and they were planning to revamp their personnel tests and evaluations. One slow afternoon I was talking baseball stats with one of the designers, who happened to mention a problem he was having with the movement on an animated tiger. I helped him rework the structure, got a friend to help on the circuitry, and that was it. They transferred me to design.”
Bill raised a hand for the waitress. Amos ordered a burger and fries. His only concession to the intervening years was coffee rather than Coke.
“Well, I can’t imagine you city slickers are going to make half the money in the sale barn that I am.” Bill punctuated the boast with a tauntingly disdainful look at his companions. “I mean, you might look good in the society pages, but in the clinches, let’s get real. Women want sex appeal and muscle. And you just don’t find that in a three-piece suit.”
Cutter sent Amos a challenging look across the table. “We going to let him get away with that?”
Amos rolled his eyes. “He’ll get set straight when we earn twice what he does. Poor man doesn’t even know that women appreciate style and polish as well as muscle.”
“Probably because he’s never had any,” Cutter added.
“Yeah.”
Bill dug into an inside jacket pocket and produced a hundred dollar bill. “This says you’re wrong, and I earn a higher bid than either of you. Can you match it?”
Amos found two fifties and slapped them on top of Bill’s hundred. Cutter wrote a check and added it to the pile.
“Who holds the bet?” Cutter asked.
Bill handed it to him. “Give it to Lindsay Duncan in the morning.” Lindsay was the daughter of the man who’d founded Lost Springs Ranch for Boys and was its current owner. “Whoever wins donates it to the cause in his name. Deal?”
They mounded hands in the middle of the table as they used to do when they were boys.
“So.” Cutter tucked the money into his pocket. “Nobody’s been married?”
Amos and Bill shook their heads.
“Engaged?”
Two more noes.
Amos leaned back in his chair as the waitress arrived with their food. When she left again, he pounded out a blob of ketchup and passed the bottle to Bill. “How have you managed to avoid the groupies?”
Bill grinned slyly. “I don’t avoid them entirely. The right one hasn’t come looking for me yet.”
Cutter frowned as he accepted the ketchup bottle. “Aren’t you supposed to go looking for her?”
Bill shrugged. “Too busy rehearsing.”
Cutter put the ketchup aside. “And you, Amos? I can’t believe toys are more fun than women.”
“They’re not. But they’re easier to deal with. I haven’t found the right woman, either.”
“And the right one would be?”
“Beautiful, amusing, nymphomaniacal—and a great cook.” He dipped a french fry into the ketchup. “I’m sure she’s just around the corner.”
His companions laughed at his prerequisites, then sobered.
“She sounds perfect,” Bill said.
Cutter nodded. “If we’re lucky, she’s a triplet.”
* * *
LORD, IT WAS HOT. Meg, accustomed to breezy San Francisco, walked the grounds of the Lost Springs Ranch for Boys and looked around desperately for shade.
The place was filled with people. Children wielding water guns ran across the grass with barking dogs in pursuit. Meg would have welcomed a good soaking herself. There were booths and tables offering crafts for sale and advertising services. The air smelled of ribs and chicken grilling on an open pit, and something fresh and wild—some herb or grass she wasn’t familiar with.
Her father looked up from a display of leatherwork, but except for a brief double-take at her appearance, he pretended not to notice her. He’d insisted on coming along to be certain everything went according to plan so that he could report back to Ms. Boradino.
Meg put her hands in the pockets of her jumper and walked on, liking the freedom and comfort of her short jumper—or, rather, Becky’s short jumper—and her low-heeled white sandals.
She’d caught her hair back in the clip and put on the silver-and-turquoise earrings. Laboriously following directions in a magazine dedicated to glamour, she’d even made a serious effort with makeup. After receiving several second looks, she was feeling a little giddy with success.
Then she reminded herself that she had yet to meet her client, Amos Pike. As far as the Boradino plan was concerned, Pike’s opinion was the only one that mattered.
A sudden attack of nervousness threatened to overtake Meg, and she headed for the shade of a spreading oak tree. She was immediately distracted by the sight of a beautiful quilt attached with clothespins to the tree’s lower limbs.
A raffle table with tickets had been set up under the tree, and a banner proclaimed Converse County Hospital—35 Years of Sharing and Caring. Behind the table, a redhead with a bright smile looked up at Meg.
“Here to take a chance on a quilt or a bachelor?” she asked.
Meg handed her a ten-dollar bill. “Both. The quilt is gorgeous. I suppose the men are, too.”
The woman handed her ten tickets. “You mean you haven’t seen them yet?”
“No.” Meg slipped the tickets into her purse.
“Well, here. Somebody left a catalog.” A glossy folder was slipped under Meg’s nose. On the cover was a picture of the ranch and bold letters that read Bachelor Auction. “You’d better hurry if you’re going to pick one out. They’ll be starting in a few minutes.”
Meg straightened and looked at the photos and accompanying bios, pretending a casual perusal. At last she found Amos Pike. And gasped.
“Aha!” The woman laughed. “You found one. I’m Twyla McCabe, by the way.”
Meg tore her eyes from the brochure and shook Twyla’s hand. “Meg Loria,” she said.
Twyla shooed her toward the deeper shade. “You’re looking a little flushed. You know we redheads can’t tolerate too much sun.”
Meg smiled and glanced once again at the photo of Amos Pike. She felt the same emotional punch to the gut she’d experienced a moment ago when she’d seen it for the first time.
She knew this man!
Oh, no one had ever introduced them, but he had Kevin Costner eyes and a George Strait smile, and she’d dreamed about him since she was twelve and the boy next door had called her a scrawny geek and told her she was too puny to grow boobs.
She’d have loved
