“James, honey, what are you singing?” I finally yell loudly enough to be heard over his exuberance. Although, I’m sure the damage is already done. Rachel has got to think he’s a stark raving lunatic. My new boyfriend, the newly released inmate/farmer from Bedlam.

  “It’s the Bonanza theme song! Don’t you know it?” he asks.

  “Why would I know it?”

  He looks startled by my question before answering, “I guess you might not. My grandpa used to watch reruns of Bonanza with Brogan and me all the time.”

  “So, it’s a TV show?” I ask. I briefly wonder if I should bust out with “You are the Music in Me” from High School Musical, or maybe some classic Journey as interpreted by the cast of Glee.

  “There are real words for the song,” he says, “but I always forget how they go. It’s something like, ‘We chased lady luck, ‘til we finally struck …” He doesn’t get a chance to finish because Thunder takes off like a bat out of hell. We’re literally left in his dust.

  Is James trying to show off? Because, yeah, that’s not going to work for me. He needs to get back here and start acting normally. Barring that, less insane would work too.

  Rachel moves her horse next to mine and offers, “He’s quite a rider, huh?”

  “Looks that way.” I’m not ready to be friendly to her yet.

  “Do you guys ride often?” she asks conversationally as we pass another group out enjoying a morning jaunt.

  Inquiries like this are why we scripted this meeting. Had we stuck to our plan, I wouldn’t have to field questions outside of James’s earshot. “We’ve been out a few times,” I tell her hoping to have a chance to fill James in on this bit of improv before it can come back to bite me in the butt.

  “James’s horse is quite a specimen.”

  “Yeah.” Clearly not knowing what I’m talking about, I add, “Thunder is a real doll.” I inwardly beg her to quit asking questions. She seems to get the message because we trot along quietly until we hear a yell as loud as Thor’s hammer splitting the atmosphere. It’s James.

  Rachel and I both instinctively knee our mounts to speed them up. Neither obliges. They just continue at a slow amble. By the time we reach James, he’s lying on the ground like he’s getting ready to make snow angels in a pile of leaves.

  I try to maneuver off Oatmeal to help him, but I don’t know how to go about it. So, I settle back into the saddle and ask, “Are you okay?”

  “That horse has always been the biggest pain in the …”

  Before he has a chance to finish his sentence, Rachel turns to me and says, “I thought Thunder was a real doll.”

  “Thunder is the very devil,” James answers for me. “He belonged to my dad, and he’s the orneriest, meanest stallion on the planet.” I stay quiet so as not to draw more attention to our differing stories.

  After taking a moment to catch his breath, James finally sits up. Thank God Rachel isn’t photographing this. “Ouch,” he groans as he comes to his knees. His suit is filthy and ripped in at least two places that I can see.

  “Did either of you notice where that damn horse went?” James asks. Neither of us did and we say as much. “I’ll just have to ride with you, Tara.” He hobbles over to Oatmeal like a ninety-year-old man with arthritis and a club foot.

  “Are you hurt?” I ask. “Maybe we should postpone the interview.” God, I hope he takes the hint. I’m offering a lifeline that would allow for a total do-over and a chance to rectify our shambles of a performance.

  “Nonsense.” James doesn’t take the bait. “I’m fit as a fiddle.” Now he sounds like the afore-mentioned ninety-year-old man.

  I feel like crying by the time he gets on behind me. Rachel rides right next to us and asks him, “Do you normally ride a different horse?”

  “I normally don’t ride here,” he answers easily. “Not since I was a kid anyway.”

  Rachel’s eyes are dissecting me, but I don’t turn to meet her gaze. Instead I say, “I thought you rode Thunder the last time we were out together.” My voice does this nice little warble that makes me sound like a twelve-year-old boy.

  James seems to catch on this time. “Oh yeah, I did. But not since.”

