Epilogue
BEAU
The curvy blonde walked into the barn and said, “Take off your shirt.”
I looked up from the buckle I was adjusting on Hank's harness.
The woman standing ten feet away didn't seem particularly bothered by what she'd just asked of a man she'd never met.
She had a tablet under one arm and a paper coffee cup in her hand.
The look on her face was one I usually saw on somebody trying to back a trailer through a gate two inches too narrow.
She pointed at me with the coffee. “The flannel first. Then let me see what we're working with.”
I pulled myself up to my full height. Hank shifted next to me, the leather traces creaking as he moved.
At almost eighteen hands, he had a habit of making most people look small.
His partner, Gus, stood hitched next to him, one back foot cocked and his head lowered like none of this had anything to do with him.
Smart horse. I should've followed his lead. Instead, I looked back at the woman.
She was maybe five-five in her boots, which meant she had to tip her chin up farther than most people when she looked at me.
Her dark blonde hair was twisted into something at the back of her head that had probably been neat when she left the house.
The Montana wind had already pulled a few strands loose around her face.
She was curvy, too, in a way her jacket wasn't doing much to hide. My mouth went dry before I could stop it, and for a second, I lost track of what I was supposed to be arguing about.
She didn't look embarrassed. If anything, she looked impatient.
“You want me to take off my shirt.”
“Yes.” Her attention dropped to my chest, but not in a way that suggested she was enjoying herself. It was more like she was evaluating fence posts. “The blue is all wrong and doesn't work with your eyes.”
I glanced down at the faded flannel I'd thrown on over a plain gray T-shirt before leaving the ranch. “Wrong for what?”
She arched a brow. “The shoot.”
That cleared up exactly nothing.
Behind her, Mustang Mountain's rodeo grounds were in the early stages of turning into something no one had seen coming.
Orange flags marked off vendor rows. Two men were unloading temporary fencing near the arena.
Somebody had stacked pumpkins next to the entrance sometime after I'd pulled in, and a hand-painted sign reading MUSTANG MOUNTAIN HARVEST FESTIVAL leaned against the ticket booth waiting to be hung.
Two weeks from now, this place would be packed. Today, it was me, two Clydesdales, a restored freight wagon, half the town committee, and a stranger who wanted me naked before ten in the morning.
I rubbed my thumb over the edge of Hank's breast collar. “Do you always introduce yourself like this?”
Her brow furrowed with irritation. “Only when I'm behind schedule.”
“And today you are?”
She took two steps toward me, her grip tightening on her cup of coffee. “Roll the sleeves first.”
I stared at her.
“Please.”
“That's better.” Though I still had no intention of taking off my shirt or rolling my sleeves or doing anything else until I got an explanation.
“I usually try to make it at least a minute before I start bossing people around.”
“How's that working out for you?”
She glanced at the screen on her tablet. “You're the first person I've talked to today, so statistically I'm still doing fine.”
I smiled anyway. Couldn't help it. Just enough that her gaze caught on my mouth for half a second.
Then she frowned. “Don't do that yet.”
My smile disappeared. “Do what?”
“Smile.”
I looked at Hank. His ears flicked back toward me. I knew exactly how he felt.
The woman set her coffee on the corner of the wagon, freed both hands, then walked a slow circle in front of us.
At least she had enough sense not to cut between the horses or walk behind them.
She gave Hank plenty of room, paused near his shoulder, and waited while he stretched his nose toward her.
Most people saw a Clydesdale and immediately wanted to grab its face, but she held still.
Hank sniffed her coat, breathed against her wrist, then decided she wasn't carrying anything worth investigating further. Interesting.
“Okay,” she said. “This is good.”
“I'm glad Hank passed inspection.”
Her eyes came back to mine. “I meant all of it. The wagon, the horses, you.”
There were probably men who knew what to do when a woman like her said something like that, but I wasn't one of them.
She turned toward the old freight wagon sitting behind the team. My grandfather had rebuilt most of it before his hands got too bad for the work. I'd finished the job with him supervising from a lawn chair and telling me everything I was doing wrong.
The varnished wood caught the October sun, and the polished metal fittings stood out against the deep red wheels.
Her expression changed when she looked at it. Not much, but enough for me to tell she liked it. “Is that original?”
“Some of it.”
“How old is it?”
“Older than me.”
She looked back at me over her shoulder. “Nice to look at and a sense of humor. You're a rare specimen.”
