Counterfeit Cowgirl (Love and Laughter) by Lois Greiman Page B

of years, her father had aged, mellowed maybe. Sometimes she would find him watching her with a strange melancholy expression that,if she had been raised differently, might have enabled her to ask him to share his thoughts, and to share her own with him.
    But she hadn’t. She had grown up emotionally independent and environmentally disabled. She could accessorize like a supermodel, she could exchange dry witticisms with dukes and megastars, but she couldn’t microwave a meat loaf.
    In short, she was unequipped for life.
    It seemed strange now that she hadn’t realized that before. While she’d been learning what kind of hat looked pert yet sophisticated, her peers had been learning how to live.
    She was good at nothing.
    Weariness sloshed over her, but even so, she knew her thoughts were not quite the truth. She was good at something. She was a fine equestrienne. Colonel Shelby had said so enough times. She had good hands, a firm seat and balance extraordinary, he had said with the fervor of a zealot. But—if she was going to reach Olympic standards, she would have to learn to be selfless, to sacrifice. She would have to have heart.
    And so she had quit, because if she wanted heart, Daddy could sure enough go buy her one. She didn’t need the aggravation. And she bad done just fine without Colonel Shelby and his nagging. Skiing trips, shopping and facials could more than fill her days. She had been perfectly content until that night in the parking lot.
    But she was safe now.
    Her mind felt fuzzy. Daddy had hired a new chef. Perhaps she’d have crepes for breakfast. Sleep settled in like a cloud of cotton, cushioning her body, soothing her nerves.
    Time passed softly until the sound of a door opening nibbled at her consciousness. A noise followed that sounded strangely like tiny hooves on linoleum.
    “You wouldn’t Mace a movie star, would you?”
    Hannah awoke with a start, and grabbed for the shower curtain. There was a scraping sound, and suddenly the whole thing, rod and all, splattered into the tub.
    She shrieked, shocked as cool water splashed onto her face.
    “Hannah!” Ty said, thumping the door wide and torpedoing into the bathroom. “Are you…” he began, but suddenly his words came to an end. His lips turned up into a satyrlike smile, and he laughed.
    Reality hit Hannah like ice water. She wasn’t with Daddy. She wouldn’t have crepes for breakfast, and she was still in hell. Glaring past the edge of the downed shower curtain that draped her body, Hannah raised an arm at him.
    “Out!”
    He only laughed harder, bending over now to guffaw his glee.
    “Out!” she shrieked.
    He reached for the vanity, his hand shaky from his laughter, and drew a towel to his eyes. “If Howard had been half so entertaining, I’d a begged him to stay.”
    She wasn’t going to hire a hit man. She was going to do the job herself. And she was going to enjoy it.
    “I’m…I’m sorry,” he said, apparently trying to control his jocularity. “But I just…” Laughter again. “Your movie star…”
    She would kill him slowly—smother him with the shower curtain, rather like the guy that had fallen into the swimming pool in the first Lethal Weapon.
    Tyrel motioned behind him, and Hannah saw now that the little, knock-kneed calf stood in the doorway, looking bewildered. “Daniel Day-Lewis is hungry. I brought you up a bottle,” Ty said, righting the nippled thing that dripped milk onto the narrow vanity. Apparently he’d tossed it there when she’d screamed.
    She allowed sanity to creep in. She couldn’t kill him now. She’d have to get dressed first.
    “I’ll feed him downstairs,” she said, gathering the shreds of her dignity.
    He stood in silence for a moment, watching her with a crooked grin. She slicked her hair back and defiantly held his gaze. She must look a sight, no makeup, dressed in a crusty shower curtain and deflating soap bubbles.
    “I can feed him for you,” he said. “You look