only rope and ride, but that she’d look great dressed up as a saloon girl. So he’d been trying to talk her into auditioning for a part as a dance-hall girl in some indoor stage show they planned to have called Madame LaRue’s Lone Star Review.
Never mind that Amber had never been to France and couldn’t do the cancan. Apparently, they had dance instructors who could teach her all she needed to know.
