The Cowboy and the Princess (5 page)
But in this situation, he had no choice. The dormant warrior in him came charging to the forefront. Chivalry, the thing that had gotten him into trouble time and time again, roared to life. He met the cowboy’s assault, punch for punch, his blows landing solid and strong.
“Don’t pick on defenseless women.”
“Ha! She was soliciting. I was taking her up on the offer when she got cold feet.”
“I very much doubt that.” Brady belted the man hard in the face. Anger—that volatile fire starter—pushed hot against his fist, surprising him, but he hated hearing ugly things said about Annie.
The man swore, swung at Brady.
He ducked. The punch sailed over his head, and Brady hit him again for good measure.
Then he heard a sound that chilled his blood, the hard slinking noise of cold steel. Saw the flash of silver in the light from the parking lot lamps.
A switchblade. The son of a bitch had a switchblade.
Fear pooled in his belly, liquid, quicksilver. His gut was saying,
Get the hell out of here, champ. Live to fight another day.
“C’mon,” taunted the drunken cowboy, swinging the knife through the air. “Let’s see what the white knight is really made of.”
Brady raised his palms. “Now, now, no need for bloodshed.”
“Oh, I think there’s plenty of need. Guys like you think you’re so tough and strong, but you’re nothing but a pretty boy who likes to play hero. Try spending ten years in Huntsville. That’ll make a real man of you.”
Huntsville was the biggest prison in Texas. It housed the worst offenders and it was where the state carried out the death penalty.
“Put the knife down, mister, get in your truck, and drive away. That’ll be the end of this.”
“You think I’m going to let a pretty boy like you tell me what to do?” the man sneered. “I’ll say when it’s over.” He lunged, knife outthrust.
Brady jumped clear. “Annie,” he commanded. He couldn’t see her. She was behind him somewhere, but he could hear her breath coming in hard, startled gasps. He thought about the Yorkie in the satchel, hoped Lady Astor was okay. “Go back into the truck stop. Get help.”
“Oh no, you don’t,” the knife-wielding ex-con snarled and moved to grab for Annie.
“Sorry, scumbag,” Brady said. “I can’t let you do that.” He brought his leg up and kicked the man in the kneecap.
The ex-con yelped like a cowardly coyote and let loose with a string of vile cusswords.
Annie got away and was running across the parking lot, headed for the entrance to the restaurant, the satchel looped over her head, clutched it tightly against her. Relief rolled over him. At least she and Lady Astor were out of immediate harm’s way.
Brady, however, was not.
Grunting, the ex-con raised the knife and brought it down.
Brady dodged just in the nick of time.
No, not quite.
He felt the stinging burn as the tip of the knife blade grazed the right side of his face cutting him from his ear to his jaw. He grunted, manacled the man’s hand. They tussled. The stench of whiskey and cigarette smoke blew over him.
As the fight roiled on in the slog of rain, a pain-in-the-ass voice at the back of his brain kept up a running commentary.
Great. Just great. Here you go and get your face all sliced up over a girl you don’t even know. Yes, you had to defend her. Of course you had to defend her. You had no choice on that score. You’re not about to let a helpless woman get dragged off by some Neanderthal ex-con rapist. That’s not what’s at issue here. The issue is you stuck your nose in where it didn’t belong. You had to play hero. You just had to break your own rules. Pick up a hitchhiker. Go for the damsel in distress. It’s not like you haven’t been warned. For godsakes how many times have you been in a fix like this over a woman? A smart man would have learned his lesson by now. But you? Oh no. Not the cowboy in the white hat. And for what? You don’t know this Annie character. She could be a pickpocket, a thief. She could be a lot lizard. She’s hiding something. You know she’s hiding something. That is the one thing that is clear about her. She’s harboring secrets. She’s a liar. And now you’ve gone and gotten yourself cut up over a liar. Smart, Talmadge. Real smart.
In spite of the lack of cooperation from his own conscience, he managed to wrest the knife from the drunken man’s hand. In the distance he heard sirens. Saw people pouring out of the restaurant to watch the fight. He thought of having to stick around to fill out a police report. He had somewhere to be and he had a feeling that Annie, with her secret, didn’t want to get involved with the police any more than he did.
Drawing every bit of strength he had left, Brady cocked back his hand and delivered a mighty blow to the man’s chin.
The guy’s head flopped back. He was out cold.