  “Tara said you’ve ridden several times together.” I told her a few times, not several! This is what reporters do, they dig for inconsistencies like a dog with a meaty bone and then throw them in your face.

  James is clearly out of his element with duplicity of this scale because he answers, “Well, yeah, sure. I mean, I haven’t ridden Thunder since those several times Tara and I took him out.” As far as lying goes, I’m quickly learning it isn’t one of his talents, and though it doesn’t help our current goals, I’m still kind of happy about this. How in the world did I think he could pull this off?

  I decide to change the subject. “You should tell Rachel about your farm.”

  “Do you want to know about my farm?” he asks the reporter.

  “I guess.” She doesn’t sound in the least interested, but I need a break from wondering where the next punch is going to land.

  “I bought it from an older couple. The place had been in the husband’s family for a hundred years. They wanted to pass it down to their kids, but none of their kids wanted it.”

  “That’s sad,” Rachel offers.

  “Farming is a hard life. I suspect they remembered that from when they grew up here.”

  “Yet you’re a farmer. Why is that?”

  “I like to think that we all signed up for certain things in this life before we were born. From the time I was little, I knew farming was my destiny. Also, you know, they were ranchers on the Ponderosa.”

  “The Ponderosa?” Rachel asks.

  “Bonanza,” he tells her enthusiastically.

  “Ah, yes. I’ll have to check that out some time,” she says, obviously lying, as she pulls out her phone and starts to record. “James, tell me how you and Tara met.” Finally, a question he knows the answer to.

  I eagerly await our scripted answer. I queue it up in my brain so I can mentally recite it along with him.

  But James seems to be struck dumb as though he’s forgotten what he’s supposed to say. He finally opens his mouth, and just as I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief, he announces, “We met at a bar.”

  Holy hell. What is he doing now?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ruby

  Ruby walks through the dining room, as per her usual morning routine of asking her guests how they’re doing. When she passes Syd Byerly’s table, she almost keeps going, but he calls out to her, “Mrs. Cavanaugh, good morning.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Byerly,” she returns his greeting with little enthusiasm. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay.”

  “I am, thank you. I understand from my waitress that your pastry chef is nothing like you described her to be.”

  “How so?” Ruby silently chastises herself for thinking he’d take her word for it.

  “I heard she was tall, thin, and quite beautiful, just like the Tara I’m looking for. I’m definitely going to stick around long enough to see her now.”

  “You do whatever you need to do,” Ruby tells him. “Although I have no idea what business you could possibly have with her.”

  “It’s private,” he states mysteriously.

  “Are you trying to lure her out of my employment?” Ruby demands.

  “Why would I tell you if I was?” He’s laughing at her.

  “Mr. Byerly, I hope you have other lodgings because according to your reservation, today is your last day here.”

  “Surely, I can extend my stay.”

  “Unfortunately for you, we’re a very popular destination. I’m afraid we’re booked solid.”

  Syd’s glare is enough to cause goosebumps to pop up on Ruby’s arms. She doesn’t bother to say anything else before turning and hurrying to the front desk to warn them not to extend Syd’s stay, even if they have the room.

  James

  I can’t remember anything Tara and I planned to say today. While it’s possible the fall from Thunder dislodged the information, it’s most likely that sheer nerves are to blame. My shirt is soaked through with sweat.

  “You met in a bar?” Rachel prompts.

  Tara’s body is rigid in front of me as I hear myself answer, “We met at the Branding Iron on Bucking Bull Night. They’ve got the fastest mechanical bull in the whole state.” It’s like I’ve been possessed or something.

  “Really? Who was riding?” This is apparently not what the reporter was expecting to hear and again, I have no idea why I’m saying it. Although the bull riding scene from Charlie’s Angels was quite effective, so maybe my brain really is scrambled right now.

  “It was Ladies’ Night, so it was Tara. She was something else.”

  “I bet every guy in the place wanted to ask her out after that,” Rachel comments.

