Liz Ireland - A Cowboy's Heart

“I know he doesn’t have a dress,” Paulie said with a little despair.

“What call would I have for one of those things?” Trip asked.

“I meant for me, chowderhead.”

Trip’s eyes widened. “A dress? Why, you haven’t worn one of those since...” He scratched his head. “Since I don’t know when!”

“My last one split a seam back in seventy-eight.” She shrugged. She’d never been handy with a needle, and so never replaced the dress. Instead, she wore boots, breeches, and plain cotton shirts, just like all the men who came into the Dry Wallow saloon. Of course, her father wouldn’t have approved, but he’d been gone six years now. And the change in her apparel had proved good for business. After a while, people got used to seeing her dressed that way, and became more comfortable doing business with an eccentric woman than a feminine one. She owned the only saloon for thirty miles, and business thrived.

As had her feelings for Will Brockett. She wished she could do something that would make him sit up and take notice of her. “I wish my hair was blond instead of dirtcolored.” Mary Ann’s hair was the color of corn silk.

Trip assessed her appearance, from her worn-out boots and loose britches up to the crown of her hair, which she wore in a simple long braid down her back. “It ain’t so much dirt, maybe, as wood-colored,” he said encouragingly.

“Thanks, Trip.”

“At least you ain’t gone gray,” he moped, pushing his hat forward self-consciously. “I guess I look pretty old.”

“I hate to break the news to you, Trip, but Tessie’s practically white-headed herself now. I doubt she’d hold your age against you.”

“Still...” Trip shook his head.

Paulie leaned against the porch rail and let out her breath. “Oh, I guess we’re pretty silly to be sitting out here worrying about how we look at this late date. Nothing’s gonna turn my stump-colored hair blond any more than you’ll ever get your old brown locks back.”

Trip eyed her suspiciously. “Who’re you tryin’ to impress?”

“Nobody,” Paulie answered quickly. If Trip ever found out the extent of her feelings for Will, she’d never hear the end of it. “Can’t a person just wish she was blond once in a while?”

A picture entered her mind, of herself, dressed like a real lady in some shiny kind of material—maybe real silk, even. She was at a ball, the kind she’d only read about in some of her father’s books, and Will was there, too, handsome as ever. He took her hand, which was mercifully free of unsightly freckles, and lifted it gently to his lips. Then he sent her one of those naughty grins of his. Laughing flirtatiously, with her free hand Paulie tapped him on the shoulder with her fan...

“Paulie?”

At the insistent sound of Trip’s voice, Paulie shook her head. “Huh?”

“I said, I think I’ll go home. Maybe even clean up a bit.”

She felt one of her eyebrows dart up. “You goin’ courtin’ tonight?”

He stiffened, his expression immediately turning defensive. “Did I say anything about courtin’? Can’t a body just get clean after a long trip just to...to get clean?”

Paulie shrugged. “You were just talking about Tessie, so naturally...”

“Yeah, well, that road from Fort Stockton was dusty. You might want a bath, too. We’re both a sight, Paulie. Rough people for a rough country.”

That was the truth. Here she was daydreaming of dazzling Will, when really she was on her way to becoming a female version of poor Trip Peabody. And like Trip, she would probably never work up the courage to admit her feelings to the object of her affection.

Then again, her father had always said that nothing was hopeless until you gave up hope. Paulie liked to think of herself as an optimist. Now that Mary Ann was out of the picture, she just had to think of a way to make Will notice her. And, though it might not have been the most practical dream in the world, she couldn’t help hoping that once he did notice her, he would never want to look at another woman again.

“There has to be a way...”

“Way to what?” Trip asked curiously.

“To gussy ourselves up,” she said. To his continued quizzical stare she added, “Well, do you want to impress Tessie Hale or don’t you?”

“Why sure,” he agreed eagerly, nearly slipping off the bar stool. “But what I’m curious to know is, why do you want to impress her?”

Paulie rolled her eyes. “Have another drink, Trip.”

Will couldn’t take his eyes off her. He knew he was staring at Paulie Johnson, but she looked so different, so...strange. All at once, it seemed as if this tiny corner of the world had gone mad.

Possum Trot had always had its eccentricities.

But even given Will’s tolerance for strangeness bred of years of living in Possum Trot, he wasn’t prepared for the odd sight of Paulie Johnson prancing around in a frilly white dress.

He stood in the door several minutes, perfectly aware that he was gaping at her as she dried glasses behind the bar. Then at last, she looked up and saw him. She sucked in a breath and her green eyes sparked with joy, but all Will could focus on was her hair, which he had somehow managed to miss right up to this moment. Lord, it looked like somebody had taken an eggbeater to it!

In a frenzy of frills and frizzy hair, Paulie practically leapt over the bar in her hurry to get to him. “Will Brockett!” she cried, launching herself at him in her old exuberant way. “Will—it’s really you!”

“Of course it’s me,” he said. Will allowed himself to be squeezed nearly to death, then held her out at arm’s distance. “The question is, is that really you?”

She smiled, and did a lively, if not exactly graceful, pirouette for him. “Like it?”

He couldn’t help staring slack-jawed at her, his amazement utterly unchecked. “What is it?” he asked, gaping at the layers and layers of frills covering her.

Offense sparked in her eyes. “A dress!”

Paulie? In a dress? He wasn’t quite comfortable with the idea. And she didn’t look particularly comfortable herself.

“What happened to your britches?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she answered testily. “I’ve still got ’em. Can’t a girl wear a dress around here every once in a while?”

“Well sure, but...where in tarnation did you get such an outfit?” It looked like the sort of dress women had worn years and years ago, before the war, when he was a boy. “I know Dwight doesn’t keep his stock up-to-date over at the mercantile, but...”

Paulie frowned and planted her fists on her slim hips—although they didn’t seem so slim given her ridiculously flared skirts. “It’s not from Dwight’s. It was my mother’s.”

“Are you actually wearing a hoop skirt?” he asked in amazement, using his toe to investigate exactly what was beneath those voluminous skirts.

With a scowl, Paulie slapped his leg away. “Of course! I’d look pretty silly without it,” she said.

She looked pretty silly with it, but Will didn’t dare voice the rejoinder on the tip of his tongue. Paulie, engulfed in flounces, ribbons, bows and lace, already appeared defensive, her pert chin tilting belligerently. From past experience, he knew that once in a fighting mood, Paulie could be a tough one to wrangle with. And in her current state, he didn’t think that would be pleasant at all. Like wrestling a cream puff with claws.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t help asking, “What did you do to your hair?”

Immediately, he knew he’d made a mistake. She scowled. “I curled it, you cowpunching clod!”

“I see.” But while other women sported neat sausagelike ringlets, Paulie’s curls were completely untamed, crimping and sticking out at the oddest places. “Sort of looks like you wound your head around a cactus.”