Brady shoved the ex-con off him and staggered to his feet. He looked up at the cluster of people watching slack-jawed. “Don’t let this guy leave. When the police get here tell them he attacked a lady in the parking lot.”
The group gave a collective nod.
He pulled a bandana from his back pocket, wiped at the hot, sticky ooze tracking down his face, and staggered toward his truck and gooseneck trailer. His vision was hazy. He couldn’t see through the rain soaking his eyelashes.
An arm went around his waist. Soft and feminine.
Annie.
Immediately, his spirits soared and he felt better.
The sirens screamed closer.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
She didn’t argue. Brady opened the passenger side door and she climbed in.
“Are you okay?” Briefly, he put a hand on her shoulder.
She nodded, wide-eyed, steely-jawed. Her dichotomy plucked at his curiosity. Her vulnerability tugged at his heartstrings.
“He didn’t hurt you?”
“No.”
“How about Lady Astor?”
Annie stuck her hand inside the satchel, petted the dog’s head. “She is fine.”
Relief filled his mouth. He shut the door and walked around to the driver’s seat and swung into the cab. He took a minute to draw in a deep breath and then started the engine and drove away.
“You’re bleeding,” Annie gasped as he pulled onto the highway entrance ramp.
“Flesh wound. It’s nothing.” He kept the bandana pressed to his right jaw.
“That man cut you because you were helping me.”
“That about sums it up.”
“You are in pain because of me.”
“It’s not the first time a pretty woman caused me pain.”
“This is terrible.”
He shrugged. “I’ve suffered worse.”
“I am so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have gone off and left you. I should have given you a ride. Leaving you alone back there was like ignoring a toddler on the freeway. I’m culpable.”
“Pardon me?” Irritation tinged her voice.
“What?” He winced against the pain. “You’re pissed off at me now?”
She folded her arms over her chest. “You compared me to a toddler.”
“I don’t know where you’re from, lady, but you’re out of your league here. It might be nice if instead of giving me the stink eye, you might acknowledge that.”
“What is this stink eye?”
“The dirty looks you’re sending me.”
“I am allowed to express my displeasure at your comparison.”
“I did save your fanny.” He slipped a glance over at her.
“You did,” she relented. “Thank you for protecting me. I am very grateful. I should have said that before.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“But I am not a toddler on the freeway. I have—” She broke off abruptly.
“You have what?” he prodded, his curiosity whetted.
“Never mind.”
“You really like your secrets, don’t you?”
“That is none of your business.”
“It is if your secrets keep getting me in trouble.”
She said nothing for a long moment. “You are safe.”
“You’re not going to tell me, huh?”
“No.”
Okay, he’d just been put in his place. She seemed to have a queenly skill for slam-dunking him. He couldn’t get over the paradox of her. She was at once supremely self-possessed, yet on the other hand she came across as innocent as a newborn foal. He’d never met anyone quite like her.
“What is this term ‘lot lizard’?” she asked.
“Truck stop term for a lady of the evening.”
“A lady of the evening?”
Brady shot her a look. Was she for real? “A professional.”
“What kind of professional?”
“A woman who exchanges sex for money.”
“Oh,” she said. “You mean soiled doves.”
“Huh?”
“Is that not what Texas cowboys call fallen women?”
“Maybe in 1875. Where did you get your information about Texas? Louis L’Amour novels?”
She raised her chin. “Actually, yes, and Zane Grey and Elmer Kelton and Larry McMurtry. I think the term ‘soiled dove’ is much more forgiving than ‘lot lizard.’ One should have compassion for a woman reduced to such desperate straits.”
“Biscuits and gravy! You’re one in a million, you know that?”
“Is that a compliment or a complaint?” she asked.
“Take it either way you want.”
“I am going to assume you are benevolent since you befriended me.”
“I wouldn’t say befriended exactly.”
“You came to my aid in my hour of need. That is the definition of a friend in my book.”
“Is this the same book where prostitutes are called soiled doves?”
“Yes.” She primly folded her hands in her lap. “You are making fun of me.”
“Just a little bit,” he admitted.
“I could make fun of you if I chose.”
“Yeah?” He couldn’t resist rising to the bait.
“Goll dern hell yeah,” she said in her comical version of a Texas accent.
