Susan Wiggs - Husband For Hire

Sugar Spinelli’s Little Instruction Book

People who say money can’t buy you love just don’t shop hard enough. That’s what I told Twyla McCabe when we first heard about the Lost Springs Bachelor Auction. Over the years, she’s learned to listen to me, and I’m proud to call myself the first and most loyal client of Twyla’s Tease ’n’ Tweeze Salon.

You know what beauty salons are like. We talk about everything there. And I mean everything. Which means mostly men. We love ’em, we hate ’em, we can’t live without ’em. This Rob Carter, though. Would have picked him out myself, but he and Twyla are made for each other. She just doesn’t know it…yet.

Dear Reader,

We just knew you wouldn’t want to miss the news event that has all of Wyoming abuzz! There’s a herd of eligible bachelors on their way to Lightning Creek—and they’re all for sale!

Cowboy, park ranger, rancher, P.I.—they all grew up at Lost Springs Ranch, and every one of these mavericks has his price, so long as the money’s going to help keep Lost Springs afloat.

The auction is about to begin! Young and old, every woman in the state wants in on the action, so pony up some cash and join the fun. The man of your dreams might just be up for grabs!

Marsha Zinberg

Editorial Coordinator, HEART OF THE WEST

Susan Wiggs is acknowledged as the author of this work.

As a resident of a remote island in Puget Sound, I consider myself a very experienced catalog shopper. I thought I’d seen it all, from sheer lingerie to burpless cucumbers, until the Bachelor Auction catalog came into being.

Imagine paging through a glossy brochure filled with pictures of gorgeous men offering to take you on any date of your choosing.

Imagine that this was not only legal, but politically correct, because the funds went to a good cause.

No red-blooded woman could resist this. Certainly not I! I happily jumped right into the fantasy, and found myself in the very heart of the West, writing a story filled with laughter and tears and just a little bit of matchmaking. I hope you’ll join Twyla and her loyal salon customers in Lightning Creek, where all bachelors are eligible, all days are good-hair days and all dreams come true.

Warmest wishes,

Susan Wiggs

Box 4469

Rolling Bay WA 98061-0469

http://www.poboxes.com/SusanWiggs

To the real Sugar and Theda,

who are even more fun in real life

Thanks to fellow writers Barb, Betty, Christina and Joyce, for reading, critiquing, listening and egging me on. Also thanks to Sister K and Sister B for giving this a thumbs-up.

Thanks to the Wyoming State Visitors Bureau, especially to Karen in Casper for answering (with a straight face) all my most off-the-wall questions. Technical expertise was generously supplied by

Dr. Paul Reims. Technical expertise and big hair were also provided by the Fluff ’n’ Stuff salon in Poulsbo, Washington.

A very special, heartfelt thank-you to my editor, Marsha Zinberg, who conceived this project, launched it with her usual creative flair, listened to the wackiest of ideas and made working on it so special and rewarding.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“HONEY, YOU NEED A MAN,” said Mrs. Duckworth.

“A what?”

“You know, a man. A large male human being with big shoulders and no neck.”

Twyla McCabe picked up a rat-tail comb and expertly squared off a lock of Theda Duckworth’s silvery hair. “I once had one of those and he did me no good at all. I have a dog.”

Mrs. Duckworth gestured at the other customers in the salon. “The girls and I have been discussing the issue, dear. It’s time you found yourself a man.” She spoke with exaggerated patience.

Twyla leaned forward over the vinyl swivel chair and checked Mrs. Duckworth’s roots. “Sweetie, I think you’ve been pickling in Number Four lavender dye too long. Why would I want that kind of trouble?”

Mrs. Duckworth caught her glance in the large round salon mirror. Twyla’s baffled gaze was no match for the no-nonsense glare of a retired third-grade teacher.

“To take you to your high school ten-year reunion,” Mrs. Duckworth said.

Twyla plunked the comb in a stainless-steel tub of Clear-Glo solution. “Diep,” she said, turning to her manicurist. “I told you not to say anything about the reunion. I’ve already made up my mind.”

Diep Tran didn’t look up from painting Mrs. Spinelli’s nails. “I never say a word.”

“But you showed everyone the invitation, right?” Twyla asked, feeling her face turn hot and hard with embarrassment.

“I show everyone a picture of you wearing a crown,” Diep said unapologetically. She bent her head over her customer’s hand, using a minuscule paintbrush to illustrate a little slice of watermelon on each nail. When it came to painting theme nails, Diep Tran had no peer. She was the Georgia O’Keeffe of nail art, fulfilling all requests from anatomically correct Greek gods to the words Divorce Me! in block letters. Her presence in the salon had increased business and kept a steady stream of nail customers coming back on a regular basis. But she had a problem minding her own business.

Twyla was still amazed the Hell Creek High School reunion committee had found her. After everything that had happened, she hadn’t told anyone in her hometown where she had gone. But somehow, the reunion invitation had found its way across Wyoming to her.

“How often do we get to see you wearing a crown, hon?” Mrs. Duckworth asked, chuckling. From beneath her smock—a pink one with the salon’s sequined ruby slippers logo on the pocket—she extracted the Reunions, Inc. newsletter. The front cover featured a picture of Hell Creek High School and a photo montage of students from ten years before.

Lord, had they ever been that young? Twyla wondered, her gaze drawn to the layout. The smiles of the graduates burst with self-confidence. The bodies were young and strong, the attitudes positive. A tangible glow of limitless possibilities seemed to emanate from each youthful face.

Life hadn’t happened to those kids yet. Every one of them believed utterly that the world was theirs for the taking.

The largest picture, in the center, showed a much younger Twyla, with sparkling tiara, on the arm of a young man who looked at her with adoring eyes and an expression that gave no hint of what was to come in the years that followed that moment.

Twyla was almost ashamed of how vividly she recalled that night, when she seemed to know exactly how her life would turn out, when her dreams soared higher and farther than the confines of the little western Wyoming town where she was born and raised.

So much for the girl most likely to succeed.

Diep and Sugar Spinelli held an earnest, whispered conference at the nail station. Mrs. Spinelli’s earrings flashed, but not so brightly as her eyes.

Sadie Kittredge lifted the hair dryer from her pincurl set and took the invitation from Mrs. Duckworth. “Who knew?” she asked, her bemused gaze flicking from the photo to Twyla. “You were Cinderella.”