Allison Leigh - Fortune's June Bride

“Original,” Galen drawled.

“It’s a ten-minute attraction at a Western theme park,” she countered. “Be glad it’s not Shakespeare or we really would be in trouble. Are you willing to do this or not? After all the problems we’ve had since Cowboy Country opened last month, the last thing this place needs is another canceled show. It’s bad publicity when we’re finally having a week where nothing seems to go wrong.”

The “bad” was one of the reasons for Galen’s presence. But agreeing to answer a bunch of questions about tending cattle and horses and walking around the park taking note of anything that belittled the ranching community didn’t involve filling in for somebody who probably shouldn’t have been on a horse in the first place.

“Weren’t you always in the school plays when you and Toby were kids?” His younger brother had gone to school with her. When Galen had been that age, he’d have been one of the kids sitting in the auditorium, hooting over every flubbed line. Though when he thought about it, he couldn’t recall Aurora ever flubbing hers. Even as a kid, she’d been memorable with her flaming red hair.

“If you want to walk down memory lane, we can do that later.” She grabbed his arm again and was dragging him toward the rough-hewn gate at the end of the make-believe street. “Right now, you need to get into costume.”

He grimaced, eyeing the mass of sausage curls streaming down the middle of her back. Her waist below that seemed cinched down even smaller than usual. “Just what all does that mean?”

She pulled open the gate and shot him a grin. “You’re not going to have to fit into a corset, if that’s what you’re worried about. They save that torture for the girls.” She tugged him through the gate, pushed it closed, and headed toward a trailer that was a century more modern than anything visible within the guests’ portion of Cowboy Country. Even the thrill rides were couched in Old West touches.

Aurora lifted her skirts and darted up the two metal steps, disappearing inside the trailer. “Come on. We’ve only got a half hour before we’re on.”

He went up into the trailer and found himself standing inside a miniature warehouse, crowded on all sides by racks loaded with costumes and props. He pulled a bull whip off a hook. “Ohhh-kay.”

“That’s for Outlaw Shootout ,” she said. “The show’s shelved temporarily until they work out some kinks with the stunts. Here.” She whisked his black cowboy hat off his head and plopped a creamy white one in its place. “Rusty wears a white hat. Naturally.”

“Naturally,” he repeated drily, even though he was wondering what the hell had gotten into him. He hung the whip back in place.

“You need to change your shirt, too.” She shoved a hanger at him that held a rough cotton button-down. “At least Joey—he’s the guy who plays Rusty—hadn’t changed into his costume before he fell off a darn horse.” She tsked as she pulled open one drawer after another. “Being the big-budget show that we are, we’ve only got one.”

She glanced at him. “What’re you waiting for?” She waved her hand at the hanger he was still holding and turned back to the drawers she was pawing through. “You can get by with wearing your own Levi’s and boots, but that shirt’s gotta go.”

Stifling a passel of misgivings, since he’d yet to actually agree , he dumped the script on a pile of folded Mexican blankets, set the white hat on top and pulled his NASCAR T-shirt over his head.

“Ah. Success.” Aurora pushed the drawer closed and turned to him, a black string tie in her hand.

Her eyes seemed to widen a bit at the sight of his bare chest, and she dropped the tie on top of the white Stetson, then quickly turned back around to yank open another drawer while he pulled on the shirt. “It’s a little Wyatt Earp–ish, à la Tombstone ,” she chattered, “but what it might lack in historic accuracy is at least recognizable for the customers. So I hope it passes muster on your authenticity scale.”

She pushed the drawer closed again without removing anything and turned back to face him. Her cheeks looked excessively pink to him. Like she wasn’t all that used to seeing a guy shirtless. “Anyway, about the, uh, the show.” She pulled the script out and muttered under her breath when the cowboy hat fell on the floor, quickly followed by a cascade of colorful woven blankets.

He crouched down to help her right the mess. “Relax, Aurora. The show’s still gonna go on. Though I seriously think you’d do better with just about anyone besides me.”

“You fit the shirt,” she said with a shrug.

He let out a wry laugh. “Well, hell, then. Guess that makes me feel real good.”

She smiled. “And soon as I saw you, I knew you wouldn’t let me—the park, I mean—down. If you weren’t already on staff, we could never get away with this, though. I’m sure there’d be insurance issues and all of that.”

They reached for the same blanket at the same time, knuckles knocking, and she snatched her hands back, straightening quickly to swipe her hands down the sides of her dress.

“Thanks.” She sounded breathless. “I’ll, uh, just wait for you outside.” She shoved open the trailer door and brushed past the guy who was coming up the steps. “Hey there, Frank,” he heard her say. “I found us a Rusty, so we’re still on.”

“Cool.”

Blankets stacked once more, Galen straightened and stuck his hand out toward the newcomer as he came into the trailer. “Galen Jones,” he offered, and sent a silent apology to his mom for omitting the “Fortune” part that they’d all been adding to the “Jones” ever since his mom’s birth family had found her. He was trying to get used to the addition. But it still didn’t come all that naturally. Not because he was opposed to acknowledging the Fortune connection. But to him, it just all sounded sorta...fancy. Which he wasn’t.

The other man shook his hand briefly before grabbing a black hat—a whole lot cleaner and dandier-looking than Galen’s usual one—and setting it on his gleaming blond head. “Frank Richter,” he said, studying his reflection in the mirror over the drawers. “I play Frank, the dastardly villain. Nice to have the right name already for a part.” He adjusted the hat so it sat at an angle, dipping low over his right eye. “Haven’t seen you around here before. You been with Moore Entertainment for long?”

“Not all that sure I’m technically ‘with’ Moore Entertainment.” Galen didn’t need to adjust his hat. He dropped Rusty’s Stetson on his head the same way he did with his own cowboy hat every single day. Didn’t matter if it was black or white or straw. For him, the covering wasn’t a matter of costume, but nature. Same as his leather Castleton boots that he got resoled every few years. “I’m the authenticity consultant.” He felt more than a little stupid just saying the words, same way he felt using Fortune Jones as his last name when all his life, “Jones” had been plenty, and he flipped up the collar of Rusty’s shirt and started on the tie. He didn’t need a mirror for that, either. He’d worn a similar one to the Valentine’s Day wedding when three of his brothers and one of his sisters all got hitched on the same day.

The powers that be for Moore Entertainment considered him a cowboy. So he guessed that made the tie authentic enough for the theme park.

“Heard they’d hired something like that.” Frank was running some dinky comb covered with clear goop through his eyebrows, and Galen nearly stared. “You’re supposed to make sure Cowboy Country rings true .” Frank air-quoted the word and looked over his shoulder at him. They were about the same height, though Galen damn sure never once combed his eyebrows, with goop or without.