Falling For Fortune

“Shall we have a dance-off then, Miss Rogers?” he asked as he scraped his chair back and offered his hand.

“I’d love to.” She pushed aside the Jose Cuervo she hadn’t touched and rose to join him. “But I should warn you.” She leaned toward him, her mouth aimed toward his ear as he guided her to the dance floor. “One day soon I aim to do a mean cancan.”

She caught herself the moment the words rolled out of her mouth, especially since she was merely entertaining the idea, especially after drinking a margarita.

“The cancan? My goodness, Miss Rogers. You’re full of surprises. I’d love to see that sometime—especially if you’re in costume.”

Gram planned to work on her fancy outfit, and if Amber gave her the go-ahead, that was something Jensen would never see. So she laughed off her slip of the tongue.

As she stood, Jensen said, “Don’t forget your coat.”

“Are you crazy? It’s too hot to think about wearing something like that on the dance floor.” She did, however, take her purse, which was a tiny little bag barely able to hold her keys, her ID, a credit card and some cash.

Jensen seemed to study her momentarily, and she patted the purse that hung at her side by a narrow shoulder strap. “I travel light when I plan to spend some time on a dance floor.”

He seemed to ponder that a moment, then spun her into his arms. A beat later, they joined the others two-stepping across the parquet floor.

Jensen did much better than she’d expected, and they were soon laughing and twirling their way around to various renditions of classic George Strait and Alan Jackson songs.

After the first set, the band paused for a break. She’d worked up a thirst. Jensen asked if she wanted to order another margarita, but since she was driving, she told him she’d prefer a glass of ice water to cool her down.

“This has been the most enjoyable night I’ve had since my arrival in Texas,” Jensen said, then he leaned in closer. “You’re an excellent dancer, Amber. And an enjoyable companion.”

She told herself that the loud music had forced them to talk into each other’s ears the past hour, and that they leaned into each other as a matter of habit.

“Companion, huh?” she said, maintaining the intimate proximity.

He glanced at the top she wore, which helped to keep her cool in the heated quarters. But there was another kind of closeness, another heat that had her steamed up. Him, too, it seemed.

When a cowboy walked by, carrying a longneck bottle of beer, he gave her a flirtatious grin and tipped his hat. But he hadn’t really meant anything by it. She was used to being recognized.

Jensen’s smile faded. “There are too many people ogling us in here. Maybe we should go outside. Why don’t you get your jacket?”

Just who was he to be concerned about them ogling? He certainly hadn’t staked his claim, and even if he had, she wasn’t about to let anyone tell her what she could and couldn’t wear out in public. The blouse wasn’t all that skimpy!

And while she wouldn’t mind going outside anyway, she fought the urge to go for her jacket. Her rebellious streak wouldn’t allow it, especially since Jensen was doing that judgmental upper-crust thing again, like he’d done that first day she’d met him on his sister’s porch.

That being the case, he’d need to learn that she wasn’t going to be intimated by him or his snobby attitude. “Apparently you don’t like my top.”

“It’s fine.”

The female singer stepped onto stage just as the chords for a Patsy Cline song sounded over the speakers. Couples made their way back onto the dance floor, but Jensen stood facing her—and looking down his aristocratic nose.

“If you were Pinocchio, your nose would stretch out a foot right now. And birds would be swooping down to build a nest on it.”

“There’s not a bloody thing wrong with your blouse,” he said. “Which is why every man in this place has been staring at you.”

She looked around. The cowboy was long gone by now, and she didn’t see anyone else staring at her, other than a man in a John Deere hat near the bar. But that guy was probably watching the scene they were causing rather than the way her shirt rose above her waistline.

She uncrossed her arms, tucked her thumbs in her front pockets and shifted her weight to one hip. “Nobody is staring at me, Jensen. And so what if they were?”

“You know what? You’re right. So what if they are? They can stare all they like because you’re here with me. And the sooner all the other single guys find that out, the better.”

He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her onto the dance floor, holding her close as the singer belted out lines about being crazy for loving you.

She tried not to think of what he was so all-fired worked up about. Was it really her?

