Marrying My Cowboy Read online

  “Don’t do that,” she told him firmly. “Neither of us realized what she might do. She never told us about the scathing things people were saying to her on social media. She took those comments to heart and let them eat at her. What she did was in a moment of depression and madness. It was an impulse that arose out of mental torment. We’d have stopped her if we’d known. But she never said a word.”

  “She was like that,” he recalled sadly. “Always putting other people first, in everything. I just wish she’d told me.”

  “We can’t go back,” she replied. “We have to go ahead, however difficult it is.”

  “I know. It’s just . . .”

  “I miss her, too,” she said softly.

  He managed a smile. “Yes. So do I.”

  They watched the evening news on the little television set with no real enthusiasm. One particular news item caught their attention. It was just a quick note, running across the bottom of the screen on the scrolling news items. It said that one of the writers on the television program Cassie used to write for had met with a terrible accident on a snow-covered lane in Vermont, where he was spending a week with his wife. He’d died instantly.

  “Oh, poor Frank,” she said, her face reflecting her sadness. “He was one of the best writers we had. And poor Essa, his wife. They didn’t have children. All they had was each other.” She sighed and lowered her eyes to the floor.

  He patted her hand. “It’s rough, what we’re going through. But you know what your mother would say.”

  She nodded. “She’d say that God had a plan, that we were all part of it, and we’d realize one day why things happened the way they did. She was a fatalist.”

  “I’m sorry about Frank.”

  “Me too.” She glanced at the screen again and noticed that the commentator was speaking about the writer’s death. The producers were lamenting that their best writer, CN Reed, had given up “his” job. It was kept quiet, at least to the media, that CN Reed was, in fact, a woman. Everyone she worked with obviously knew she was female.

  There was another news item about the Warlocks and Warriors weekly series—the one Cassie had written for—concerning its producer. He’d been accused of entertaining an underage girl at his apartment and executives with the network were discussing whether or not to fire him. Trudy Blaise, they added, had been discussed as coming on board at the show.

  Gossip was that she might take a position, since the show she’d inherited from disgraced producer Roger Reed was failing in the ratings.

  “Failing because she had a hand in it,” Cassie said angrily. “She’s like poison. She spoils everything she touches.”

  “Amen,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry for your show,” he added. “She’ll send it to the scrap heap, if they give her that job. I can’t understand why they would.”

  “It was an open secret that Matley Butler liked younger women,” she said. “But he never entertained underage girls, and nobody ever accused him of anything. But Trudy could make a meal out of him. All she’d have to do is have someone trick him into a compromising situation and get photos of it and imply that his conquest was underage. The media would feed on the story and ignore anybody who tried to correct her lie, just like they did with you. She’s sleeping with her attorney and he has an investigator who’s known for dirty tricks,” she added.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  They listened again to the commentator. He was mentioning that a powerful network executive had stepped up to defend Mr. Reed and was adamant that he wasn’t the sort of man to ever be indecent to any woman. He’d added an unflattering comment about Ms. Blaise, who seemed to inherit a lot of jobs from executives who were found in compromising situations.

  “Kind of him,” Roger said quietly. “But he’s in the minority. Almost every executive on the network lined up to kick me out the door.”

  “They’ve mentioned both our names,” Cassie said worriedly.

  He drew in a breath. “We’re safe out here,” he assured her. “Nobody will connect us with the scandal. We’re living in one of the smallest towns in Colorado. They won’t look for us here.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “What if somebody local sees it on television and realizes it’s us?”

  “They only used your initials, like they used on the show’s credits.”

  “Yes, but my last name is Reed and they gave your last name as well,” she persisted.

  He smiled sadly. “We’ll have to hope we don’t get connected with what happened in New York.”

  She bit her lower lip. “If JL sees it, he’ll think I’ve been lying to him the whole time, about being poor and all.”

  “I don’t think it would matter now,” he replied. He smiled gently. “He’s sweet on you. Maybe he doesn’t want to be, but I don’t think he’d walk away even if he knew the truth.”

  She grimaced. “I guess I can hope. Can’t I?”

  “Things will look up. I promise you they will,” he said. “We just have to live one day at a time, sweetheart.”

  “You’re right.”

  “We both have to stop trying to live in the past.”

  “That’s harder.”

  “Of course it is.”

  She glanced at him. “Are you really happy out here, Dad?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “It isn’t as if I have a choice. Nobody in television in New York would touch me after what I’ve been accused of.”

  “That producer who defended you might.”

  “Hartman Spencer,” he said, smiling. “He never believed Trudy in the first place. He called her a liar to her face. She just laughed.”

  “She’ll get her comeuppance one of these days,” she replied quietly. “You wait and see. Lies always get found out.”

  “Mostly.”

  “And that private detective may come up with something really nice to throw at her, especially if she’s pulled that trick before.”

  He nodded.

  “We should have made her take you to court,” she said suddenly. “She’d have had to prove the charges and she couldn’t. During the time she said you were assaulting her, you were in a meeting with the president of the film company and two of its directors.”

