ONE NIGHT TOGETHER

Bobby brightened. "Yeah, like doilies and lace, stuff like that. Good idea. Cards, too," he added.

"Gus told me his mother used to like canasta and bridge."

"I can see I'm going to be busy driving around Texas." Andrew rested one booted foot on the bottom rail of the corral and turned to look at the three young mares prancing idly inside. "what about them?"

"I will do it soon. This week." Bobby shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and glanced toward the horses. "Training them mares will impress the hell out of Francisca Handel."

"Yeah, I suppose it will."

"She likes cowboys," he announced proudly.

Andrew hid a sigh. 'don't they all'. Women had been trailing after Bobby before he was old enough to figure out why.

"And you know, I look damn good on a horse."

Andrew didn't think Bobby expected a coherent reply.

"You will like her."

Andrew nodded. He'd worship the ground she walked on if Bobby turned into a responsible husband and rancher.

"And her auntie can't be so bad."

The older man started to point out that young women and old women could be all sorts of trouble, but then he figured he'd save his breath. Andrew had put in a full day's work, and what energy he had left would be spent eating supper. What they needed---what he needed--- was a nice domestic woman, the kind of woman who smelled cinnamon and vanilla. The kind of woman who wouldn't yell too much about dirt being tracked in on her clean kitchen floor, who'd welcome a man into her bed each night without acting like she was doing him a big favor.

Unfortunately, he didn't know any woman like that around here, under the age of forty, anyway.

Which brought him back to their subject. "Can this Francisca Handel cook?"

Bobby shrugged. "I dunno."

Not a good sign, but Andrew remained calm.

"Has she ever lived in the country or ridden a horse?"

"I doubt it, but what the hell. She can learn."

Bobby sighed. "Gee, Andrew, I thought you'd be happy I was finally getting married."

Happy? Andrew wanted to dance the two-step down the drive and back again. He wanted to pass out cigars and open that bottle of whiskey he'd been saving. Never mind that he didn't smoke and he rarely drank anything stronger than beer, forget that he had two left feet and there wasn't a woman in sight.

But Bobby needed to be practical. What was a city woman going to think of spending the rest of her life on a cattle ranch? "Let's put it this way, kid. I'll believe it when I see it."

"You feeding them before you bring them back here, I hope?" The airport was a four-hour round trip, which would put them all back here at seven unless Bobby stopped at a restaurant.

"Sure." The kid grinned. "You are worried about the food?"

"I was." until Andrew had hired Marty's mother to get some groceries and cook the evening meal each night. He'd had to double the usual wage and promise Mrs Martin that there'd be "no shenanigans." Andrew wasn't real clear about the definition of shenanigans, but he'd assured the temporary cook that Bobby's so-called fiancée was bringing her maiden aunt along to chaperone. "But I've got it figured out. How long do you think they are staying?"

Bobby grinned and tilted his hat low on his forehead. "Until I get my way, of course."

Andrew wished him all the luck in world. And told him so. Because what this place needed was Bobby Calhoun to tie the knot and stay home at night.

"I'm glad you are settling down," Andrew said, wondering if Bobby knew how fervently he wished for a little peace and quiet.

"Yeah." He grinned. "Did I tell you she was on 'Baywatch?"

"Three or four times," Andrew replied, which meant she was blond with huge breasts, and nothing unusual in Texas. Andrew figured it had something to do with the weather.

Bobby pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his shirt pocket. "I got some more ideas last night," he said, having it to Andrew. "To keep the auntie out of the way."

Andrew smoothed the paper and squinted at the scrawled words. "Looking at flowers," he read aloud "Movies. Shopping." He looked toward Bobby. "How am I supposed to get any work done?"

"We will manage."

"Yeah, right," Andrew mumbled, folding the paper careful before tucking it into his back pocket.

"You will have to take up the slack."

"Francisca will help. She's looking forward to it."

Andrew pictured Francisca Handel Marti, the college girl 'Baywatch' babe, eating a mouthful of Texas dust. "Maybe you should go easy on her."

Bobby shook his head. "Nope. we talked about it, and she knows this ranch is part of the deal."

"The deal," Andrew repeated.

"You know, the getting married and all that. Besides," the boy added, "she said she always wanted to live on a ranch. And she always wanted to meet a cowboy."

"How about that," Andrew drawled, hoping that Francisca Handel wouldn't run screaming from Texas the first time she saw a rattlesnake.

"I'd better get going. Next time you see me, I will be holding the hand of my fee-ahn-say," he declared, mimicking Shorty's pronunciation.

"I can't wait," Andrew said, meaning the words.

"I hope she will be real happy here."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Bobby shoved his hands in his pockets again and rocked nervously on his heels. "You talked to the guys about swearing and scratching and spitting in front of the ladies?"

Andrew hid a smile. "Yeah."

"Good. I wouldn't want to give her the wrong impression, like we are crude or anything."

"No."

"Guess I'd better get going." Bobby had turned pale, like he'd looked when he was twelve the afternoon he'd smoked his first cigar.

"Yeah. Good luck." Andrew watched Bobby cross the field and head toward the garage before he walked across the yard to his own home.

The small yellow house with side porch belonged to Andrew. At least, that's where he hung his hat at night and kept his clean clothes. It needed fresh paint and the middle porch step squeaked, but nothing to complain about, that was for sure. He worked a small spread forty miles northwest of the Dead Horse, on a nice-size piece of the adjoining land the old man had left him, but for the time being he lived close to Bobby. Old man Calhoun had known what he was doing, though no one in the county ever called R.J. Call a fool, not to his face and not behind his back.

"Reckless," the old man had muttered, leaving the gravesite of his son and daughter-in-law. Andrew had only been eighteen at the time, but he'd lived at the Dead Horse for as long as he could remember, because his mother had been R.J's devoted housekeeper. And he'd been following R.J. around since he was old enough to wear boots and open the kitchen door without help. "We will have to take good care of the boy, you and me."

"Yes, sir." Andrew had straightened his shoulders and clapped young Bobby on the shoulders to guide him back to the waiting limousine.

And that had been that, Andrew remembered, moving toward the yellow house. R.J. was gone twenty-two months later, and the next thirteen years had passed by fast, hurried by the hard work and long days and the dual responsibilities of being both Foreman and guardian to a kid whose middle name was Trouble.

Andrew would clean up, fix himself a couple of roast beef sandwiches and work on the accounts until Bobby returned with the women. Maybe he'd even study this list and come up with some ideas of his own.