  “You’d think, but the Branding Iron is mostly full of older couples. They were pretty impressed though.”

  “Older couples participate in mechanical bull riding contests?” She sounds astounded. As she should be because I have no idea what I’m talking about.

  “The locals are rugged folk,” I tell her, fully committing to my story.

  Tara turns her head slightly backward and hisses, “For the love of God, will you shut up already?”

  “What was that, Tara?” the seasoned reporter veers her horse closer.

  I wink at Tara before I answer for her. “She just told me that she can’t wait to kiss my injuries and make them better.” I know the very nanosecond the words are out of my mouth I’ll pay for them later.

  By the time we get to the garden site, both Tara and I are beyond tense. When I help her off her horse, she warns, “Stop making crap up. You’ve got to stick with the story we created or this whole thing is going to fall apart.”

  Rachel calls out, “Would you mind giving me a hand? I don’t know how to get off this thing on my own.”

  “Be right with you,” I tell her. Then I look at Tara who’s standing snuggly in my arms, where she landed after dismounting Oatmeal. “I’m sorry,” I tell her honestly. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m crazy nervous.”

  My admission seems to soften her mood because she says, “I get that, but you have to quit improvising. Stick to the script.” Then she leans in and kisses me gently on the mouth. “That was for Rachel’s benefit. Now go help her off her horse.”

  Once Rachel is down, I begin to tell her about the garden that Tara and I are designing. “It’s going to be spectacular when it’s all done.”

  “I didn’t know you were a gardener,” Rachel says to Tara.

  “I’m not, but James is, and my being the pastry chef at the lodge obviously means there are things I want to have planted. It’s a fun project to do together.”

  “What else do you do together?” she asks.

  Tara answers before I can, probably because she’s worried I’ll say something like naked skydiving, or goat yoga. “We do what any couple does. We go for long walks, snuggle on the couch and watch movies, and sometimes James cooks for me.” Then she looks in my direction and says, “Tell Rachel about that lovely stir fry you made the other night.”

  Rachel waves me off like my exciting recitation of how to make a stir fry isn’t of interest to her or her readers. “Why don’t you tell me about what life is like here compared to LA,” she asks Tara.

  “Life here is wonderful. It’s quiet and calm. At least it was until you and Syd Byerly showed up,” she answers, alerting the reporter that her secret is out.

  “I was surprised to run into Syd, too,” Rachel calmly responds to the implication.

  “Why is he here?” Tara wants to know.

  “He said he was looking for you. Something to do with Romaine.” Rachel pauses a moment before saying, “I guess you’re totally over Romaine now that you and James have started a relationship. Does that have anything to do with the rumors that he didn’t want a fat girlfriend?”

  “Ah, you mean the rumors the press started?” Tara asks before saying, “Romaine never claimed he had an issue with my gaining a few pounds.”

  “But you have, right? I mean you look a little healthier than you used to.” Rachel sounds like she’s one hundred percent in support of Tara’s new figure.

  “I’ve gained eighteen pounds in the last year,” Tara says plainly. “If I keep going I’ll be wearing double digits by next year. But, and you might want to write this down, it was not healthy for me to be so skinny. I barely ever had a period and I had to take an iron supplement because I was anemic. Of course I never told my mom about the period thing or she would have force-fed me.”

  “Do you think the fashion industry has unrealistic expectations of beauty?” Rachel asks.

  “I don’t know,” Tara answers sarcastically, “Is the sky blue? Is the earth round? Of course, I think the fashion industry has an unrealistic standard of beauty.”

  “But we live in a time where there are plus-size models. Doesn’t that speak to more open minds?”

  Tara answers, “In the nineteen-eighties the goal for straight-size models was to be a size six or eight. In the nineties, when the plus-size modeling industry took off, that ideal changed to a size two or four, almost like mainstream fashion was rebelling over the acceptance that anyone could be considered beautiful. Like mainstream fashion was worried women would start accepting themselves rather than look to the fashion industry to decide their worth.”