“I do what I can.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. Damn, she was even prettier when she smiled.
She walked closer to the wagon but didn't touch it. “It's perfect for the campaign.”
“What campaign?”
She turned. “The one publicizing the festival.”
“No.” I'd done that once already. Wasn't doing it again. For the first time since she'd marched up and ordered me to undress, she looked genuinely confused.
“I don't understand.” She checked her tablet again. “You're scheduled for still photography from ten to eleven, short-form video from eleven to eleven-thirty, and then we're doing some B-roll with the team on the parade route.”
I let that settle between us for a second before I shook my head. “No, we're not.”
She stared at me. “You are the cowboy talent, right?”
I glanced around the grounds, wondering if maybe somebody else was standing behind me, but nobody was. “I brought the horses.”
“Right.” She nodded and shifted her attention back to the screen. “I know the horses belong to Beau Jordan. We'll get him involved when he gets here, but for now—”
“Hank.”
Her eyebrows pulled together, and she looked up.
I nodded toward the horse next to me. “That one's Hank. Gus is on the left.”
She looked at the horses. Then at me. “And you are?”
“Beau.”
Nothing happened for about two seconds. Then I watched realization hit. Her eyes widened. “Beau.”
“Jordan.”
“As in Beau Jordan.”
“That’s what my mama named me.”
She closed her eyes.
I probably should've let her off the hook, but I was enjoying myself too much.
When she opened her eyes again, she looked past me toward the parking lot like she was wondering if she could make it out of town before anyone stopped her.
“So you're not the cowboy model.”
“No.”
“And when Mayor Nelson said Beau Jordan would be here with the Clydesdales for the promotional shoot—”
“He left out the part where Beau Jordan said no.”
Her eyes narrowed. That was an expression I understood. Orville Nelson had inspired it in most people in Mustang Mountain at one time or another.
“He told me this was confirmed.”
“He was being optimistic.”
She shook her head like she didn't understand. “But he had it on the schedule when he hired me last-minute to take over.”
I shrugged. “He probably shouldn't have done that.”
A laugh escaped before she could stop it, and she covered it with one hand. There was nothing polite about it. Warm and real, it hit me harder than her telling me to take my shirt off had.
I turned back to Hank before she could catch me watching her. Hank didn't need anything. His harness was fine. I checked it anyway.
“So,” she said behind me, “I'd like to start over.”
“That's probably a good idea.”
She picked up her coffee. Then she stepped into my line of sight and held out her free hand.
“I'm Caroline Fisher. Mayor Nelson hired me to manage the fall festival.”
I wiped my palm against my jeans before taking hers. “Beau Jordan.”
“I gathered.” Her hand stayed in mine for a beat longer than it needed to. Or maybe mine stayed in hers. Either way, I forced myself to let go first.
She tipped her chin toward Hank and Gus. “I'm assuming Mayor Nelson didn't lie about them being in the parade.”
“They're in.”
“And the exhibition?”
“Depends on what you mean by exhibition.”
She tapped at the tablet. That thing was going to become a problem.
“Draft horse demonstrations Saturday afternoon. Harnessing demonstration Sunday. Wagon rides both days. Opening parade Friday night.”
“No rides.”
Her head came up.
“I never agreed to wagon rides.”
“Okay.”
That surprised me enough that I took a hard look at her. She deleted something. Just like that.
“No wagon rides,” she said. “Is that because of the horses, the route, insurance, or you don't want to do them?”
“It's the crowds.”
She waited. Most people filled silence when I left one, but Caroline didn't. That earned her another point.
“Hank's fine,” I said. “Gus doesn’t mind at all. But you've got kids climbing on and off, parents taking pictures, people cutting behind the team, somebody dropping food. Too much can go wrong for no reason.”
She nodded once. “Then no wagon rides.”
I glanced at her tablet. “You're not going to argue?”
“Why would I argue with the man who knows the horses?”
“It happens more than you might think.”
“I coordinate events, Mr. Jordan. I don't drive Clydesdales.”
There was a difference between admitting you didn't know something and making yourself smaller because of it. Caroline managed the first without doing the second. I was starting to understand why Mayor Nelson had hired her.
Unfortunately, she wasn't done. “The photographs are another issue.”
“No.”
“You haven't even heard me out.”
“I don't need to.”
“I think you do.”
“The horses photograph fine without me.” I ran a hand along Gus’s neck. Unlike me, he loved preening for the cameras.
