Christine Rimmer - The Man Who Had Everything

“Oh. Well. I just don’t think we want to go this way….” Arletta moaned some more, all fluttery indecision. Townspeople milled around them, busy getting ready to play their own parts in the parade.

Grant leaned down to whisper in the shopkeeper’s pink ear—she was a tiny little skinny thing, no more than four feet tall and she smelled like baby powder. “Listen, Arletta,” he whispered low. “If you think I’m running around in dirty long johns with no pants, you’ll have to find yourself another prospector…”

“Oh, dear Lord. No. We can’t have that.” She sucked it up. At last. “It’s all right. Those jeans will just have to do.”

He gave her a grin. “Arletta, you’re the best.”

“Oh. My.” She simpered up at him. “You charmer, you…” She tugged on the dirty bandanna around his neck. “There. That’s better. And the hat looks just great, I must say—and tell me now. What do you think of the float?”

They turned to admire it together. It consisted of a papier-mâché mountain topped with sparkly cotton snow. A miniature prairie lay below, complete with split rail fences, a creek made of crinkled up aluminum foil, a couple of homemade cottonwoods and some papier-mâché livestock happily munching away at the AstroTurf grass. There was also a log cabin trailing a construction paper cloud of smoke from the chimney and, clinging to the side of the mountain, a miniature replica of the resort’s sprawling main lodge. A sparkly rainbow bearing the glittery words, Thunder Canyon Resort, arched over the whole creation.

Grant swept off his hat and held it to his chest. “Magnificent,” he solemnly intoned.

Arletta did more simpering. “Oh, I am so pleased you think so.” She grabbed a gold pan from a pile of props and also a baseball-size hunk of papier-mâché, spray-painted gold. “Here you go. Your gold pan and your nugget.”

He hefted the hunk of papier-mâché. “Hey. With a nugget this size, I don’t need this damn gold pan. In fact, I think I’ll just head over to the Hitching Post right now and order a round of drinks for everyone, on me. Isn’t that what miners do when they make a big strike, head for the bar and get seriously hammered?”

“You are such a kidder,” giggled Arletta. Then she chided, “The gold pan is part of the costume—and you can join your rowdy friends at the Hitching Post later. After the parade.”

He pretended to look crestfallen. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, we have to get you in place. And Stephanie, too…” She signaled Steph, who waited a few yards away, wearing a leather cowgirl outfit with a short skirt and a tooled jacket, both skirt and jacket heavy on the leather fringe. Fancy red boots and a big white hat completed the costume. She had Trixiebelle with her, all tacked up in a red and white saddle, with bridle to match. It was a real Dale Evans-style getup. And she looked damn cute in it.

“This way, you two…” Arletta instructed.

The shopkeeper showed them where they were supposed to stand. Trixiebelle, a real trouper, didn’t balk once as Steph led her up onto the float and into position and then swung herself into the saddle before Grant could jump up there and offer to help.

As if a skilled horsewoman liked Steph needed a hand up. She’d laugh at him if he offered. And she’d probably suspect that he was only trying to get a look under that short skirt, anyway.

Get a look under her skirt?

Where the hell had that come from?

He was thirty-two years old, for crying out loud. Far past the age when a guy tried to find ways to sneak a peek up a girl’s skirt.

“Grant. Are you with me here?” Arletta was frowning, looking slightly miffed. “I need your full attention, now.”

He shook himself and tried to appear alert. “You got it.”

She pointed. “Stand there.”

He took his place by the crinkled foil stream and Arletta stood back to study the picture they made. “Hmm,” she said, somehow managing to be both thoughtful and agitated at the same time. “Hmm… oh, no. Oh, my…”

“What?” Grant demanded, beginning to worry that his fly might be open.

“It’s too spotty.”

Grant cast a quick glance Steph’s way. He could tell she was trying real hard not to laugh. “Uh…spotty?” he carefully inquired.

Arletta frowned with great seriousness. “Yes. The composition. It’s simply not…pulled together.”

The high school band had started to play at the front of the line. “I think we’re going to be rolling in a minute or two here,” he warned.

“You’re right. Action must be taken.” Arletta started pointing again. “Grant. Lean that pan against the rail fence. And go stand by the horse—yes. Right there. At the head. Stephanie, let him hold the reins.” Steph muffled a snort of amusement as she handed them over. “Much better, yes….” Arletta kept rattling off instructions. “Grant, you’ll have to wave with that nugget, hold it up nice and high so everyone can see you’ve really struck it rich. Do it.”

He waved with the fake nugget.

“Oh, yes. That’s it. And Stephanie, take off your hat, wave with it. Big smiles, both of you. Big, big smiles.” Grant smiled for all he was worth. Evidently Steph, mounted behind, was doing the same. Because Arletta clapped her hands and cried out gleefully, “Exactly! We’ve got it. That’s perfect! Wonderful! Just right!”

And just in time, too. The float gave a lurch and started moving—slowly, like a big ocean liner inching from port. They pulled away from Arletta, who continued to gesture wildly and rattle off instructions. “Wave, Grant! That’s it. Wave that nugget. Smiling, you two. Don’t forget. Smiling, smiling! That’s the way…”

He felt the toe of Steph’s fancy boot gently nudge him in the middle of the back.

“What?” he growled out of the corner of his mouth as he waved his nugget high and proud.

She nudged him again, but she didn’t say a word. He glanced back at her and she was waving that big hat of hers, smiling wide at the crowds that lined the covered sidewalks to either side. People cheered and stomped in appreciation and kids ran out in the street to grab the candy and bubble gum the driver of the truck that pulled the float was tossing in handfuls out his open window.

Up ahead, the band played “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” Grant looked out at the crowd and thought that he’d never seen so many people crowding the streets of his town.

This Thunder Canyon Fourth of July Parade was the biggest one ever, by far.

Even in that silly miner’s getup, with the fake nugget in his hand, Grant felt a surge of real pride—that his town was growing. Thriving. That he was a part of Thunder Canyon’s new prosperity. That his own efforts had contributed, at least a little, to the boom that had started with a modern-day gold rush and continued with the swift and rousing success of the Thunder Canyon Resort.

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