possibility. She looks good but there’s something kinda… I guess you’d say cold about her. Her personality, I mean.”
“I wonder if that would photograph,” Eve mused, squinting at the color likeness. She sighed and tossed it aside. “Let me think…. There’s got to be one in this group who’s just right.” She brightened. “How about the girl in that little jerkwater town south of here… Hard Hat, Hard Work—something like that.”
“Hard Knox.”
“That’s it.” Eve pulled out a photograph of Niki wearing a big grin and a Stetson. “How was she?”
How was she? Clay stared at the picture, startled all over again by the brilliance of those dark blue eyes, the vitality of the straight black hair. He’d spent most of the night trying to figure her out and failed miserably.
“She’s…a good possibility,” he said carefully, surprised to find he wasn’t ready to explain Niki’s reluctance to participate just yet.
“And the girl in Cheyenne…”
Eve continued questioning Clay closely and he answered as fully as he could, considering the fact that most of the things she wanted to know weren’t really things he noticed—carriage, grace, presence. If that’s what Eve wanted, she should have sent someone else.
The only contestant he’d noticed who had all those things to any discernable degree was Niki Keene and she didn’t want any part of the Queen of the Cowgirls competition. He really should tell Eve and get it over with but she was going to ask a bunch of questions he wasn’t prepared to answer so to hell with it.
“How many were wearing my clothes?” she asked suddenly, her expression moving from inquiring to serious.
He was ready for that question but sorry it had come so early in the proceedings. “Only one that I’m sure of,” he said slowly. “Niki Keene was wearing Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds but—”
“Niki Keene…this pretty thing?” She waved the picture.
“Yes, but—”
“Can she talk beyond monosyllables?”
“Yes, but—”
“Is she as attractive in person?”
“More so.”
“Guess that settles it, then.”
“Settles what?”
“The winner of the first Queen of the Cowgirls title. That’s what we’ve been talking about, right?”
“Sure, but—”
“What’s your problem, darling?” she snapped. “Aren’t you used to women who can make decisions?” To emphasize her point, she snapped her scarlet-tipped fingers.
“I thought this was an honest contest,” he blurted.
“It is.”
“How can it be if you just decide who the winner is on a whim?”
“Good grief, the boy’s disillusioned!” Smiling almost diabolically, she patted his knee. “Don’t be. I always go with my gut instincts which is what makes me great.” She raised one carefully groomed brow. “Besides, I’m the final judge so what difference does it make if I pick the winner now or later?”
“I’d guess it makes a lot of difference to the other contestants.”
“Don’t get huffy, dear boy. They won’t know. It’ll be our little secret, if that makes you feel any better.”
“It doesn’t,” he said bluntly. “Before this goes any further, there’s something I think you need to know.”
She straightened and her hazel eyes narrowed fractionally. “Such as?”
“Niki Keene has shown a certain…reluctance to compete.”
“What the hell does ‘a certain reluctance’ mean?”
“That when the mayor made the announcement and presented the certificate, she said thanks but no thanks—and that’s a direct quote.”
Eve’s shock was almost comical. “You’re kidding!”
“I wish.”
“But…what woman in her right mind would turn down this kind of opportunity? Women have committed murder for less!”
“That’s what her friends and family were asking. She just kept saying she wasn’t interested.”
“Hmmm…” She rose to stalk to the desk and back again. Stopping, she fixed him with a determined gaze. “Did she mean it?”
“Sounded like it to me.”
“Hmm… You say she’s as gorgeous in person as she is in that picture?”
“Gorgeous-er, even.”
“And she was wearing Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds.”
“That’s right.” And she looked damn good in them. “But if she doesn’t want to compete, nobody can force her,” he pointed out.
“Who’s talking force?” Eve’s head lifted and she grinned suddenly, as if she’d just puzzled out the problem to her satisfaction. “I’m more subtle than that, darling.”
“You could’a fooled me,” he observed dryly. “How do you intend to pull off this miracle of persuasion?”
“Not me, love. You. You’re going to convince our reluctant heroine that she longs for the Queen of the Cowgirls title more than anything in her entire little world.”
“No way!” He stared at her, appalled. “How am I, a perfect stranger, supposed to—”
“That’s the key, because you are perfect, stranger or otherwise. Why do you think I signed you on as Mother’s spokesman? Because you support charitable causes and are kind to kids and animals?”
“How do you know I’m kind to—?”
“I have ways of finding these things out.” She waved off his astonishment. “With your looks and charm, she won’t stand a chance.”
“Gimme a break.” Embarrassed, he sunk lower into the butter-soft leather. “I can’t just—”
“You certainly can. I want you to hightail it back to Hard Times—”
“Hard Knox.”
“—and convince this girl that she must compete.” She marched to her desk and sat down, began pulling open drawers in search of something, adding, “Without telling her the contest is basically fixed, of course.”
Clay gritted his teeth. This was