Truth be told, she fancied being locked in his embrace all night long. And if, down the road, things blew up in their faces, it would serve the both of them right for playing with fire. They were a mismatched pair—and nothing could ever come of it.

So why did she even harbor the slightest little dream that things could be different? But clearly, they weren’t.

Before she could wonder about Jensen’s intentions, the man in the John Deere hat held up his smartphone, the flash of the camera going off.

Chapter Seven

Jensen took Amber’s hand and led her off the dance floor, through the throng of people who’d gathered around to watch the cowboys and their dates slow dancing to the sounds of “Crazy,” and out of Smokey Joe’s.

As they moved, Amber scanned their surroundings. “The guy who took the photo isn’t following us. And he wasn’t one of the reporters who was at Quinn’s ranch the other day.”

“If he was one of the paparazzi, he’d be out here now, snapping more photos.”

“Then why did we have to leave?”

“Because I wasn’t up for a photo shoot—no matter who was behind the lens—or what kind of camera it was.”

Besides, amateurs sold photographs to the tabloids all the time—something the Fortune Chesterfields knew too well.

Jensen slowed their pace as they were outside and in the clear, then he walked Amber to her pickup.

“If you don’t mind,” she said, “I’d like my jacket now.”

“I’ll go back inside for it.”

She crossed her arms, ignoring the gooseflesh which had risen to the surface of her skin. “Not so fast. What’s the deal, Jensen?”

“You’re going to freeze out here. Are you just plain contrary?”

“It’s the principle. I make my own choices when it comes to my wardrobe—and to my inner thermostat. When I was hotter than blazes inside, you wanted me covered up. And I’d like to know why.”

“Sorry. I just didn’t like seeing all the men in there ogling you.”

She lifted a brow. “But it’s okay for you to do it?”

When she stated it that way, he supposed it wasn’t. Although he liked the black lacy blouse—and the way it revealed her tiny waist and sexy midriff.

But he wasn’t being the least bit fair, was he? Not when there wasn’t a chance in hell that the two of them would make any kind of match—lasting or otherwise.

Well, perhaps otherwise might be an option, but he’d be damned if he knew how to broach a subject like that. He might have his share of ladies offering to be his lovers, but he wasn’t what you’d call a Casanova.

He’d never had to be.

Yet, again, that wasn’t fair to Amber. So if their friendship or relationship went in that direction, the decision would have to be hers to make.

“I had a lovely evening,” he said.

She stopped, turned, slapped her hands on her denim-clad hips and completely disarmed him with a look of astonishment. “Did you just completely ignore my question?”

“The one about your top and how sexy I found it this evening? Why, yes. I was moving on to a safer topic.”

“And my sexy blouse is dangerous because...?”

She was provoking him, setting him up. Prompting him to continue.

All right. He’d take the bait. Perhaps it would lead to the direction he’d like things to take—her choice, of course.

“Because a conversation like that would surely lead to me kissing you senseless in the parking lot, especially since we seem to be the only two out here, without any witnesses to sully your reputation.”

For a couple of heartbeats, silence played cat and mouse in the moonlight.

“And kissing me would be a bad thing?” she asked.

“You tell me.”

With that, the lovely, irrepressible and delightful Miss Amber Rogers—no relation to either Roy or Rod—did better than that.

She showed him by rising up on tiptoe, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him...utterly senseless.

Her scent—something that reminded him of ripe peaches in full harvest—enveloped him. His hands sought to draw her close, to hold her, to capture the essence of the woman who tempted him beyond reason, while his tongue dipped and twisted and mated with hers.

Then, just as quickly as it all started, she pulled her sweet lips from his, dropped her arms and spun around.

Before he could blink or think, she reached into her tiny purse, pulled out a key fob and said, “I’ll see you later.” Then she climbed into her pickup and turned the ignition as if nothing between them had happened.

And perhaps it hadn’t. Because a couple of heartbeats later, she drove off, leaving him standing in the moonlight, bewitched, bothered and more than a little befuddled.