It was the funniest damn thing he’d ever heard, such archaic cowboy language coming from such a proper young lady. Brady burst out laughing. “You’re priceless, Buttercup. You made my night in spite of the assault and battery you just got me involved in.”
“I never asked for your help.”
“Don’t turn all high and mighty on me. I like you.”
“I like you too,” she said grudgingly.
“So where are you headed?” Brady asked, giving in to the inevitable. He’d picked her up. He was stuck with her, at least for tonight.
“I will go wherever you are going.”
“You have no destination?”
“I am looking for a new way of life.”
“And anyplace will do?”
“Yes. Take me to Jubilee with you.” In that moment, with the tilt of her head, she looked like an ebony-haired Charlize Theron, cool, patrician, smoldering, and totally smoking hot.
When Brady didn’t argue, that’s when he knew he was seriously screwed.
You might be a princess if . . . you identify with Audrey Hepburn in
Roman Holiday
.
T
he blurry lights of Dallas slipped away as they headed west toward the town of Jubilee. The radio played softly. A song Annie did not know sung by a man with a gravelly voice. “On the Road Again” flashed green on the digital readout of the satellite radio. Willie Nelson. The song seemed apropos. Fated almost.
The truck’s engine panted. The tires strummed. The windshield wipers swished, rhythmically wiping away the continuously falling rain.
Both of Brady’s hands gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on traffic. His hair was mussed; his straw Stetson sat on the console between them. The long cut from his ear to his jaw curved like a parenthesis.
The blood on his face had dried. He was right. It was a superficial wound. Still, she had an overpowering urge to trace her finger along the wound, coo words of comfort to him the way Rosalind had cooed to her whenever she fell ill. A tender touch and soft language could soothe an ache. Why was she feeling that way? Was it because he had swooped in and saved her from the unsavory character in the parking lot?
He had been hurt protecting her, this cowboy hero who could have stepped from an old Western movie. Her stomach reeled, listed.
She caused his pain. Yes. This was her fault. She admitted it. She acted rashly out of character. Her world was byzantine, but out here, in the unknown, well, she was stumbling around wreaking havoc on Brady’s simple life. He was a good man. He should not have to clean up her messes.
She thought of Princess Ann from
Roman Holiday
and how enchanted the character had been with the way the Romans lived. How her innocence had gotten her into trouble and Joe Bradley had rescued her.
Brady was her Joe Bradley, and Annie was making the same mistakes. She felt the same enchantment for Texans, and in that enchantment, loneliness tugged at her. She wanted so badly to belong here: to be part of this world she had vividly imagined for years, but no matter how much she wished it, she did not belong. She would never belong anywhere ordinary. She was royalty. A birthright she could never leave.
Annie had been six years old when she first realized how truly different she was from everyone else and it had all happened because her mother would not allow her to visit the carnival.
Vividly, she remembered watching the carnival crew set up the rides and displays. They had unloaded animals from train cars—elephants hooked together trunks to tails, tigers in cages, prancing horses. She recalled the posters plastered all over town, featuring fire eaters, contortionists, chain-saw jugglers, and sword swallowers. Rosalind regaled her with tales of sideshows and thrill rides and delicious food. The servants’ children whispered in the hallways about the amazing experiences to be found at the carnival.
From her bedroom window, Annabella could see the lighted Ferris wheel circling high into the sky, and before she fell asleep on those long summer nights, she would rest her hands on the windowsill, nestle her chin on her stacked hands, and stare wistfully out at the boardwalk.
Excited voices filled the air along with tempting scents of portable food—cotton candy and funnel cakes, turkey legs and caramel apples, corn dogs and French fries. Foods that Annabella was never, ever allowed to taste, much less eat, but it made her mouth water. The delighted shrieks of children on roller coasters reached her ears, the colored lights on the rides dazzled her eyes.
Then the queen would come into the room, close the window, draw the curtains. “Nasty things. Nasty people. You have everything you could possibly want. Why are you so fascinated by the lowest common denominator, Annabella?”
Why couldn’t Mamman understand how bright lights beguiled? Annabella was expected to stay behind the iron gates, the stone walls of Farrington Palace, and gaze longingly at the world that went on without her. She wanted to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl with the village children. She longed to walk into the House of Mirrors and see her body distorted first tall, then short, fat then thin. She yearned to play games of chance—toss rings over the necks of bottles, throw a ball through a hoop, blow up balloons with a water gun until they popped.
