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Then Reed saw the perfect way to keep him near Callie when he wasn’t busy hiring contractors: he could answer his own fan mail. He had a stack of unsigned pictures he could autograph and some nice paper with his letterhead. He could write a quick note to the fan.
“No. But thanks, anyway. I’m making progress,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal.
He looked at the now six bags full of mail. He never realized that he and his brothers had all those fans.
“I think I should answer my own fan mail, Callie. I feel bad that I neglected them. I’m going to write a note and send a signed picture.”
He repeated himself. “Yes. It’s time I answered my own fan mail.”
Callie grunted. “I could set you up in the kitchen. Or your bedroom. You could answer it there.”
“Why bother? I have everything here that I need.”
“Reed, I see what you’re doing. You want to pester me and drive me crazy.”
“Nah. I have better things to do. Besides, you made it crystal clear—I think those were the words you used—that you weren’t interested in me. So I don’t see a problem. Pretend I’m not here in my own father’s study.”
“Reed—” He felt like her eyes were throwing daggers at his chest.
He grinned. “I think you’re protesting way too much. I can only think that you have feelings for me.”
“Just wait until I show you how wrong you are, cowboy.”
* * *
EARLY IN THE morning on her second day of work, Callie received a call from the brothers’ agent.
“Reed, I have to talk to you,” she said, waiting for the sound of his crutches. He was in the expansive ranch house somewhere. “Reed?”
“At your service, ma’am.” He was in the kitchen reading the paper and chugging coffee.
“Rick would like to know if you could fill in for one of his other clients. They want you to cook with a celebrity chef.”
He shrugged. “When and where?”
“This afternoon. They will come here to you. The show is called What’s in Your Refrigerator?”
“That sounds easy enough. What are we going to cook?”
“Whatever they find in your fridge. They are going to make a meal out of it.”
“Interesting concept,” he joked.
“Can you cook, Reed?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “No, I can’t. But I’m a master with a microwave.”
“If they use a microwave, I’d be surprised.”
“You never know.” He smiled. “Maybe I’ll go shine it up. Then I’m going to see what Inez left in the fridge before she went on vacation.”
“No. I had to promise that you wouldn’t open it until they tell you to do so on the air.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I shall not open it then. I don’t want to be arrested by the fridge police.”
“Good.”
“What a bull rider has to do, huh?” he asked.
“Probably with all the publicity you are getting, you’ll get new fans, and then there’ll be new fans for the PBR. The money doesn’t hurt, either. Your product endorsements are very lucrative, too.”
“The Three Musketeers are putting most every cent we can into the ranch.”
Callie nodded. “I can tell you are all pitching in, from some of the bank statements I’ve seen.”
“You’re going to know all about us, except what size underwear we wear.”
“Oh, I found a receipt from the Beaumont Emporium. I know that, too.”
He looked at Callie, eyes as wide as some of the belt buckles he sported.
She laughed. “Only kidding.”
He laughed. She enjoyed how he laughed—free and easy—as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
In fact, that was the essence of his personality. It must be nice to be like that.
“Reed, can I make a suggestion?”
“Try and stop you.”
“I think you should wear your cowboy clothes. Cargo shorts and a T-shirt that says Beach Bum might not be what this show is looking for.”
“Point taken. I’ll be right back.” He hurried down the hallway.
Callie wondered if Reed’s room was the same as it was in high school. She remembered it as a cheery room with colorful Navajo blankets and shelves packed with trophies and belt buckles. Each award displayed a picture of the presenter and the name of the event. There were bigger pictures of saddles, rifles and boots that he’d won—more boots than a man could ever wear. No wonder that they always looked like he’d just taken them out of a box. He had.
Several minutes later, the doorbell rang, and Reed yelled, “Do you mind getting that, Callie?”
“No problem.” She put down the files she was labeling on a cleared spot on the big desk and headed for the door.
“Hi,” she said, looking at all the equipment several people were unloading from a van parked out front.
An older woman with a clipboard waved. “We’re from What’s in Your Refrigerator?”
“Come in,” Callie said. “I’ll show you where the kitchen is and you can set up.”
A man with a white chef’s jacket and black-and-white-checked pants whistled. “I am Chef Marty. What a fabulous place! I heard that it was historic, but this is amazing.”
“Hello, Chef Marty. I’m Callie, assistant for the Beaumont family. The ranch really is a historic place. It was founded at the time of the Oklahoma Land Rush.” Callie grinned. “The founder, Daniel Beaumont, was said to be a Sooner. He was Reed’s great-grandfather, times a few greats.”
She thought she sounded like a tour guide, but she had grown up in the light of one of the most historical places in Oklahoma. Every man, woman and child in Beaumont knew the story of the old place.
“It’s totally ancient. It’s totally medieval,” said a kid in sunglasses lugging an aluminum suitcase and with an e-cigarette in his mouth; she thought he was probably an intern.