  “The president might be willing to testify to that, but I promise you that the two directors would run for their lives. Nobody sane wants to be sucked into this mess.”

  “It’s not right, that one person can make such an accusation and suddenly get a million people yelling for blood.”

  “I do agree,” he said. He smiled. “We’ve seen our share of them, for sure.”

  “What we have to do is fight back,” she replied, meeting his gaze. “I don’t know how to do it, and we don’t have any money . . .”

  “My attorney got paid before I got fired,” he said. “So he’s got the capital to pursue the case. A very wise decision on my part, I must say, considering that I didn’t know what was about to happen.”

  “I like your attorney. He reminds me of those old Perry Mason episodes I like to watch on YouTube.”

  “He does bear a certain resemblance to Raymond Burr,” he chuckled.

  “He has first editions, and even an illuminated manuscript.”

  “Yes,” he said. “He could retire to Europe and live like a king on what he inherited, but he practices law. He’s good at it, too. Mostly he takes cases that no other counselor will.”

  She smiled. “He’s dishy, too,” she teased.

  “My secretary used to think so,” he chuckled. “She said it was fortunate that she was married, because otherwise she’d lie down on the floor in his office and refuse to leave until he took her to dinner.”

  “She’d have a long wait, from what I heard,” she replied. “He went through a bitter divorce. He said he’d never marry anybody again.”

  “He probably means it. He says that his investigator is hot on the track of some vital information. He wouldn’t tell me what it was. I hope it’s coming from his inve
stigation of Trudy.”

  “So do I. I would really hate to see her get away with what she did. Mama would still be alive, but for her!”

  “We don’t know that,” he said unexpectedly. “We’re all living on borrowed time, if you think about it. We know that we’re going to die eventually. We just don’t know when and how. Maybe she was right, and there really is a plan that God has in store for all of us. We die when we’re supposed to.”

  “It’s a kind way of looking at it,” she said. “I just wish—”

  “Yes,” he interrupted. “Me too.”

  * * *

  Cassie didn’t sleep much that night, remembering the horrible accusations Trudy Blaise had thrown at her father in the news media. She’d made friends with one lonely reporter who worked for a major news agency, and she’d fed him pitiful stories about what that lecher Roger Reed had done to her.

  It was all an act, all for show. The woman pretended to cry, but there were no real tears, no red eyes, no sign of true misery. Trudy had lied and it had cost Cassie’s mother her life. She wasn’t ready to talk about forgiveness even if her father was. She wanted to nail the woman’s reputation to a tree. She wanted revenge.

  But then she thought about how she wasn’t telling JL the truth about her past. She sighed, and worried about what he would think if he ever found out. She just prayed that he’d understand that it wasn’t malicious that she had to hide the truth.

  Chapter Eight

  Cassie went to work the next morning, still a little weak from her bout of bronchitis, but feeling much better.

  She was nervous as she hung up her coat and looked around at the customers. She was hoping against hope that nobody local had seen the news last night and made any connections.

  She went to work, forcing a smile as she thanked Mary for letting her have the days off to get better.

  “I’ll work really hard to make up for my lost time,” she promised her boss.

  “You always work hard,” Mary teased. “And it was no trouble at all. We have people who can fill in for you when you’re sick. I’ve never fired anybody for having bronchitis,” she added with a grin.

  “I appreciate that.”

  She went to work her tables. Two people were sitting at one of the tables, obviously businessmen. They looked at the menu and barely glanced at Cassie as they gave her their orders. Their accents were definitely New York ones. They must be passing through. Odd, that they’d be in such a small place on a business trip.

  As she was turning to leave, she overheard one of the men say that he’d heard some news last night about one of the writers for his favorite television show dying.

  “Hell of a shame, he was really good,” the man said. “Of course, I miss having CN Reed on the job. He was a hell of a storyteller. Nice sense of humor in what he wrote. The show hasn’t been the same since he left.”

  Cassie wanted to wait and hear more, but she didn’t dare. Eavesdropping could be deadly if the men grew curious about why a waitress was spying on them. She put their orders in and went to another table, where two senior ladies were sitting.

  They gave her their orders and she took them down slowly so that she could hear more of what the traveling businessmen were saying. It relieved her that they thought the show’s missing writer was a man. Cassie had always used just her initials, because she liked her privacy. Even in Georgia, fans of that show were resourceful enough to find out who she really was and where she lived. There had been a young man who actually stalked her, not for romantic purposes, but to try and wheedle the next month’s developments in the show out of her. Fortunately, he’d been harmless and the local police had given him a nice talking to that resulted in no more midnight visits to Cassie’s home.

  The two men were now discussing a business associate. Cassie wished they’d had more to say about the scandal. They seemed to know a lot about the program she’d written for. But maybe they were just fans. A lot of people were. The series was very well known.