Night after night, she gazed through the window at all that she was missing, a prisoner in her luxury. How disappointing to play checkers with Rosalind when she wanted to have her palm read by a Gypsy fortune teller with rings on all fingers and cheap jangly bracelets at her wrists. How frustrating to eat fresh strawberries dipped in sugar when she wanted to gorge on strawberry ice cream and buttery popcorn. How unsatisfactory to fall asleep on a goose down pillow when she wanted to win a giant teddy bear at the midway and go to bed with it clutched in her arms.
By the last day of the carnival, Annabella was sick with longing. After tonight the carnival would vanish for an entire whole year. But it just so happened this night was Rosalind’s one night off a week and she was spending it at the carnival with a friend.
Her nursemaid tucked her into bed, kissed her head, and whispered, “Good night, Noodle, I will see you tomorrow.”
The second the door closed behind Rosalind, Annabella sprang from the bed in her pajamas. She ran to the window, threw it open, and shimmied down the big oak tree growing beside the wall. She reached Rosalind’s little blue Peugeot in the car park before her nursemaid did. Heart thumping, Annabella climbed into the backseat and lay down on the gray carpet. It smelled of licorice and she stayed curled up quiet as a cat. If Rosalind caught her, she would scold her and make her get out of the car.
Even so, she could not contain her excitement. It was the first time she had ever run away. The first time she ever dared anything rebellious. Without the allure of the carnival, she would never have done anything so defiant.
After Rosalind stopped the car and the door closed behind her, Annabella lay for a long moment, holding her breath. Then tentatively, she sneaked out of the backseat and found herself in wonderland. The sights were as gripping as she imagined—the lights, the sounds, the scents, the textures, the crowd. She’d never been alone in the midst of so many people.
She felt at once very big and incredibly small.
Finally, finally all her dreams were coming true.
For a long time, she stood just staring at the wonder of it all. Her hands curled into fists, her nose twitching, not knowing what to do first. She ran up to a booth to buy some cotton candy, but then the man asked her for money. He was short with greasy black hair and a mustache as big and thick as a push broom. He smelled sweaty and there was dirt underneath his long fingernails. He wore a tight shirt with no sleeves and there were pictures of naked ladies drawn on his fleshy upper arms.
Ashamed, Annabella dropped her gaze; she did not want to look at the man with naked ladies on his arms, but she wanted that cotton candy.
“Money,” he insisted, rubbing his thumb against two fingers in a circular motion.
She had no money and he would not give her the candy.
Stubbornness set in. She was a princess and unaccustomed to being refused anything by a servant. “Give me the cotton candy,” she demanded haughtily.
“You pay, you get.”
She snatched the cotton candy from his hand.
“Thief,” he accused and lunged for her.
Annabella danced from his grip. She was not a thief. She was hungry. Starving for the ordinary experiences of ordinary children. Defiantly, she bit into the sweet, pink fluff. It dissolved against her tongue and she laughed out loud at the joy of it.
The man raised a hand as if to smack her, but there was her bodyguard, Reynaldo, grabbing the man’s hand. “Strike the princess and it will be the last mistake you ever make.”
The cotton candy man’s eyes grew wide. “Pri-Pri-Princess Annabella.” He fell to his knees in front of her and began kissing her feet. “Please forgive me. Take the cotton candy, it is yours.”
But Annabella didn’t want the cotton candy any longer. It had been ruined. Everything had been ruined. Her bodyguard snatched her up, tossed her over his shoulder, and carried her back to the palace. All she saw of the carnival was upside down from behind Reynaldo’s back.
The bodyguard delivered Annabella to her mother in the upstairs parlor. It was the coldest room in the house and her mother’s favorite. Even in the summer, Annabella often shivered in the draft slipping from the stained-glass window. A heavy tapestry of dark colors and hues hung on the wall, it made the room feel colder still. The carpet was equally dark. In the corner stood a stately grandfather clock with a large pendulum. It swung back and forth, ticking loudly.
Snowflakes. Whenever she was in this room Annabella thought of snowflakes. She shivered, knowing she was in trouble.
“You were right, Your Highness.” Reynaldo bowed low before the queen. “I found the princess at the carnival eating cotton candy.”
“Look at your face!” Her mother gasped, horrified. She dismissed Reynaldo with a wave. “You may go.”