“Not quite medieval,” Reed said, entering in the kitchen. “But close.”
“Excuse me, I have work to do,” Callie said, hurrying back to the study. As much as she would like to ogle Reed, she was better off away from him. Their earlier exchange had been a lot of fun, as was any time they talked together, but she needed to focus on her job.
She supposed she could stretch her duties to make sure everything was going smoothly in the kitchen, but what could go wrong?
Thump! Boom!
Someone swore.
Then three more people swore.
“Dude, are you okay?”
Callie went running. In her gut, she knew what had happened: Reed had lost his balance.
Oh, no! She hoped that he hadn’t hurt his knee even more.
But it wasn’t Reed on the ground. It was a crock of chili that Inez had made before she left that had hit the thick tiles and splashed all over Reed, the chef and the lady and her clipboard.
“Dude, this is epic,” said the kid with the sunglasses.
“I’ll double down on that,” Reed said.
Callie sprang into action. She grabbed a roll of paper towels and began scooping the chili into a trash can.
As best as he could, Reed tried to help her. None of the TV people lifted a finger, and that annoyed her.
“Reed, you can’t kneel down with your problems. I’ll take care of this while you change your jeans.”
“I hate to stick you with cleaning up.”
“I have twin brothers who play high school football, baseball and basketball. Can you guess at how many things hit the floor? They’re always tossing something, bouncing something or knocking over something with some kind of ball.”
“You’re too good. My mother would have made us clean it up,” Reed said.
“Oh, I do. Then I clean it up much better after they’re finished.” She turned toward Chef Marty. “Is it still a go for the show?”
“Absolutely. It looks like we are going to make grilled ham and cheese using flour tortillas. Then we are going to make salsa.”
“I think Reed can handle that,” Callie said.
While the TV crew took a break outside, Callie found a mop and bucket in the walk-in pantry and mopped the area. Then she dried it with more paper towels.
“I can’t thank you enough, Callie.”
She jumped at the low but familiar voice. Puffs of air teased her neck as he whispered close to her ear. Turning, she noticed that Reed had changed into black jeans that clung perfectly in all the right places, along with a long-sleeved white shirt covered with either embroidery or sewed-on patches of products and companies that sponsored him.
He had changed his boots from brown to black—alligator, maybe, or some kind of snake.
Not that she’d noticed.
“Oh, uh...you’re welcome,” she said, managing to look away from Reed. “Well, I’d better get back to work.”
“I’ll take you out for your kindness, Callie. I won’t forget.” Reed turned, probably knowing she’d protest. “Let’s get this show back to the kitchen and get cooking.”
She couldn’t help it. She had to watch him walk—crutch—away.
Callie had to get away from Reed, the scent of chili and the young kid with the e-cigarette that smelled like bubble gum.
She couldn’t wait to return to the pounds of paper that divulged the financial secrets of the Beaumonts and get everything entered on her spreadsheet.
* * *
CALLIE SURE WAS a good sport, Reed thought. Whatever Luke was paying her, it wasn’t enough. She was even cleaning up chili explosions. It didn’t go unnoticed that the rest of the people in the kitchen hadn’t lifted a finger to help, except for the young dude with the sunglasses who’d kept handing Callie paper towels. His name was Arnold and, as it turned out, he was the director of the show.
Reed, who had been feeling every ache and pain lately that came from riding bulls, really felt like an elder statesman of the bull-riding world when he realized he had saddles older than Arnie.
“Let’s get going, ladies and gentlemen,” Reed said. “My knee and lack of intact ligaments are killing me.”
Arnie blew a whistle, which made them all flinch. No one was talking, so the loud sound made it all the more bizarre. “Let’s move it, people. Our bull-riding star is faltering.”
“Not faltering, Arnie. Just aching,” Reed clarified. “If I faltered, I could never ride.”
Maybe he should just get the darn surgery and get rid of the crutches and stop wasting time.
So far, in his career, he’d managed to escape surgery. Oh, he’d had broken bones that had needed to be set and shoulders that had needed to be jammed back to where they belonged and petty stuff like that, but he’d never had real hospital surgery.
The saying went, “When you’re a bull rider, it’s when—and not if—you’ll get hurt.” He’d had his share of problems, but a lot of riders had had it a lot worse.
Chef Marty now had him grating Colby cheese.
“Do you have cilantro?” asked the chef.
“I’ll look in Inez’s garden,” Reed said.
“Can’t you send your secretary out there to get the stuff?” asked Arnie.
Reed raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Callie is not my secretary—she’s an administrative assistant and a very successful businesswoman, and I think she’s done enough to help us out here. I’ll get the cilantro, and Chef Marty can keep chopping.”
“No!” whined Arnie. “You have to do the chopping, bull rider dude.”
“Reed.”
