Darlene Scalera - The Cowboy And The Countess

Ronnie pantomimed picking up a phone and dialing. “Call the hospital pronto,” she mouthed.

Anna pulled the quilt up closer to Kent’s throat. Despite his protests, fatigue had overcome him by midafternoon, and he’d relented to Maureen’s urgings to “get a little rest.” Anna came upstairs to check on him ten minutes later, and he was already asleep, his lips curved, smiling at his dreams.

Free from watching eyes, she stared at his face, resisting the urge to touch the cheek dark with a day’s beard. Her heart rose and fell with the movement of his chest. How long had she dreamed one day he’d walk through her door, throw his arms around her and carry her off to a world of their own? How many hours had she imagined watching him as she watched him now, seeing him sleep and knowing his dreams would be of her? How long had the thought of him formed the foundation of her everyday existence?

Forever, her heart whispered.

Her hand rose, her fingertips hovering where his brow met blond curls beginning. The brow was almost smooth now, padded by a slight swell. The long-formed furrows were no more than thin lines. She saw a bruise blending beneath the day’s beard.

Whether he was crazy or not, she’d like to think she’d brought him happiness for brief moments. For he hadn’t been happy. She knew. She’d seen him happy once. She hadn’t seen the same light in his eyes for a long time. At first she’d thought it was the grainy newsprint or the artificial pose of a publicity shot. But gradually she’d realized it wasn’t the picture. It was the man. There was no joy in his features.

Until today.

So she sat inches from the only man she’d ever loved and hoped these short hours together were hours of happiness. She couldn’t, didn’t dare to hope for more. For those eyes, closed now, would one day open and no longer see K. C. Cowboy, no longer see Countess Anna. They’d see Kent Coleman Landover, CEO, board chairman. They’d see Anna Delaney, clean queen. One day the man would wake.

Their worlds had met, aligned once, a long time ago, when they were both unaware of bloodlines or bank accounts. It had ended swiftly. It would end again. The first time, she hadn’t known, and so could be forgiven.

The second time would be pure foolishness.

She rose wearily, suddenly tired herself. She’d postponed calling the hospital, using the excuse of the morning orientation session, then the welcome flurry of phone inquiries. She’d been stalling for time. She left Kent still sleeping, still smiling.

She went into the downstairs conference room, shut the door and dialed. As an electronic voice listed her choice of options, she realized she was uncertain whom she should talk to. Given the public and professional interest surrounding Kent, one word to the wrong person and she risked damaging his reputation and the credibility of his company.

She disconnected and stared down at the receiver. Should she call his office? The company’s powers-that-be must be aware of Kent’s current condition, and, for the good of the company if nothing else, could be counted on for discretion. The receiver’s dial tone began to beep. She punched in Directory Assistance and got the number for Landover Technology.

She asked to be connected to Kent Landover’s office, hoping to speak to whoever was steering the ship while the captain played cowboy. When a woman answered, “Mr. Landover’s office,” Anna gave her name and asked to speak to him. The woman hesitated, then asked what the call was in reference to.

Anna simply said, “K.C.”

A man’s voice came on the line immediately. “What’d you say your first name was?”

“Anna.”

The man moaned. “The countess?”

She was uncertain how to reply.

“This just keeps getting better and better.”

“Who am I speaking to?” Anna asked.

“No. Who am I speaking to?” the man countered.

“I told you my name is Anna Delaney—”

“The countess?”

“No, well, not exactly.”

“This is wonderful. This is rich. Miriam?” the man yelled. Anna pulled the phone away from her ear. “Where’s my Tagamet?”

Without taking a breath, the man demanded, “What exactly is the nature of your current relationship with Kent Landover?”

“I don’t have a current relationship with Kent Landover—”

“But you did?”

“Yes…once…but it was a very long time ago.”

“What was it? A back-seat session in the limo after your coming-out ball? A fling in between semesters at Stanford? That weekend conference in Tahoe? Miriam, the Tagamet!”

Anna struggled to keep her tone controlled. “I’d like to speak to someone else, please.”

“No, sister. I’m your best bet. First of all, only a handful of others know about this situation, but they all have valid incentives to want to keep it that way. However, I doubt the motives of a one-night stand called The Countess. Unless you can fax me the family tree, I say you’re not even royalty.”

“I’m not.” Anna could almost hear the man’s blood pressure rising. “I’m also not a one-night stand.”

“Ha! Listen, lady, I don’t care what kind of relationship you had with Kent. In fact, I don’t even want to know, but if it could threaten the reputation of Kent Landover and this company, I’ll make it my business to know. I’ll dig up every time you so much as crossed against the light if I have to. Then try to go public with the story of your meaningless little affair with Kent. Just try. Do you really think they’ll listen to someone who goes by the name The Countess?”

“Probably not.”

“Probably…not.” She’d stopped the man cold. “Still, you’re still planning to go to the papers with your story?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course…not,” he parroted again, puzzled. “What do you want, then?”

“I called to tell you that Mr. Landover is here with me.”

“Good God!” His voice burst through the speaker. “You’ve kidnapped him.”

Anna waited a second, then put the phone back to her ear.

The man was still talking, threatening. “…and I’ll hunt you down and personally throttle you with—”

“I did not kidnap Mr. Landover.” Anna made each word distinct. Her initial indignation, however, was tempered by the concern she heard in the man’s voice.

“No, he just signed himself out of the hospital and walked in your door this morning?”

“Is that what the hospital told you? When did they start letting patients sign themselves out of the psychiatric ward?”

“Psychiatric ward?” The phone in Anna’s hand vibrated. “He wasn’t in the psychiatric ward. He’s not crazy.”

“I see.” The more enraged the man’s voice became, the calmer Anna kept her responses. “Then the cowboy thing is a midlife career change?”

There was a pause, then the man said, “Kent Landover had an accident yesterday. He swerved to avoid hitting a bus and lost control of his vehicle. Fortunately, he only suffered a concussion. Unfortunately, as a result of the head injury, he has amnesia.”

“Amnesia.” She said it once, then twice more as if the word had magical powers. “That’s wonderful.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“He’s not crazy?”

“Believe me, Kent Landover is the sanest, most sensible man I know, and I can assure you, and the doctors can assure you, he’ll return to that sane, sensible man any minute now. But until then, he believes he’s a cowboy named K.C. in love with a countess named Anna.”

“I know.” She spoke quietly.

“Ms…?”

“Delaney,” she again filled in.

“Ms. Delaney, my name is Leon Skow. I’m executive vice president and one of the original investors in Landover Technology. I’m also Kent’s friend. I’m beginning to think you are, too. Am I right?”