Annabella raised a hand to her face. It was sticky. Pink goo stuck to her fingers, evidence of her sin.
Her mother grabbed her by the shoulders, marched her to the mirrored wall at the back of the room. “Just look at yourself. You look like a guttersnipe. Ordinary. Common. Cheap.”
The queen snapped her fingers and the servant who had been standing silently beside the velvet curtains at the window sprang forward.
“Bring me a wet cloth,” she commanded.
The servant nodded, slipped away.
Queen Evangeline shook her shoulders. “What is wrong with you? What were you thinking? Going out into the streets alone? You could have been kidnapped! Shame on you for scaring your mother half to death.”
Annabella hadn’t thought about any of that. All she wanted was to go to the carnival. She burst into tears.
“Stop that crying. You stop it right now.” Her mother shook her again, more forcefully this time. “A princess does not cry. Tears are for weak, ordinary people.”
The door opened and Rosalind came in with a wet washcloth. “I am so sorry, Your Highness.” She did not meet Queen Evangeline’s eyes, but kept her head bowed. “The child hid in the backseat of my car. I did not know she was there.”
Her mother snatched the cloth from Rosalind, shot daggers at the nursemaid with her eyes. She squatted before Annabella and scrubbed at her face. “Filthy carnival. Nasty people. You could have gotten a disease, Annabella. You are a princess. You are a . . .
Farrington
. You are above such shenanigans. You have a duty and an image to uphold. Do not ever do anything like this again or you will be severely punished.”
“Mamman, I just wanted to have fun.”
“Well, you cannot have fun. Not that kind of fun. You are special. You are chosen.” The queen shifted her glare to Rosalind. “This is all your fault.”
“I am dreadfully sorry.” Rosalind worried her hands.
“You are too indulgent with her. You read her those silly, romantic fairy tales. I want it to stop. No more stories about cowboys and knights in shining armor.”
“It is not her fault, Mamman,” Annabella protested. “I sneaked into her car when she was not looking. Rosalind did not know.”
“And how did you get out of your room?” Her mother glowered.
Annabella ducked her head, as sheepish as Rosalind. “I climbed down the oak tree.”
“Reynaldo,” Queen Evangeline called sharply.
The bodyguard appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“Cut down the tree outside Annabella’s bedroom window.”
“Your Highness, the tree is two hundred years old.”
“Cut it down.”
“It will be done.” Reynaldo bowed and then vanished as quietly as he had shown up.
The queen turned her attention back to Rosalind. “We had an agreement.”
“Yes, mum,” Rosalind mumbled. Standing beside the tall, dark-haired queen, the blond nursemaid looked young, fair, and fragile.
“You violated our agreement.”
“I beg your forgiveness.”
“You know what I can do to you.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Rosalind raised her head and in that moment, boldly met the queen’s stare.
Something dark and silent passed between them, a look that Annabella did not understand. Her mother squeezed Annabella’s shoulder tight, drew her up against her body. Her hands trembled. The queen was trembling. She was afraid of Rosalind?
The stare-down lasted a long minute more, then the queen cleared her throat, tossed her majestic head, and glanced down her nose at the nursemaid. “You are dismissed.”
Rosalind notched her own head up, stuck her chin in the air. “For tonight?” She clenched a fist. “Or forever?”
Queen Evangeline licked her lips, hesitated, and then said firmly, “For tonight. But in future we will have no more of these incidents. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“You will make it perfectly clear to
my
daughter that she is above the common people. She is a ruler. It is in her bloodline.”
“In her bloodline,” Rosalind echoed, and without dropping a curtsy, she turned and stalked from the room.
“A
nnie?” Brady’s voice tugged her from the past and put her back in the pickup truck beside him.
She blinked, glanced over. She still couldn’t believe she was here. Free for the first time since she was six years old and running off to the carnival for cotton candy. But now she fully understood the hidden threats her mother had been trying to protect her from. It was dangerous enough out here without anyone knowing she was a princess. What had she done?
Momentarily, she considered the consequences of her actions. Her father would be upset. Teddy would be confused. Rosalind would be alarmed. She regretted causing them any upset, but this was something she had to experience. Before she committed herself to Teddy for a lifetime, she had to see the world through different eyes. She couldn’t fully explain her longing to anyone else, but it had dogged her from infanthood—the feeling that there was a simpler path for her to follow.