for lemonade and for as much catching up as the clock would allow. Michael was expecting a load of lumber and drywall, and he didn’t want to miss the truck. And there was the possibility that someone would answer his ad for a helper, too. After an hour he left, promising to return for supper at six.
The pink exterior and the purple trim were peeling in places, but Nicole had to admit the big old place had a lot of charm. If only it weren’t—
On a nervous sigh, she bracketed her hands around her eyes and peered into a window, seeing no signs of life on the other side. She’d knocked hard enough to wake the dead, but no one came to the ornate oval oak door. Were they all upstairs sleeping—getting ready for a busy night? Or could Tuesday be a day off?
Her stomach lurched, and she didn’t think it was from hunger. How could she ever work at a place like this? Again she reminded herself she had no choice. Besides, she was only applying for “helper”—whatever that meant. Hostess, maybe? Clean ashtrays? Freshen drinks? Wash lingerie? She wrinkled her nose.
It didn’t matter. She’d do whatever it took. She had to.
If only she’d learned more about the job. The little she knew about it she’d overheard yesterday. Dire straits and creative problem solving had driven her to a local doughnut shop where she’d ordered one doughnut hole and a glass of water, and waited for someone to discard a newspaper so that she could scour the employment section. Before it came to that, a pair of old-timers sitting next to her started laughing about the Purple Palace’s ad: Helper. No experience needed.
“Wonder what a helper would do there?” one had asked. The other hunched his shoulders, then started laughing louder.
It was at that very moment Nicole had decided what she’d do, even though each time she allowed herself to dwell on it, as was the case now, her pulse began to race.
What if the...ladies...felt better about themselves when they thought they were...helping? Could a helper be—?
No! The ad couldn’t be for that. She cringed, pushing aside the possibility. It had to be for something else. Exactly what seemed irrelevant since she was short on options and long on responsibilities. Besides, unemployment was on the rise again, now that that Hollywood production company had left the area. As long as their movie was being shot at that ranch to the north, there had been extra work in motels and restaurants. Now the locals were lucky to hold on to their modest wages, and she had exhausted her last lead.
Still seeing no action inside, Nicole walked along the wraparound porch and noticed for the first time a wicker swing near another entrance to the west. Tired, she sat in it and swung slowly, listening to it creak and wondering what stories it could tell if only it—
She heard the clopping and snort of a horse on the other side of the house and she jumped up with a start. Her car was near the main entrance. Whoever was there had to see it and had come looking for her.
Resigned to her fate she flung back her shoulders, thrust out her chest and jutted out her chin. She added a hipswiveling sashay as she rounded the porch and thought she had captured her character perfectly.
Until one red spiked heel sank and stuck in a crack.
A good-looking cowboy dismounted. She tugged unsuccessfully and nearly broke into hysterical laughter. He stopped short and appraised her, hands on hips. With one mighty yank she heard the crack of her heel as it separated from the sole.
Improvise, she told herself. Maintain a sense of humor. She dug into her shallow well of theatrical experience and limped toward him, tempted to try a joke as an ice-breaker. And ice definitely described his demeanor.
Losing her nerve, she smiled coyly instead, acting as if this sort of thing happened all the time. He folded his arms against his broad chest and simply stood there, staring at her.
Exasperated, she said, “Well, at least I didn’t lose my soul!” It was all she could do to keep the big red smile pasted on her face. Oh, Lord, help me. I’m dying here! Okay, it was corny, but what was wrong with this guy? Most would have found this entrance amusing. And what was he gaping at? Regardless of her getup, she still had to be the most wholesome-looking woman around this place.
Maybe he was testing her under pressure. There had to be some mighty tough hombres frequenting this...this establishment. That had to be it.
She stepped off the porch and thrust out her hand, forcing all the confidence she could muster. “My name is Nicole. I came about—” she hoped he didn’t see her gulp “—the job.”
He looked at her hand as if measuring the possibility of contamination if he touched it.
“Nicole what?”
“Nicole Bedder.”
“Better than what?” he asked all too seriously.
Another time she might have laughed, but this guy had already proven he didn’t have a sense of humor. Nonetheless, she played his game. With an exaggerated look over her shoulder, she said, “Better than all the other applicants standing behind me.”
Reluctantly he took her hand, gave it a quick shake and said, “Michael Phillips. I own the place.” And what in the hell are you doing on my porch is what she read in his squinting blue eyes.
“Wait a minute. A man owns the—” She’d lost her character a moment, but quickly recovered. Beaming again, her voice sweet enough to cause diabetes, she said, “Hmm. Only fair, I guess. Equal rights and all.”
She let go of his long, callused fingers, stepped back and thrust her arms out to her sides. “I’m ready to start right now,” Please! Please!
He pushed the Stetson higher on his tanned forehead and stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t flinch. But after what seemed to be the most pregnant pause of the decade, she caved and spoke first.
“So...do I get the job?”
Two
When hell freezes over, Michael thought.
“I don’t know what job you’re applying for, but I need a helper, not a—” he stopped short of hooker and let her fill in the blank. He watched the slow batting of her dark lashes and noticed one corner was jutting straight out like a perched insect ready to take flight. He felt a smile tug at one corner of his mouth, but he controlled it. The last thing he wanted to do was encourage this...this spitfire.
“I can help,” she said.
He was afraid to ask how. He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. You’re not what I’m looking for.” He turned away and started for the door. She was right on his heels.
“How can you tell? You haven’t even asked me any questions.”
He kept moving, hoping she’d give up and go away, knowing she wouldn’t. “For one thing, I need a man.” When she didn’t respond, he couldn’t help but turn. Her brown eyes were round, her mouth open.
“A man? Here?”
“Well... yes.” No way could someone so small and frail looking possibly carry a sheet of drywall or a bunch of two-by-fours up a flight of stairs. But then, he was