* * *

It had taken every ounce of Amber’s strength and willpower to control her weak knees, trembling arms and pounding heart to leave as if she was completely unaffected by that good-night kiss. But what she might lack in sexual experience and worldliness, she made up for in gumption.

Jensen may have thought he’d made her feel better about things, but he hadn’t. And that’s mostly because there was a whole lot he didn’t know, a whole lot she hadn’t told him.

How would he react when everyone in town, including the Cross Town Crier, learned that she’d accepted the job of riding in the Cowboy Country USA Wild West Show? Or that she’d been asked to audition for a part in Madame LaRue’s Lone Star Review—which meant donning a saloon-girl costume that Gram was stitching up for her because Elmer Murdock suggested it would give her a “leg up”—the pun very much intended?

Not that she’d decided to try out for sure. But doggone it. She was certainly tempted to do just that because she could almost hear Patrick Swayze’s voice booming out in the cab of her truck: No one puts Amber in a corner.

Okay, so Dirty Dancing had always been one of her mom’s favorite movies, and Amber had watched the DVD a hundred times.

But bottom line? Amber was both a competitor and maybe even an entertainer at heart. And she wasn’t meant to spend her entire life marooned on a ranch. Of course, that didn’t mean she didn’t love the Broken R or Horseback Hollow or Texas, for that matter. They would always be home to her.

It’s just that, deep down in her heart, she’d wanted to shine and to be someone. And now Cowboy Country USA was providing her an opportunity to have it all. Well, if Jensen ever got wind of her involvement, that would surely put the end to anything that might come of any romantic opportunities there.

But who was she kidding?

A few heated kisses didn’t mean anything without an invitation to go along with them. And at this rate, this thing or friendship or whatever you wanted to call it, wasn’t apt to go anywhere—nor was it going to last more than a week or two at the most.

And even if they did sneak off and do more than just kiss, the whole thing would fizzle out soon enough. They were a mismatched pair—and nothing could ever come of it.

So why did she dare even harbor the slightest little hope that things could be different?

Actually, the way he wanted to keep things secret made her mad as heck and fired her up.

Who whisked their dates out under the cover of darkness to a quaint little out-of-the-way place, treated them to a romantic dinner and shared a soul-stirring, knee-wobbling good-bye kiss only to let them go their own way?

Okay, so she’d been the one to leave. And just like Cinderella at the ball, she’d left her suede jacket behind when she ran off in a rush to escape the inevitable reality of the situation.

He’d called her an hour later to make sure she’d gotten home all right and to tell her he had her suede jacket. She’d thanked him, and they’d made small talk for a while, although they didn’t broach anything remotely serious, like jealousy or heated kisses.

But she clearly wasn’t Jensen’s type. Nor did she belong in his world. She was a fool to even entertain a fleeting dream that they could ever share more than a few sneaky dates and a couple of stolen kisses.

And Gram and Pop didn’t raise her to be no fool.

* * *

Amber pulled the rig into the side yard just after dark. It had been a long day and she’d just delivered a couple of cutting horses to one of their clients on a ranch near Lubbock.

Normally, she wouldn’t be so exhausted so early in the evening, but she hadn’t been able to sleep last night after dancing with Jensen and remembering how good it felt to be held in his arms.

Or how his kiss had rocked her to the core.

As she shut off the ignition, she noticed the green Dodge Charger parked near the back door. The light was still on in the kitchen.

Obviously, Gram had company for dinner. Again.

It’s not that Amber minded Elmer being at their house so much lately. It was just that she didn’t want to have to make conversation tonight or have the perceptive old man quiz her about Jensen and about what he suspected might be going on between them.

Because the truth of the matter was, even if Amber wanted to be perfectly open and up-front, she didn’t have an answer for him—or for anyone.

While she’d worked the horses this morning and then during the drive both to and from the ranch near Lubbock, she’d run the whole situation backward and forward in her mind. Yet, she still had trouble knowing what to make of it all—the fun she had when they were together, the attraction she felt for him, the sexual feeling he aroused in her. And he seemed to be experiencing those same things—although she could certainly be reading into that all wrong.

Sometimes, when she found herself losing focus or direction, she’d put on headphones and pump Garth Brooks as loud as she could stand it, just to help her mind clear. And if her mind ever needed some clearing, it was tonight.

