boots she wore were ankle-high, pale cream and fit only for walking down clean city sidewalks. Here on the ranch, they’d be ruined in a day or two. But Naomi was a city girl, so no worries.
“This Maverick,” he said, “he—or she, for all we know,” Toby pointed out, “is after everybody, it seems. Guess it was just your turn.”
“Maverick” had been creating turmoil in Royal, Texas, for the last few months. Exposing private bombshells, taunting people with their innermost worries and fears, whoever it was not only knew the people of Royal, but didn’t give a good damn about them.
Somehow this person—whoever—uncovered people’s darkest secrets and then published them. Toby had no idea what the mysterious Maverick was getting out of all this—okay, some people had paid Maverick to keep his mouth shut—but Toby had the feeling the whole point was simply to try to destroy people’s reputations. If that was it, he was batting a thousand.
“Great,” Naomi muttered. “Just great.”
“What exactly did he say to get you running out here first thing in the morning?” Toby gave her a long look. Usually, Naomi wasn’t up and moving until the crack of noon. She didn’t go anywhere unless she was completely turned out from the top of her head to the toes of her stylish shoes.
She sighed, then reached into her shoulder bag for her cell phone. “Look at it for yourself,” she said, handing it over.
Toby gave the horse a pat, took the phone and keyed it up.
“It’s ready to go,” she said, “just push Play.”
Frowning, Toby tipped the brim of his hat back and tapped the phone screen. Instantly, he saw what had Naomi as jumpy as a spider on a hot plate.
For the last year or so, Naomi had been the star, writer and producer of a small-town cable fashion show. She was making a name for herself, doing what she did best—advising women on how to look good. Naomi was proud of what she’d accomplished, and she had a right to be. She’d built herself an audience and she worked hard every day to put out the best show possible.
He scowled at the screen as the video played. Maverick had turned what she did into a parody. He’d found an actress who resembled Naomi to star in it, and the woman was cooing and sighing over a rack of dresses like she was having an orgasm on camera. Then she stepped out from behind that rack and Toby knew instantly what had really set Naomi off.
The actress looked about two years pregnant. She waddled across the stage, both hands supporting a belly so huge there might have been a baby elephant tucked inside.
“Oh, man...”
“Wait for it,” Naomi ground out. “There’s more.”
A deep frown etched on his face, Toby watched and listened as the actress began talking with a slow, overblown Texas accent.
“And for summer,” she said, simpering at the camera, “maternity wear just got more exciting! Our big ol’ bellies won’t keep us from looking stylish, ladies.” She flipped long reddish-brown hair behind her shoulder, then rubbed both hands over that comically distended belly before slipping behind that rack of dresses again, still talking. “Remember, accessorizing is key. Drape a pretty belt around that baby belly. Draw attention to it. Be proud. Show the world what a fashionable pregnant woman should look like.”
Toby’s own temper was starting to spike for Naomi’s sake.
She stepped out from behind the dress rack again to model an oversize tent dress with a gigantic black belt enveloping that belly. “Tell the world, Naomi,” the woman said, smiling into the camera. “Do it fast, or Maverick will do it for you.”
Gritting his teeth, Toby turned the phone off and handed it back to her. “Okay, I see what’s got you all churned up.”
She tucked her phone back into her purse and then reached out to grab the top rail of the corral fence. Her hands tightened on the weather-beaten wood until her knuckles went white.
“It’s not just that he’s threatening to tell everyone I’m pregnant, Toby,” she said, her voice tight but low enough that he had to lean in to hear her. “It’s that he’s making fun of me. He’s turning my show into a joke. He’s laughing at me.”
Toby laid his hand over one of hers and squeezed. “Doesn’t matter what he thinks of you, Naomi. You know that.”
“Of course I know,” she said, giving him a grim smile that was brave, if not honest. “But I watched that video and wondered if I really sound like that. All know-it-all and prissy. Am I prissy?”
One corner of Toby’s mouth quirked up. “I wouldn’t say so, but you’ve had your moments...”
She looked at him for a long minute, then let her head fall back and a groan escape her throat. “You’re talking about the mean girls thing, aren’t you?”
He shrugged and went back to tightening the cinch on his horse’s saddle. Naomi had been his best friend for years. But that didn’t make him blind to her faults, either. Of course, nobody was perfect. Toby knew Naomi better than anyone else, and he knew that she had spent a lifetime hiding a tender heart beneath a self-protective layer of cool disdain.
“You, Simone and Cecelia have a reputation you more than earned. You’ve gotta admit that.”
“Wish I didn’t have to,” she muttered and dropped her chin on top of her hands.
Shaking his head, Toby let her be, knowing her thoughts were racing. So were his own. Naomi and he had been best friends for years now. They’d grown up knowing each other in a vague, from-the-same-small-town kind of way. But in college, they’d connected when he was a senior and she a freshman. He knew her in a way not many people did, so Toby also knew that Naomi was shaken right down to her expensive, useless boots.
“Things are different now,” Naomi insisted a moment later. She straightened up, and Toby was glad to see a fierce gleam in her eyes. “People change, you know.”
“All the time,” he said, nodding.
“Cecelia and Deacon are together now—she’s pregnant, too,” Naomi pointed out unnecessarily. “And Simone and Hutch have worked things out and she’s pregnant with triplets, for heaven’s sake.” She threw up both hands and let them fall to her sides. “It’s a population explosion with the three of us. We’re not the mean girls anymore. We’re...” She sighed. “I don’t know what we are anymore.”
“I do,” Toby said, watching her with a smile. “You’re Naomi Price—the woman who wears useless boots that cost more than my saddle...”
She laughed, as he’d meant her to.
Staring directly into her eyes, he continued. “You’re also the woman who started her own television show and worked her behind off to make it a success.”
“Thank you, Toby.” She smiled at him, and he felt a sharp tug inside in response.
“Okay,” she said, nodding to herself as she pushed away from the fence, giving that top rail one last slap. “You’re right. I’m strong. I’m ready. I can do this.”
“Yes, you can.” Finished