“Yes, they're gorgeous.”
Hank lifted his head like he'd understood every word.
Caroline smiled at him. “And apparently vain.”
“He gets it from Gus.”
Gus didn't bother opening his eyes.
She turned that smile on me.
Damn.
“But the horses aren't enough,” she said.
“They usually are.”
“Not for what I need.”
“And what do you need?”
“A story.”
I leaned one shoulder against the wagon. “You've got a harvest festival.”
“I have twelve food vendors, seventeen craft vendors, a parade, a pumpkin-carving contest, live music, a kids' zone, a pie auction, demonstrations, and a town committee that apparently considers the word confirmed more wishful thinking than fact.”
“Sounds like Orville, or a combination of Orville and Ruby.”
“Well, whatever it is, I need something people will remember.” She pointed toward Hank and Gus. “They'll remember those two, and they'll want to know who they belong to.”
“Why?”
Caroline blinked at me like the answer ought to be obvious. “Because people do.”
“That's not much of a reason.”
“It's literally my job to know what makes people stop scrolling.”
I didn't know what scrolling had to do with a harvest festival, but I had the feeling admitting it would make me sound about eighty years old.
She shifted the tablet under her arm. “You don't like having your picture taken.”
“No.” I looked at her.
She looked right back. There was no irritation in her face. No annoyance that I wasn't making her job easy. Mostly she looked curious. That was worse.
“Let me take five pictures,” she said.
“No.”
“Three.”
“No.”
“One.”
“No.”
“Do you ever negotiate?”
“Horse prices. That's about it.”
Her lips pressed together. I waited for her to argue with me some more. Instead, she laughed again. For some reason I couldn't explain, I liked being responsible for it.
“Fine,” she said. “I'm not going to ambush you with a camera.”
“I appreciate it.”
“But I'm also not giving up.”
“No?”
“The shirt thing should've been your first clue.”
This time I laughed, a deep one from my belly. I couldn't help it when I thought about the first words she'd said to me.
Caroline went still. For half a second, the busy expression disappeared. So did the festival coordinator who'd been taking notes and rearranging schedules since she walked onto the grounds.
She just looked at me, and I felt it all the way down to my toes. Something tugged low in my gut that had nothing to do with the cold or the fact that I hadn't eaten since five-thirty.
Her gaze dropped. Then she cleared her throat and looked at Hank. “Okay. Good.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“That.”
“That what?”
She was already tapping something into her tablet. “That laugh.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. She was cute in a way that probably got her out of trouble more often than it should, but I wasn't going to give in no matter how nicely she asked. “No.”
“You don't even know what I'm going to say.” She glanced up.
“I know enough.”
“I need that on camera.”
“Definitely no.”
“Beau.” The way she said my name stopped me.
Maybe because she'd only learned it five minutes ago. Maybe because I liked hearing it in her voice. Whatever it was, it was an issue.
A truck door slammed behind us.
“Caroline!” Orville Nelson came striding across the grounds in a Mustang Mountain vest, looking way too pleased with himself.
Caroline turned toward him. Her shoulders straightened.
Mayor Nelson hadn't given her a very long runway. That much was obvious.
“Mayor Nelson.”
“Looks like you found Beau.”
“I did.”
Something in her voice made me look away so she wouldn't see me smile.
Orville slapped me on the shoulder. “Knew you two would hit it off.”
“We're not doing pictures,” I said.
Orville's smile faltered.
Caroline took a slow sip of coffee. “He says you confirmed the photo shoot,” she said.
Orville looked from her to me.
I folded my arms. He'd been mayor long enough to know when he'd wandered into something he should've stayed out of.
“Well,” he said carefully, “I may have said Beau would be here.”
“With his shirt on,” I added.
Caroline choked on her coffee.
Orville looked confused.
I decided he could stay that way.
Caroline coughed into her fist, then shot me a look that promised I'd pay for that comment later. I didn't mind the idea.
“I'll handle Mr. Jordan,” she told Orville.
I looked down at her. “Will you?”
Her eyes met mine. She looked both professional and determined. And underneath that, there was something warmer she'd been trying to hide ever since I'd laughed.
“Yes.” She didn't hesitate.
Caroline Fisher had been in Mustang Mountain less than a day, and she'd already decided I was a problem she intended to solve.
I should've corrected her but didn't. I wanted to know what she'd try next.