Yet, cruising down the highway, with the horse trailer hitched behind, the last thing she wanted to be reminded about was how things between her and Jensen could never work out. So when Garth had come on the radio, singing about Papa lovin’ Mama into an early grave, she’d switched the dial to a loud rock station. There’d be no songs about fatal attractions or star-crossed lovers for her tonight.

Now, as she walked toward the front porch, her ears were still ringing from the electric guitars that had blasted the entire ride home.

She didn’t want to deal with Gram or Elmer Murdock or even the empty horse trailer she’d left hitched to the truck. All she wanted was a piece of Gram’s leftover cornbread and maybe a cold glass of milk before taking a nice hot shower and hitting the sheets.

When she entered the house, she spotted Elmer resting comfortably in Pop’s old leather recliner. So comfortably, in fact, that his age-spotted hands were crossed over his extended belly and his mouth hung wide open. His snores were loud enough to trigger the lowering of the guardrail on a railroad track.

Amber didn’t appreciate another man taking Pop’s place in the ranch house, but at least Elmer was sound asleep. Thank goodness for small favors.

She heard the sink water shut off, so she made her way into the kitchen, where Gram was drying dishes with an old flour sackcloth.

Helen Rogers always claimed a woman did her best thinking standing in front of a kitchen sink. And Amber had found that to be true, as well. In fact, the kitchen was a special place. Some of their best conversations happened right there on that worn spot of pine boards in front of the faucet. So she picked up another cloth and took a wet plate from the dish rack, as Gram turned and greeted her with a warm smile.

“I see you’ve got company.” Amber nodded her head toward the living room, where the television hummed with the nightly newscast.

“Poor Elmer plum tuckered himself out today, so I figured I’d let him rest up before he had to drive home.”

“How’d he wear himself out?” Amber asked, before she could stop herself. She didn’t mean to imply that the man was lazy. A tornado couldn’t keep up with him. But he was clearly basking in Snoozeville while Gram was cleaning up.

Of course, Pop never had lifted a finger around the house, since it had always been Gram’s domain, but still, he’d worked hard on the ranch.

“Elmer cooked dinner,” Gram said. “He made an amazing beef Wellington and the most delicious fingerling potatoes. He even baked a chocolate soufflé for dessert. You wouldn’t guess it by the way he won that chicken wing–eating contest over at the Moose Lodge last week, but he’s quite the gourmet.”

No, Amber wouldn’t believe it. And she was tempted to check the fridge to see if there were any leftovers in there to prove it. But she’d take Gram’s word for it.

“So how did the delivery go?” Gram asked, thankfully changing the subject.

“Pretty well. Stumpy Thomas was pleased with the gelding, and his granddaughter went nuts over the young mare. He cut me a check while I was there, so if you’re going into town tomorrow, could you swing by the bank?”

“Well, I do have that tea planned with the garden committee. It’s not even spring and already they’re planning for the Blue Ribbon Floral Spectacular. Elmer thinks my roses are going to bloom early this year. And he was online all yesterday afternoon researching alternative fertilizing techniques.”

Amber couldn’t see the old man maneuvering his way around the World Wide Web, but he certainly knew his way around winning competitions he had no business entering. So if Elmer was backing Gram’s rose bushes, that blue ribbon was as good as hers.

“So what’s going on with you and Elmer, anyway?” Amber asked as she put away a bowl and reached for the wet silverware. Please say you’re just friends.

“I guess the same thing that’s going on with you and that Sir Jensen you’ve been spending so much time with.”

Sure, Amber told everyone she and Jensen were just friends, and while things had definitely been getting a lot more than friendly between them, she didn’t want to think that something similar between Gram and the retired marine might be heating up, as well. Gross.

But since Amber didn’t want to have that conversation with her grandmother, she kept her mouth closed.

After a couple of minutes, Gram dried her hands and took off her apron. Then she turned to Amber. “Why don’t you like Elmer?”

“It’s not that. I’ve always enjoyed his humor. Who doesn’t? He’s very entertaining. But as far as the two of you go, I guess I just don’t get what you find so appealing about him.”

