Haystacks and Hoaxes

Contrary to what Caro Madison’s late husband had claimed — don’t you dare rest in peace, you old goat! — she didn’t enjoy the lies she told. It was his fault she’d been forced to start telling them in the first place.

 

A black eye? I ran into the door. Clumsy me!

 

A bruised arm? Tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. Concrete is so unforgiving!

 

A noticeable limp? How was I supposed to know running track in college would break a body down like this? Those cleats should come with a warning label!

 

The funny thing about little white lies was how easy they were to manufacture. Sometimes, they slipped off the tongue so effortlessly that the person telling them almost started believing them.

 

Caro had gotten so good at spinning half-truths that she genuinely longed to believe them. The stories she made up were so much better than the truth.

 

She glanced in irritation at the loose thread dangling from the collar of the cowboy whose arm she was clinging to. She hated loose threads. All you had to do was give them a tug, and the whole thing came unraveled. However, Johnny Cuba’s plaid shirt wasn’t hers to smooth.

 

Yet.

She rested her head against his shoulder, just for a second — long enough to give him a taste of what it was like to have an attractive blonde for arm candy in full view of the crowd mingling around them. He was single and looking for a date. She was sure of it. She’d done her homework on him and every other key player in this ridiculously quaint little town.

 

“Where’s your jacket?” she sang out merrily, though she knew exactly where it was. Jealousy sizzled through her at the memory of the pasty-faced redhead shivering beneath its leathery folds, while using a mittened hand to push back the oversized Santa hat that kept slipping down her forehead. The woman was a fashion calamity in ripped jeans and dusty boots, someone who fit right into this tiny cattle town.

 

Caro, on the other hand, had no intention of fitting in. She preferred sticking out like a diamond on a bed of dingy river rock. What she did for a living depended on it.

 

To her irritation, Johnny frowned and glanced around them worriedly before answering her question. “Where is she?” he muttered beneath his breath. A blast of winter wind lifted his tousled black hair, tousling it further. If dairy farming didn’t work out for the guy, he could take up modeling. She could easily picture him posing for a centerfold in some rugged outdoorsy magazine.

 

Oh, for pity’s sake! Caro resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Where is who?” It was another lie. She knew exactly who he was talking about.

 

He shrugged and blew out a breath. “The chick who has my jacket.” He shook his head. “Someone blowing through town on vacation who wasn’t prepared for these arctic temps.”

 

“Vacation?” Caro mentally pounced on that detail, because it didn’t sound right. “This isn’t what I would call a vacation spot.” She honestly couldn’t picture anyone choosing to rusticate in the middle of nowhere like this by choice, not unless they were too broke to go anywhere else. Which was probably the case with the shabbily dressed woman who was currently wearing Johnny’s jacket…lost somewhere in the crowd behind them.

 

Good riddance!

 

“Clearly, you haven’t tried Farmer Monty’s festival pickles.” Johnny’s voice was teasing. “They’re like an instant vacation on a stick.” His plaid shirt stretched enticingly across his broad shoulders, and the way he was wearing his jeans should’ve turned more heads than he was turning. What was wrong with these people?

 

“Pickles? Yuck!” She wrinkled her nose at the thought of their sour tang and unpleasant drippiness. “I think I’ll pass.” His reference to the woman wearing his jacket as just some “chick” passing through town had gone a long way toward dampening her anger.

 

“Your loss.” Johnny’s voice was mildly chiding. “Without sampling one of Mr. Chester’s famous pickles, you’ll be stuck in work mode for the rest of the afternoon.”

 

“It’ll be my cross to bear.” She allowed a caressing note to enter her voice. “If you want, you can make it more bearable for me.” Though she forced herself to keep breathing normally, she mentally held her breath as she waited for him to answer. It had taken her years to perfect the art of flirtation. She’d learned that it was easier to entice a man with breadcrumbs. Leave a trail of them artfully scattered in front of a lonely man, and he would follow them.

 

Eventually.

 

Johnny’s dark eyebrows flew upward beneath the brim of his Stetson. “Your wish is my command, princess. How can I help?”

 

The fish bites the hook.

 

She didn’t have to fake the excitement in her trill of laughter that followed. She was lucky to be alive. Every day since her husband’s death felt like a new lease on life. A new adventure. She could just as easily not have lived to fight another day.

 

Yet here I am.

 

This time would be different. She could feel it deep inside her. She hadn’t expected to encounter someone like Johnny Cuba in Heart Lake, a guy who made her pulse race and rendered her a little emotionally off balance. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

 

This was new and fun. He was fun. Every moment in his presence added another drop of hope to her growing puddle of hope that the darkness in her past was finally behind her. With someone like him at her side, she might actually stand a chance of turning over that new leaf she’d been promising herself.

 

“White throw streamers.” She batted her eyelashes at him, purposely keeping her voice and expression mysterious. “A whole case load of them just arrived. Late, I must add. Very late to the party.” She feigned a soft sigh of frustration. “And I’m the lucky gal tasked with getting them in the hands of all these people.” She relinquished her grip on his arm to flutter her hands at the crush of townsfolk laughing and chattering around them. “My goal is to do it before the two new brides and grooms make their getaway.”

 

Mr. Chester had wanted confetti thrown, but she’d nixed the idea. She had zero interest in spending the next week of her life picking up the mess. The beauty about throw streamers was that the ends of the streamers never left the thrower’s hand. They were easy to gather up and dispose of afterwards.

 

Quick cleanups were another one of her specialties. As the new events manager for Chester Farm, she was now the person responsible for setup and cleanup at big gatherings like today’s double wedding. And since she was in charge, she’d been careful to specify the delivery time for the shipment of throw streamers to be exactly ten minutes ago.

 

Last-minute crises were perfect for creating a sense of urgency. As she’d hoped, this one had successfully roused Johnny Cuba’s noble, race-to-the-rescue instincts. He was proving to be a complete sucker for damsels in distress.
 

Assuming he didn’t make a habit of giving the coat off his back to creatures beneath his notice like Miss Pasty Face, Caro could get used to having a former bull rider like him at her beck and call. Men with more brawn than brains never looked before they leaped. They enjoyed the thrilling rush of the leap too much. In short, a man like him would suit her needs perfectly.

 

Go ahead and fall for me, cowboy. For real.

 

If he did, it would be a game changer. Literally. She had plenty of money now. She could do — or not do, in her case — whatever she wanted for as long as she wanted. Fortunately, Heart Lake was too small of a town for anyone to come looking for her here. They’d probably assume she’d long since left the country.

 

The locals would never need to know what she’d done before her arrival. Or exactly what she was capable of…