A Wild Red Rose (11 page)

A couple of days out of Cheyenne, Renee took off her straw hat to fan herself at a gas station and obviously saw something horrifying the side view mirror.

“Ohmigod! My roots are showing. They’ve grown out more than half an inch. I can’t go back to civilization looking like this, Clint. I just can’t. My touchup kit was in my bag.”

“Well,” he said slowly, “your roots are a nice color, about the same shade as some other hair I’m fond of.”

“And that is growing out, too! I haven’t had a waxing in ages. Don’t joke about it, please! This is a crisis. What if they show me on the big screen while we’re in Cheyenne?”

“Keep your hat on. Everyone else does.”

“I’m not going then.” Renee plopped on the Nelle’s running board and crossed her arms. I’ll wait here for you, wherever here is.”

She looked as stubborn as that little donkey Snuffy used in his act. Clint glanced down the blacktop with a few small stores clumped on both sides, wherever’s Main Street, he guess. He hadn’t caught the name of the town when they veered off the highway to fill the tank.

“Okay, sit there for a minute while I pay for the gas.”

He went into the station with the inevitable sandwich shop attached, paid for the fuel, and picked up two club sandwiches for lunch. He asked the two sandwich assemblers, teen-aged girls, if the town had a beauty shop. They rolled their eyes. Their moms went to Miss Franny’s Hair Affair next to the local insurance agency office. Clearly, they wouldn’t be caught dead there even on the day of the prom. Sounded good to Clint.

He got the number and called ahead while the giggling sandwich specialists finished his order. Slinging the sack of subs over his arm, Clint picked up his cold drinks, an unsweetened iced tea for Renee and a full octane Coke for himself, and went out to deliver the goods news.

Renee had moved her spreading behind to a picnic table stationed under some dusty shade trees. Sullen for the first time in weeks, she picked through her sandwich, determined to find fault with it. The trouble was they had been together so long now he had gotten her order one-hundred percent right. No mustard, mayonnaise, onions, or jalapenos, but all the rest of the veggies dressed with oil and vinegar. If she had been the one ordering, she knew he’d want the works plus extra jalapenos. They were becoming like some old married couple. Renee shoved her bag of chips, the only thing she could find to gripe about, at Clint when he finished his corn chips.

“I can’t afford the calories. I’m too fat.”

Clint sidestepped that one. “Hey, Tiger, we are in luck. There’s a beauty shop right down the street, and I am going to treat you to an afternoon at Miss Franny’s Hair Affair. How about that?”

Renee’s mouth dropped open. She clamped her lips shut again and mumbled, “I can wait until we get to Cheyenne.”

“Nope, I can tell you are unhappy. I want to fix that right now. Finish up. Miss Franny is waiting for you. I called ahead. It’s so close we can walk off those chips.”

With the tar bubbles in the deserted road bursting beneath their feet, Clint marched her down the main street until they came to a sign with an eighteenth century lady, hair piled high in silhouette and the words in lurid pink, The Hair Affair.

Full of dread, Renee entered the small shop. The place had only two dryers, two chairs, and one wash bowl. Miss Franny, her hair up in rollers, her chosen tint an
I Love Lucy
shade of red, greeted her warmly.

“It’s been slow today, so I worked on myself. We can go under the dryers together,” the hairdresser said, friendly as could be. She wore a smock covered with printed pups and kitties over her dumpy body and rocked back and forth on her white SAS shoes as she sized Renee up. “Need a change, do you?”

“No, just a touch up, maybe a small trim, only the ends, and a blow dry. Clint, I really could wait.”

“I heard there’s a truck stop at the next exit where I can use a computer. Be back in a couple of hours. That about right, Miss Franny?”

The hairdresser nodded. “You bet. I know what to do.”

The man had done more than call ahead. He’d left instructions and promised double the usual fee if she did as he asked. Wasn’t like this redheaded woman was one of her regular clients. After today, the two drifters would be gone, and business had been real slow lately what with people cutting back on luxuries like a good cut and curl.

Clint patted Renee’s hand as Miss Franny covered her with a pink plastic cape and lowered her head into the washbowl. Then, he ran.

“Let’s see.” Miss Franny consulted a chart with little tufts of colored hair sticking to it.

“That one.” Renee stabbed a finger at a bright red strand on one end of the chart. “I don’t suppose this place does a bikini wax?”

“You couldn’t pay me enough to fool with a woman’s privates. That’s why all
those
kind of salons hire foreigners. It ain’t American to mess with yourself down there.”

Having firmly stated her position on the matter, Miss Franny got out her mixing bowl and concocted a dye three shades darker that should just about match those roots and slathered it on. After the dye had set and been rinsed, she combed out Renee’s long hair, still dark from the water, and began to trim.

“Oops, got to straighten that out,” Miss Franny said after every snick of the scissors. “You know what would be great—bangs.”

“No bangs!” Renee ordered.

