The Invitation Read online

He grinned at her. “Why don’t you come help me unsaddle these animals and tell me how you know so much about guns?”

  “I guess I don’t know enough, because I almost shot that cowboy’s foot off.”

  Walking, Sandy didn’t look back at her, but he could hear the remorse in her voice, and he heard the way she referred to Kane as “that cowboy.” “Did you tell Kane you were sorry?”

  “Ha! I’d die first.”

  When Sandy gave her a surreptitious glance from under his hat brim, she was looking at the mountains, her hands clenched into fists, her mouth set into a hard little line. “Are you the hair lady or the widow or the one with the funny shop?” Before she could answer, his eyes began to sparkle. “You write the murder mysteries.”

  “Yes,” she said, still angry, but then she looked at him and smiled. “My next book is going to be called Death of a Cowboy. What sort of death do you think would be appropriate? Caught in his own lariat and hanged? Maybe a rattlesnake in his bedroll.” Her grin broadened. “Maybe blood poisoning from a dirty bullet that shot all his toes off.”

  Chuckling, Sandy opened the barn door for her. “Come in here and tell me the rest of this story. I like a good story.”

  “Then you’re going to like me,” she said happily, “because I can tell lots of good stories.” Then, frowning, she muttered, “It’ll be good to have somebody around here like me.”

  Chapter Five

  Contrary to the way it looked, I didn’t really want Cowboy Taggert to hate me. I’ve always had fantasies about being likable. I’d like to walk into a room and have people sigh and say, “Cale’s here. Now the party can begin.” Of course that’s never happened. Bookish people don’t get invited to parties that often, and when they do, they tend to sit in the corner and watch.

  As I helped that dear, sweet old man, Sandy, in the barn, I pretended nothing was bothering me, and I vowed to behave myself for as long as I was on this trip. Ten years from now the cowboy would look back and say, “That little mystery writer was actually a good egg.”

  I did well for a whole twenty-four hours. At dinner all of us sat at one round table—and I didn’t say a word. I didn’t say anything when the cowboy reached across Ruth for the hundredth time to refill her wineglass. I didn’t say anything when the skinny groupie started talking about her channelers. I didn’t even laugh when the fat groupie spilled wine in the cowboy’s lap, then tried to rub away the red stain on his crotch. I bade everyone a polite good-night and went to my room, planning to work on an outline for my next book.

  But my strongest and best character trait is the ability to concentrate, which is also known as the ability to obsess, and that’s what I did that night.

  Why is it that men can’t see through women like Ruth? Why are men so dumb when it comes to women? Long legs, a cantilevered chest, acres of hair, and a woman can get any man she wants.

  It bothered me that I was attracted—seriously attracted—to some big dumb cowboy while he looked at me as though he wanted to feed me rat poison.

  I behaved myself all through breakfast while Ruth and the jock made goo-goo eyes at each other, seeming to read meaning into comments like “Pass me the honey.” Nothing in life is more boring than being near self-absorbed lovers. They find amusement in every word; every gesture from one is a thing of beauty to the other. They have no interest in anything outside themselves.

  I bit into a piece of toast and watched the way the cowboy looked at Ruth: he was gone. As for Ruth, her heart wasn’t in her eyes. Now and then she’d look at the Maggie-Winnie duet with a glance of triumph, as though to say, Look what I can do. She was probably looking forward to the great, drippy final scene when she’d bid him a tearful farewell. But poor dumb Taggert looked as if he wanted to tie an apron around Ruthie’s perfectly maintained waist and put her behind a stove. For a moment I got a great deal of pleasure from imagining Ruth in a kitchen: worn linoleum floor, gingham curtains, the smell of onions frying, hot enough to fry beef on the tabletop, three whining kids hanging on to her swollen, red, unshaven legs.

  When I looked up, Sandy was smiling at me as though he knew exactly what I was thinking, so I winked and gave him a mock salute with my orange juice.

  By the time afternoon rolled around, I’d behaved myself so well that I guess I was feeling a little smug, because I blew it.

  We’d all mounted horses and started riding up a trail into the woods. I’d been on a horse only a couple of times in my life before, but when you get down to it, riding a horse doesn’t take all that much brainpower. I’m not talking about dressage or show jumping, which require years of practice and training, but sitting on some well-fed, complacent animal that already knows the trail takes no skill.

  But that’s not how Ruth and the duet viewed it. Given Ruth’s background, I would have thought she’d be a great horsewoman, but the truth was, she was terrified of the animal. Terrified and appalled at its big, wide nostrils, its hairy mouth, as well as the back end of it. When she climbed on that horse, her eyes wide with fear, I came close to liking her. She must really want to keep her job if she was willing to climb on an animal that terrified her as much as this one did.

  It was late afternoon when I did it again. We all dismounted, sore, tired, and for the most part not speaking. Ruth had ridden behind Taggert and what conversation there was on the trail had been between them. The skinny one of the duet had tried to talk to me about a vegetarian diet, but when I told her I ate nothing but meat and lots of it, she clammed up and wouldn’t speak to me. The silence of the woods, with Sandy riding behind me, had been bliss.

  But after we’d dismounted and most of the group had wandered into the woods to make use of the facilities, I glanced at Ruth and saw that she had an odd look in her eye. She had her hand on her lower back, and I knew that if she was half as sore as I was, she was in pain. I don’t know what she was thinking, but then again, she probably wasn’t thinking at all. She was in pain and the cause of her pain was the placidly munching horse in front of her.

  With hands shaking from exhaustion, she lit a cigarette. Then, with the look of a malicious child, she crushed out the cigarette in the soft neck of the unsuspecting horse.

  Everything happened at once then. The horse cried out, sidestepped into Ruth, knocked her down, and started to walk on her. I didn’t think. I just ran, trying to place myself between Ruth and the horse, but the horse was angry and in pain; some of the hair on its neck had caught fire and was smoldering. As best I could, I held on to the bridle with my left hand and slapped my right hand over the burn as I tried to tell the horse that it was safe and no one was going to harm it again. Somewhere during the turmoil, Ruth had slithered away like the snake she was and left me alone with the horse.

  Thrashing through the woods like the Abominable Snowman was the big cowboy, and when I glanced up, I saw that he was heading straight for me—and his face was contorted with rage. What now? I thought. What in the world was he angry at me about this time?

  Ruth, true to form, threw herself into the cowboy’s strong, protective arms, weeping copiously, but without mussing her eye makeup, and begging him to save her. Taggert held her, but it was me he was glaring at as I stood there petting that poor burned horse. I wondered what Ruth would say if I told that I’d seen what she’d done.

  “You should have called me,” Taggert said, his teeth locked together.

  About a thousand sentences went through my head at once. I could have told him the truth about his beloved; I could have pointed out that if I’d called him, then waited for him to arrive, Ruthie’s lovely face might now have a horseshoe print in the middle of it. In the end I didn’t defend myself. I just said, “You’re a real jerk, you know that? A plain ol’ everyday jerk,” then dropped the bridle and walked away into the woods.

  Is there any anger in the world more cold, more deep within you than the anger that comes from being falsely accused? I felt like a coal left over from an all-day fire. With the least bit of encouragement I