One From The Heart by Cinda Richards, Cheryl Reavis Page B

out with trying to ignore him, and that was the safest reason she could think of to explain her growing infatuation. She couldn’t keep from looking at him, damn it all, and he seemed always to be expecting her to do just that. She realized he must think she had some kind of crush on him—like all the women who telephoned him, there was no way for him not to think it.
    On the weekend, he insisted on taking her and Petey to Fort Worth for the start of the Cowtown rodeo season. He took them behind the chutes to what initially reminded Hannah of some kind of macho western ballet class. It was smelly with manure and animals, dirt and popcorn. It was dusty, littered with Styrofoam cups, cigarette butts, and army surplus duffel bags. And it was crowded with cowboy athletes who warmed up and stretched out while they talked bulls, broncs, and women—in that order—and spat tobacco juice. Through it all, the clang of the chute gates and the blare of the rodeo announcer and the cheers of the enthusiastic crowd sounded.
    It was obvious to Hannah that Ernie Watson was in some kind of heaven, so much so that she couldn’t keep from smiling. He was definitely one of the boys. Every cowboy who wasn’t in the arena must have come up to shake his hand.
    “You working tonight, Ernie?” a particularly young cowboy wearing turquoise leather chaps wanted to know.
    “Not tonight, kid.”
    “Aw, hell,” he said as if he meant it, shooting a look of apology at Hannah. “I don’t trust nobody but you to keep that bull away from my backside. You hear what happened to old Keith in Mesquite?”
    Ernie hadn’t, and the young cowboy launched into a vivid description of “old Keith’s” difficulties. Hannah meant to take Petey and politely move aside so they could have their conversation in private, but Ernie reached out to catch her hand, his rough fingers sliding between hers.
    “Don’t leave,” he said quietly, looking into her eyes. His fingers were warm and strong as they caressed hers, and he kept her close to him while the young cowboy continued to talk. Hannah’s knees had gone so weak she couldn’t have left even if she’d wanted to. She stood there, aware of nothing but Ernie’s warm hand around hers, staring at his profile while he listened intently to some happening with an inexperienced rodeo clown and a particularly rank bull in the Mesquite arena, and hanging on to Petey with her other hand.
    This is not going to work , she kept thinking. This is not going to work ….
    “What?” Ernie asked when the young man had gone, poking her in the side with his elbow.
    She didn’t answer, and he let go of her hand, picking up Petey and carrying her to the fence to see the smiling girl on the white horse ride in with the American flag. The house lights dimmed, and the girl’s red, white, and blue sequined outfit glittered in the spotlight as her white horse pranced around the arena. Rodeo folk were a patriotic bunch, and the applause was deafening. Hannah felt the familiar lump in her throat as the first strains of the national anthem boomed over the audience. She had been in too many small towns on the Fourth of July, seen too many real celebrations with the home-cooked food and the marching veterans and the late-night fireworks not to get all misty-eyed every time she heard it. She stood in the darkness and wiped furtively at her eyes.
    Ernie leaned down, his head close to hers. “You are something else, Miss Hannah,” he whispered. “Come on—I promised Petey a face,” he said when the lights came back on.
    Hannah had no idea what that meant, but she tagged along anyway—to a little corner near a back hallway where a small folding table held a greasepaint kit. He turned over a ten-gallon bucket and made her sit on it with Petey on her lap while he turned Petey into a genuine rodeo clown—and drew a crowd. Nothing would do but that he fix Hannah’s face as well, and even in greasepaint, she was having a wonderful