A Bride for a Blue-Ribbon Cowboy

Just looking out for her, he supposed. That’s all.

As they headed for the door, he studied the young woman who walked in front of him.

The stretchy blue fabric caressed the curves she’d been hiding beneath baggy denim, and he doubted there was a man alive who wouldn’t take a second look. At least from the neck down.

If she learned to fix her hair and put on some makeup, she’d actually be able to set her sights on someone a lot better than Robby Bradshaw—an assessment Blake easily made without even meeting the guy.

As they stepped out into the late-afternoon sun, Cindy balked. “I feel half-dressed, no matter what that saleslady told me. Maybe I ought to run back inside and put on my jeans.”

“Don’t bother. You may as well get used to the attention. Those new clothes look nice on you. That saleslady wasn’t just stringing you along.”

Cindy beamed, then threw her arms around him and gave him a quick hug. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” As he returned her embrace, his hands slid along the sleek fabric of a blouse that rode a little too high up her back, and a jolt of heat shimmied through his blood. He dropped his arms and stepped back.

Cindy may have been twenty-two, but to him she was just a kid. A babe in the woods.

A woman-child poised on the verge of consenting adulthood. And he meant to look after her until she could handle being at that stage in her life.

“Come on. Next stop is the Cut N Curl.”

A bell over the door announced their arrival, as Blake and Cindy entered the only beauty shop in town, a busy place with a bright orange-and-yellow decor. The scent of hairspray and nail polish lingered in the warm and stuffy room.

It looked different than it had the last time Cindy had been in here.

A petite woman with big hair the color of an orange neon light sat behind the appointment desk. She looked up and flashed them a cheerful smile. “Hello, there. Welcome to the Cut N Curl. My name is Wanda Mae. How can I help you?”

Cindy looked at Blake. He seemed to know what he was doing, or at least what he had in mind, so she let him do the talking.

“Does someone have time for a cut and style?” he asked.

“I’m sure we can fit it in.” Wanda Mae scanned her appointment book.

Cindy took that time to survey the busy room. Each of the customers had a personal beauty expert working over her, except for the lady with her gray hair rolled in pink curlers, who waited alone under the hood of a big yellow dryer, and the gal with her hair covered in little foil squares, who thumbed through a gossip magazine.

A matronly woman appeared to be dozing while her bare feet soaked in a bubbling tub of water. Getting a pedicure, Cindy supposed.

One young girl, who looked as though her hair had been dyed with jet-black ink, sat before a mirror, watching closely as a tall blond beautician took a scissors to locks that were already short and scraggly.

The place was amazing, and not at all what Cindy had remembered. She couldn’t believe the lengths women went to improve their looks.

Had that been her problem in the past? Too little fuss and effort?

Wanda Mae clicked her tongue and furrowed her brow, as she twisted a lock of neon-orange hair and studied the book. “We’re a little full, but I suppose I could do it myself.”

Oh, no. Cindy could imagine herself walking out of here with her hair the same color as a highway worker’s safety vest.

She tugged at Blake’s chambray shirtsleeve and cupped her mouth to indicate a secret. As he bent toward her, she whispered, “If she so much as starts toward me with a bottle of hair dye, I’m going to poke her in the nose and knock her on her fanny.”

Blake peered over the reception desk and looked at the appointment book.

“Maybe someone has time to give her a manicure or pedicure,” he suggested. “Then you can fit her in when one of the hairstylists has time.”

“Now, that I can do,” Wanda Mae said with a smile. “We’ll give her the works.”

“Sounds good to me.” Blake reached for the doorknob. “What time should I come back?”

“Give us until five o’clock. We’ll have her as pretty as a picture.”

As Cindy watched Blake saunter out of the beauty salon on his own, she had half a notion to follow him. What had she gotten herself into?

“It’ll be just a few minutes,” Wanda Mae said with a flashy smile. “The manicurist will be ready for you as soon as she finishes polishing that lady’s toes. And while you’re waiting, you can enter our baby pool.”

Cindy was almost afraid to ask. She’d heard of baby showers. “What’s a baby pool?”

“Tammy Wright, one of the gals who lives in Blossom, is due to have a baby at the end of August. Rumor has it that the doctor says the little one is a boy, but don’t tell anyone I told you.”

Cindy knew Tammy; they’d gone to school together. And even though they’d never socialized much other than at school, Tammy had been one of the few girls she’d considered a friend.

Wanda Mae whipped out a poster board that listed names, dates and hours. “It only costs two dollars to get in the pool. All you have to do is pick a day and a block of time that hasn’t been chosen. Then write down whether you think it’s a boy or girl. The winner gets two hundred dollars.”

Oh, why not? Cindy dug through her purse and handed Wanda Mae two one-dollar bills. Then she chose August twenty-eight. She’d heard most babies came in the middle of the night, so she took the hours between midnight and six in the morning. And since Wanda Mae had mentioned that the doctor said it was a boy, she figured it would be silly to guess Tammy’s baby would be a girl.

After returning the chart to Wanda Mae, she took a seat near the front window. She didn’t have to wait long until she was called.

From that moment on, Cindy was pampered and fussed over until she thought she could really get used to the special attention.

She couldn’t help marveling at how soft her hands were. She could have sworn they were going to stay permanently chapped. Her skin smelled good, too. Like orange blossoms and cream.

And her toes sported a pretty pink polish that matched her fingernails.

She’d even agreed to have her eyebrows waxed. Ouch.

As she sat in a swivel chair before a big gold mirror, she could hardly recognize the image of the woman who looked back at her.

The beautician studied the awkward strands, tugging, poking. “It’s a beautiful color. You really ought to wear it down and show it off.”

“I’ve always had a hard time running a comb through it,” Cindy explained. “And if I don’t bind it up somehow, by nighttime it looks like I barely survived a Texas twister.”

“We’ll see what a little styling and conditioning does about that.”

Moments later, the woman got to work, and Cindy sat back and watched.

After a conditioning process and a practically tangle-free comb out, Cindy decided she would have to stock up on some conditioner to use at home. Then she watched the beautician go to work, combing, lifting, snipping. And before long, the woman took a rounded brush and a blow dryer, carefully styling as the hair dried.

“Well,” the stylist said, after shutting off the hot air and handing Cindy a handheld mirror. “What do you think?”

She didn’t know what to think, other than that the results were magical. She had no idea how long it would last, but it looked pretty darn good, even if she did say so herself. “I’d always considered my hair one of my biggest flaws. And I can’t believe what you’ve done to it.”