  “But there are more plus-size models than ever and, from what I understand, they range anywhere from a size eight to a size twenty and higher.”

  Tara asks, “Do you think a size eight should be considered plus size? Why do you think that cosmetic brands and high fashion designers rarely use plus-size models?”

  “I don’t know, why?”

  “Because they’re trying to remind people that beauty is an exclusive commodity that you can only really hope to have if you’re thin and you buy their product.”

  “That sounds kind of bitter,” Rachel says.

  “I’m not bitter,” Tara assures her. “I left the industry on my own. I was tired of being hungry and I was tired of participating in such an unrealistic ideal. What size are you?” she asks the reporter. “I would guess you’re five eight and a size ten.”

  “You’d be right,” Rachel answers back.

  “And I bet you want to lose weight?” Tara guesses.

  “Maybe ten pounds or so. I don’t obsess over it though.”

  Tara shakes her head. “You don’t need to lose an ounce. You look great the way you are. That’s why I wanted out. There are enough reasons for women to feel insecure without having their size constantly thrown in their face.”

  Rachel writes in her notebook for a minute before turning to me and asking, “What do you think, James? Do you like the way Tara looks?”

  “I think Tara is a goddess,” I tell her honestly. “Men don’t care what size women are as much as women do. We’re much more basic than that. While I’m on the subject, I might as well let you know that we think false eyelashes and giant drawn-on eyebrows are a little creepy.”

  Tara starts to laugh before telling Rachel, “Looks like all the things we say we’re doing to be more attractive to the opposite sex are in vain if they don’t care.”

  “Maybe women are doing it for themselves,” Rachel suggests.

  “Maybe the beauty and fashion industries make billions of dollars because of our insecurities. Making women feel like they’re not good enough is a profitable business, Rachel. I’m not suggesting the fashion industry shouldn’t exist, I’m simply saying they need to support all kinds of beauty and celebrate women instead of making them feel less than.”

  Wow, this conversation is getting kind of deep, but it’s also making me see a side of Tara that I downright love. She’s a crusader for self-acceptance. I suggest, “Why don’t you take some pictures of Tara in something that shows off her new figure, so your readers can see how comfortable she is with herself?”

  Rachel looks at Tara and excitedly asks, “What do you think? Would you be up for that?”

  “Absolutely,” Tara replies. “Just name the place. But keep in mind I want to add a stipulation to the contract that says you aren’t allowed to Photoshop those pictures in any way.”

  Rachel shakes her hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  All seems to have turned out well and I’m about to exhale the breath I feel like I’ve been holding all morning when Rachel says, “How about a swimsuit shot with both of you?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Gwen

  After parking her car and tightening her shoelaces, Gwen sets off on the two-mile hike to Billy’s cabin. The weather is getting colder and the sky is overcast. She briefly worries she might get caught in a rainstorm, so she starts power walking to speed things along.

  Gwen’s done some hiking in the mountains and canyons at home, but the woods in Oregon are so different. They have a prehistoric feel that makes it feel like a mythical creature might walk by at any moment.

  By the time she turns off the path to Billy’s place, she’s passed several other people but no unicorns or yetis. “Hello, Billy!” she calls out when she sees him sitting on his porch.

  He looks up from his book and waves. “Gwen, what a nice surprise. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “That would be wonderful. I wanted to come by and thank you for the flowers.”

  “I enjoyed our time together very much,” he tells her before getting up and leading the way inside.

  “I would have called, but you mentioned you didn’t have a phone.”

  “I would have enjoyed talking to you on the telephone, but I’m much happier to see you in person. I think people have forgotten the importance of talking face-to-face. Cream and sugar?” he asks while he pours her a mug of coffee.

  “Just a splash of milk, please. I was wondering if you’d like to come to my place for dinner tonight. I make a mean tuna casserole.”