Dani laughed and her brown eyes sparkled. Marriage to neighboring rancher Jack Burke had done wonders for her; Tilly had never seen Dani happier.
“Jack’s got her,” she said. “He’ll be along as soon as he gets the kids a cup of lemonade.”
Tilly nodded, knowing that “kids” in the plural included Jack’s orphaned six-year-old nephew, Pete, adopted when Jack and Dani married. “Are Toni and Simon here yet?”
Dani nodded. “I saw the newlyweds drive up just a few minutes ago. They’ll be here soon.” She glanced around at the crowd. “Where’s Niki?”
Tilly pointed in the general direction. At that moment, the crowd parted and they saw Niki, still in the middle of a horde of male admirers. She was looking up with a non-committal smile at a tall cowboy.
She was gorgeous. Something about long black hair and blue eyes, Tilly supposed. Whatever it was, Niki had lots of it.
The loudspeaker sputtered and Tilly caught a single word from the mayor: Niki. Sure she’d misunderstood, Tilly glanced at Dani, who looked equally puzzled.
The mayor’s voice became stronger: “Niki Keene, please, dear, will you come up here?”
Niki glanced toward her family, shapely black brows rising in a question. Dani shrugged and Toni, just arriving, waved.
“What do they want with Nik?” she inquired. “Simon and I just got here so—”
“Come on up, now,” the mayor’s amplified voice interrupted. “Don’t be shy!”
At Mayor Rosie’s urging, Niki’s admirers lifted her to her feet and guided her toward the bandstand in the middle of the park. A sprinkling of applause built to a crescendo, despite the fact that no one appeared to know what was going on.
Tilly certainly didn’t, but whatever it was, it was bound to be good. They didn’t do bad things at community picnics in Hard Knox, Texas. So she smiled and applauded along with everybody else.
Mayor Rosie held up her arms for silence while Niki waited uneasily, casting her sometime boss dubious glances. Niki had gone to work as a barmaid at Rosie and Cleavon Mitchell’s Sorry Bastard Saloon soon after the Keenes’ move to Texas a few years back. She still worked there part-time, not because she needed the money anymore, but because she enjoyed it. Niki was a simple girl with simple needs.
“Friends and guests,” Rosie said in her deep Texas drawl, “we got us a real nice surprise today. Seems like our own Niki Keene, darlin’ of the Sorry Bastard, has been named a finalist in the Queen of the Cowgirls contest sponsored by Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds! And I got a certificate here to prove it!” She waved the document triumphantly aloft.
Tilly frowned and muttered, “What’s Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds?”
Toni chuckled. “It’s a western clothing company. In fact, it’s a favorite of Niki’s. That vest she’s wearing is a Mother Hubbard.” She glanced at Dani. “Can you believe it? Entering a contest and not even telling us, her own sisters.”
“No, I can’t believe it.” Dani shook her head firmly. “There’s something funny going on here. That contest has been publicized far and wide in magazines, even on TV. No way Niki would go for that. The winner will have to spend the next year being company spokesperson and posing for photographers. Niki would sooner walk on hot coals than do that.”
Sad but true, Tilly thought as she watched a protesting Niki shake her head vehemently. If there was one thing her beautiful granddaughter didn’t like it was being in the limelight.
Niki leaned forward to be heard via the microphone. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake, Rosie,” she said, hastily amending that to, “Mayor Rosie.”
Rosie grinned and shook her head, but her expression turned slightly desperate. “No mistake at all, Niki. That’s your name on this certificate, see?”
“Nevertheless,” Niki said in gentle but determined tones, “this is obviously some kind of a mistake. Thank you very much, but I didn’t even enter the contest.”
With a smile to soften her position, she turned away.
“Wait, Niki!” Now the mayor looked really worried. “This is no mistake, hon. Whether you entered or not, you’ve made the finals, which is a wonderful thing for your adopted hometown. Won’t you—”
“I wish I could, but it’s impossible. Thanks, but no thanks.” With a wave of her hand, Niki walked down the steps and disappeared into the crowd.
A pregnant pause ensued. Then Granny sighed. “Niki doesn’t even like horses,” she announced, her voice clear in the stunned silence. “If those folks want a cowgirl, they’ve definitely got the wrong gal!”
LURKING NEARBY, Clay Russell, World Champion All-Around Cowboy and well-paid national spokesman for Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds, heard every word the old lady said. Wearing subdued western garb and dark glasses, his hat pulled low over his eyes, he’d managed to avoid being recognized thus far. A desire to keep it that way was the only thing that prevented him from approaching the Mrs. Santa Claus look-alike.
Out of rodeo for the moment with an injury that had left him doubting his future, Clay was traveling from town to town and sometimes state to state at the insistence of Mother Hubbard herself—Eve Hubbard, autocratic guiding force behind the phenomenal success of the western clothing manufacturing company. His current assignment: to scope out the twelve finalists chosen from thousands of photographs generated by the contest and then report back to Eve.
Hard Knox was his final stop before heading back to Dallas to make his report. Eve not only wanted to know how each contestant looked in person, she wanted to know how Queen of the Cowgirls wannabes handled themselves when they were informed of their finalist status.
Niki Keene had failed that test, Clay thought, still idly eavesdropping on her family, joined now by two men apparently married to her sisters. All the other finalists in all the other towns had squealed and jumped up and down and hugged—in some cases kissed—everyone in sight. This one had said a firm “thanks, but no thanks” and walked away.
Obviously, she wasn’t Queen of the Cowgirls material—but she was drop-dead gorgeous. Although he’d only seen her for a few minutes, she’d formed an indelible impression in his mind’s eye—heavy black hair hanging over her shoulders in thick braids to frame a perfectly oval face dominated by high cheekbones, full red lips and eyes so deep a blue they were almost purple. Her golden skin glowed and the curves of her body were as perfect as her face.
And if he wasn’t mistaken, she was wearing Mother Hubbard’s Wild West Duds: faded form-fitting jeans and a denim vest fastened across her breasts with leather tabs. The bottom edge of the vest barely met the waistband of her jeans, giving tantalizing glimpses of a taut middle. The shadowy cleft between her breasts, shown to advantage by the deep vee of the easy-fitting vest, made promises he suspected would easily be fulfilled.
So she was good-looking. So were all the others, he reminded himself. But judging by what the little old lady had just said about horses, Niki wasn’t worthy of the title with all the perks and prizes that came with it. Too bad—but maybe there had been a mistake.
“How do you suppose this happened?” It
