funk. Hell, no wonder Niki Keene declined to compete. She didn’t have to. Her friends and family would do it for her.
Thinking dark thoughts, he headed east. Eventually he’d hit Highway 35 and then it was a straight shot north to Dallas. It wouldn’t take him more than five, six hours at the most.
That was five or six hours to brood over the delectable but elusive Niki Keene. Jeez!
By the time she’d reached his table at the Sorry Bastard, he’d been tight as a drum and jumpy as a mustang with a burr under its saddle. The way people in that town talked, she was some kind of goddess or something. That didn’t sit too well with Clay since he was the one accustomed to such adulation, not the other way around.
Of course, in all fairness he had to remind himself that none of that came from her. Her only crime appeared to be a reluctance to be judged…how had she put it? Like a Holstein cow.
That brought a reluctant grin. So, she had a sense of humor. Big deal.
She also had a whole pack of other titles judging from what he’d seen on the back wall of the Sorry Bastard. She’d been named every Miss-Whoever-That-Came-Down-The-Pike. She was on a roll, gathering in every beauty title around. So what was Queen of the Cowgirls, chopped liver?
Brooding mile after mile, he hit the highway just north of Austin and turned north. By then he’d just about convinced himself that:
One, Niki Keene wasn’t as good-looking as he’d at first thought.
Two, if she didn’t want to compete for the title, he, for one, wouldn’t try to force it on her.
And three, she must not be too bright because if she had the sense God gave a goose, she’d see what a great opportunity this was.
But damn! She’d been wearing Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds and she filled them out real good.
CLAY SLEPT late the next morning in the small but luxurious apartment Mother Hubbard herself had provided for a home base while he ran her errands. Although he rarely used it and considered his uncle’s spread in Oklahoma an uneasy home, it had turned out to be a handy pied-a-terre, as Mother called it.
“Ped-a-what?” Clay had demanded incredulously.
“Home away from home, dear boy,” she’d explained with a somewhat superior smile. “C’est la vie!”
That was Mother Hubbard.
He took his time over breakfast at a handy diner before heading for the head office of Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds. He’d come to know the towering steel-and-glass structure since he’d been hired as company spokesman just over two years ago.
At first he’d felt ridiculous, getting all duded up and having his picture taken with all the solemnity of an Important Happening. After a while he got used to it, though, and now it was just another job—a job that brought in big bucks.
“Mr. Russell!” The receptionist beamed at him. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks, Marla. The boss lady in town?” He rolled his eyes toward the elevators that rose to the top floor where Mother Hubbard held court.
Marla’s smile revealed perfect teeth. “Not only that—she’s expecting you.”
“She doesn’t even know I’m in town,” he objected, startled by her comment.
She shrugged, eyes widening. “Don’t ask me, I just work here. But I’ve heard it said she has eyes in the back of her head.” Smiling, she returned her attention to her computer screen.
Clay crossed the lobby toward the elevator, his boot heels clicking on the marble. Mother always seemed to know everything so why was he surprised? Punching the up-button, he waited patiently, his gaze wandering around the lobby, sensing a change.
Something new had been added: a blowup of a famous old ad campaign that had sold a helluva lot of denim. It featured “Mother Hubbard,” a lovely white-haired little old lady who—now that he noticed—looked a lot like Niki Keene’s grandma. She looked straight into the camera, pointing her finger and wearing a mischievous smile while declaring, “You should listen to your mother!”
Yeah, he thought as he stepped into the elevator. Listening to Mother Hubbard was what had gotten him into this strange world in the first place—that and a ton of money.
THE REAL Mother Hubbard looked absolutely nothing like “Mother Hubbard,” a fact that never failed to startle Clay. The first time he’d met the sleek, blond and sophisticated Eve Hubbard he’d thought it was a joke.
It wasn’t. Eve herself had explained why she’d hired an actress to play the part of Mother Hubbard in public—because Eve herself was not the image she wanted for her company. When the actress died three years ago, Clay had been brought in as spokesman to “take the company in a new direction.”
“I design the clothes because I love them, but I can’t wear them and I sure as hell can’t represent them properly in public,” Eve had explained bluntly, her scarlet mouth curving down in an unhappy line. “I just don’t project the proper image, hence the Queen of the Cowgirls contest.”
She’d winked. “Every cowboy needs a queen,” she’d said. “I’m doing this for you, dear.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You’re only half the package, darling. When I launched this company twenty years ago on a damned shoestring, I vowed never to let vanity, mine or anybody else’s, get between me and a strong bottom line.”
She obviously never had. Today her company was a multi-million-dollar success with Eve still flying high as chief designer and eccentric head honcho. Aggressive and smart, she terrorized most of the people she dealt with.
Clay liked her.
Her secretary waved him through with a smile and he entered the plush and modern office—another shock considering that the company produced down-home western styles. Eve rose quickly from behind a massive glass-and-chrome desk, her sleek red suit the only touch of color in the room.
“Darling!” Coming around the desk, she offered her porcelain cheek for his kiss.
“Howdy, Mother.” He pressed his lips to her cool skin.
“Do tell me about your adventures.” She plucked a manila folder off the desk before drawing him toward a black leather couch near the glass wall.
“Saw a lot of good-lookin’ women.” He sat down beside her.
“Twelve of them?” Eve asked sharply, spilling out the contents of the folder on the cocktail table: the eight-by-ten glossy photographs which had earned these women entrance into the finalists’ round. “Any duds, pardon the expression, in the bunch?”
Clay laughed. “Not a one. They’re all real good-lookers.”
“How about the girl from Tulsa?” She slid a photo from the messy pile before her and held it up.
“Pretty, but she’s kinda…guess you’d call it inarticulate. Put a microphone in her face and she starts to giggle.”
“She’s