“He has a romantic streak.”

Amber glanced over her shoulder and into the living room at the snoring old coot. “You gotta be kidding.”

“This afternoon, he took me to the Golden Horseshoe, the old theater that was refurbished last fall, the one offering old classics at a low price.”

“You found that romantic? The place charges three bucks to see super old movies that you can watch on TV for free.”

“But it’s not the same as sitting side by side, sharing Milk Duds in the dark and watching them on the big screen.”

Amber took another look at the man and wondered if sticky caramels were good for his dentures, which were, at this very moment, at risk of sliding out of his slack mouth.

“Plus,” Gram added, “on Sundays they do a senior special. And Elmer said he saved five dollars on our tickets and popcorn combo.”

Not that Pop had been rolling in the dough, but Gram deserved a nicer date than some discount movie theater. Of course, Mr. Murdock was probably on a limited income with his military retirement, but did he have to be so obvious in his money-saving techniques?

“Okay,” Amber said, deciding to focus on the positive. “I’ll give you that the theater definitely has ambiance. So what did you see?”

“Urban Cowboy.”

“And you thought that was romantic?”

“Actually, yes. Have you ever seen it?”

Amber nodded. “Once. About a year ago, when I couldn’t sleep. It was on television. The music was pretty cool—for an old classic—but I can think of a lot better romantic movies.”

“Do you remember how Bud, John Travolta’s character, used to drive Sissy around town in his truck?”

“Debra Winger played Sissy, right? I remember that. He had that big black Ford with those little personalized souvenir license plates in the back window. What about it?”

“Come with me.” Gram motioned for Amber to follow her out to the mudroom, where the porch light illuminated the back steps. Still, she reached into the cupboard and withdrew a flashlight before taking Amber outside.

When they reached the Dodge Charger, Gram walked around to the back and flashed the light on the rear window, where someone had painted Elmer on the driver’s side and Helen on the passenger side with a cursive flair.

“He had it done while we were at the movie theater,” Gram said. “Rod Rogers, from the paint and body shop, came over as a favor to him, and did it while we were inside. Isn’t that the sweetest thing you ever did see?”

Oh, for Pete’s sake.

Okay, maybe it was a little romantic, but did Amber really want her sweet and prim grandmother hot-rodding around town in that green death machine with her name emblazoned across the back?

“So what does this mean? Are you and—” Amber pointed to his painted name “—are an official item?”

“Oh, I don’t know what to call it. We’re too old to worry about labels and nonsense like that. All I know is that Elmer makes me feel special, and I like spending time with him.”

“But now everyone in town will know that you guys are together. These new graphics make quite the statement, Gram.”

The older woman reached over and patted her hand. “Dear, I know it’s not as subtle as, oh, say, a front-page picture spread on an international tabloid.”

“Point taken,” Amber said, shoulders slumping. “But he’s just so different from Pop.”

“What’s wrong with different?”

Everything, right?

Before Amber could begin to list the reasons people searched for soul mates, her cell phone rang. She was half tempted to ignore it, but decided to check the display first.

Jensen?

“Just a minute, Gram. I need to take this.” She swept her finger across the screen, accepting the call. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Not much. I just wondered if you’d like to go out on a date.”

She smiled, and her heart lightened. “A real one?”

“Yes, and then we can go to dinner afterward. But it might be wiser if you met me.”

“Of course. I understand. Where?”

“At the Golden Horseshoe Theater.”

Was this a joke?

“Seriously?” she asked.

“I heard it was unique and a lot of fun.”

And Amber had given Gram a hard time about Elmer Murdock taking her to that ol’ place with the two-bit movies.

“What’s the matter?” Jensen asked.

“Nothing. I was just wondering why you’d suggest we meet there.”

“Elmer told me it’s quite the rage. And while I was in town earlier today, I noticed a flyer advertising a movie I’d like to see.”

Amber didn’t know what to say. The Golden Horseshoe had to be “quite the rage” at the VFW or the Moose Lodge or the senior center because none of her friends had mentioned it.