  She came back with their order. They hardly noticed her as they started to eat. She smiled and went back to the counter to get the elderly women’s orders. As she walked to their table, she overheard one last remark from the businessmen.

  “They say that Trudy Blaise may be replacing the producer who put Warlocks and Warriors on the air in the first place. Something about an underage woman he took home with him. She’s also alluding to sexual harassment of some kind.”

  “I thought she was still spouting off about the Reed man . . . ?”

  “No. He got fired, remember? She got all the news media involved, as well as several women’s rights groups, acted the victim, and put it all out on social media. She got his job. Nobody knows where he went. After his wife’s death, he just vanished. Poor guy. Now here’s another poor sucker who’s going to fall to Trudy Blaise’s lies. It’s a damned shame.”

  “Yes,” the other man said heavily. “It is. She’ll ruin that show. She has no experience at producing. Ratings are falling fast for the program she took over after Reed left. Nobody likes her. One of the stars has already said he’s not renewing his contract if it means putting up with her. She interferes in every facet of production. Shame. It was a novel idea, having a weekly series built around a budding singing group’s career rise. Not only that but setting it in the seventies with all the accompanying old songs that went with the era. Sheer genius.”

  “You can pin a rose on that. Reed was a man of vision. I hated seeing him go. I wish Blaise would get hers. I’d love to see it. I wish the media would eat her alive.”

  “Dream on,” his companion said. “Pity about Matley Butler, the Warlocks and Warriors producer. She says he’s got an underage lover.”

  “He ought to take her to court and make her prove it.”

  “Chance would be a fine thing. She’s sleeping with one of the best lawyers in New York, and he’s working pro bono for her. What a skunk.”

  “I can think of a better word,” the other man replied.

  Cassie, hovering, noticed one of the men glancing at her curiously. She smiled, grabbed the coffeepot, and moved beside them. “Can I warm up your coffee for you?” she asked pleasantly.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  She poured hot coffee into their almost empty cups.

  “Just passing through, are you?” she asked conversationally.

  The older of the two chuckled. “I wish. We took a private plane to see a writer who lives up in Wyoming and it had mechanical failure. So we decided we’d hire a car and drive to the airport in Denver, where they have major airlines.” He shook his head. “Give me New York any day! Sorry,” he added.

  “No offense taken,” she said brightly. “Small towns aren’t for everyone. A writer who lives near here?” she probed, worried that they might be looking for her.

  The shorter man nodded. “Writes western novels. We work for the network that’s producing a series based on them. Great writer.” He named the man.

  “Oh, I’ve read one of his books!” she exclaimed. “He’s really good.”

  “We think so.”

  “Well, let me know when you’re ready and I’ll bring the check.”

  “Will do.”

  She smiled again and left them to talk. What an interesting story she was going to have to tell her father. And what an amazing coincidence, to find two New Yorkers involved in television production out here in the middle of nowhere.

  * * *

  “So now she’s angling to take over the show you write for,” her father said over supper. He shook his head. “She’ll ruin it, too. My show has such low ratings that they’ll probably never get them back up again.”

  “Your show was popular because you were the guiding force behind it,” she replied. “You had a genius for hiring the best writers for the job, not on the basis of favorites.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said. “But it was the writers who made the show. They were its heart.”

  “I’m so sorry about Frank,
” she said sadly. “I can’t even send a card to his wife.”

  “I know.” He made a face. “Not that we’ve got enough money between us to even send a small bouquet of flowers. When I think of how we used to live . . .”

  “We still have each other, Dad,” she reminded him. “And there’s always hope. The men said that Trudy was probably going to get the executive producer spot on my show. She’s got something on Matley. He’s such a nice guy.” She sighed. “I guess she’ll micromanage things and my show will drop in the ratings like a rock, just like yours.”

  “Maybe we can do something about that in time,” he said. “I need to call Jake and see what he’s come up with. Think the budget will stand one phone call to New York?”

  “Call him on Skype,” she teased. “At least it’s free.”

  “Got a point, kid. I’ll do that.”

  * * *

  She worried about their names being so prominent on a national news show, but except for the two businessmen—obviously not from Benton but just passing through—nobody had made the connection.

  Her father had phoned his attorney, who wouldn’t tell him anything except plans were in the works to bring a happy resolution to the problem. They’d have to be patient and let things develop.

  Meanwhile, Cassie’s phone rang Friday night and she didn’t recognize the number. She hesitated and searched her contacts list and almost dropped the phone when she saw the new contact number and realized whose it was.

  She fumbled the answer button on. “Hello?” she asked breathlessly.

  There was a deep chuckle on the other end of the line. “Didn’t recognize the number, I gather?”

  “No! And then I saw it on my new contacts list. . . .” She swallowed. “Sorry.” She laughed with self-consciousness. “How are you?”

  “Lonesome. How about you?”

  “Oh, I’m not lonesome,” she said. “I have two movie stars and a bagger from the local grocery store sitting on my front porch right now, pleading for company.”

  “Two movie stars?”