“You got a face could wear ’em,” Miss Franny assured her as she drew Renee’s hair behind her shoulders and continued to clip. The beautician spun the chair to face her, grabbed a hank of hair, and cut. “Wait till you see how cute this is.”

With that gouge taken out of the front, Renee had no choice but to go with the bangs. Every time she tried to assess how much hair fell to the floor, Miss Franny said, “Hold your head straight, or I’ll never get this right.” That kept Renee still as could be, but there would be no tip.

“A blow dry, right? I could put you under the dryer in curlers and give you a good spray that would last the week.”

“No, no more. Just dry it, and let me call my boyfriend.”

“Whatever you want, hon.”

Miss Franny finished just as Clint arrived. “Ain’t she pretty now?” Miss Franny asked.

“I think so,” Clint answered.

Renee stared at the mirror. All of her siren red waves, gone from her head, lay on the floor. Her hair hung straight, forming a little wedge toward her chin, and a thick row of bangs covered her forehead. The color was a dark auburn, a shade she hadn’t possessed since she turned twelve. She’d gotten highlights in Paris, and let her hair grow because Uncle Dewey said men liked long hair. The cut made her stunned hazel eyes seem even larger, her mouth more vulnerable. In the reflection, she saw Clint pass Miss Franny a wad of money.

Miss Franny whipped off the pink plastic cape and dusted Renee’s shoulders with a soft brush. “There you go, hon. You can get up now.”

Clint helped her from the chair, keeping a firm hand on her elbow, and escorted Renee out and into the Nelle before she could say, “Clinton O. Beck, I’m going to kill you.”

Fortunately, Renee’s way of killing a man involved lots of punishing sex, more than one guy could handle—almost. All he had to do was run his hands through those straight, silky strands, ruffle her bangs with a hot breath, and say, “I really do love you this way,” and she leapt on him again, clawing and biting and riding him hard. Life with Renee was pretty damn near perfect now.

Chapter Ten

“We need to stop at a grocery store, Clint,” Renee informed him.

“We got plenty of food, Tiger, and we’re nearly to Cheyenne. The traffic is getting thicker—tourists coming in for Frontier Days.”

“I want to get a paper bag to put over my head before we get to the big city. Or maybe a plastic one to end my embarrassment forever.”

Clint grinned at her, his deep blue eyes full of mischief. “I keep telling you that new do is sexy. Who would have thought Miss Franny could do a precision cut? And if you did wear a bag over your head, you’d still be sexy.”

He didn’t lie. Many a man would go for that body, face unseen. He told the absolute truth about the new hairstyle, too. It was swingy and sleek, but more wholesome than her usual femme fatale look. If he could get rid of all the skintight clothes, Renee Niles Bouchard Hayes would be fit to take home to anyone’s mama. Now, where had that thought come from? His plan had always been to tame her, help her to see herself in another way, and then to cut her loose to roam free. Might be hard to let her go he began to realize.

Renee slumped down in the shotgun seat of the Nelle as if she were hiding. Clint coped with the traffic and got them to the giant arena without a mishap. A small city of motorhomes and trailers had sprung up around the huge venue, homes for ropers and riders, clowns and bullfighters. They weren’t there an hour when Snuffy Jones showed up to check on the health of The Tin Can and the Belly Nelle. Renee was lowering the awning, but suddenly got very busy setting up the aluminum chairs. She drew her hat down low over her eyes and pretended not to see the clown. Being Snuffy, he got right in her face.

“Miss, is Clint Beck around?”

“He went over to the arena to check in and get his schedule,” she mumbled, turning her back on the clown again.

Snuffy circled her. “I wanted to leave something for him.”

“Sure, put it in the trailer. The door doesn’t lock.” She looked at her boot toes.

“All righty.”

Whatever the clown left, he was pokey about it. Clint came back by the time Snuffy emerged from The Tin Can. Renee excused herself. “I’ll go and make some lunch.”

Snuffy sat down on the saggy webbing of one of his chairs. He spit some of his quid under the trailer. “This is a little awkward. I brought you a picture from Gracie addressed to Mr. Clint and Miss Renee, but looks like you got a new gal along now, so I left it folded up. Did a little inspection tour. Glad to see you’re keeping The Tin Can tidy, but don’t you ever fold up the bed?”

“Not very often. It gets a lot of use.”

“Dumped the man-eater for a sex kitten, huh?”

“No. That is Renee.”

“Well, those bazookas looked familiar, but that woman is all round and soft like a ripe peach. In case you didn’t notice, this one has freckles, hazel eyes, and much shorter dark red hair. Appears that she makes lunches instead of eating in restaurants, too. You sure you didn’t switch her out, Clint?”

“That’s the reformed Renee. You know how women like to change their hair styles, and those green eyes of hers were contacts.”

“Not real, huh? How about the…” Snuffy made a big circle over his chest.

“Unfortunately, no, but still nice to look at.”

“So, how much longer are you going to want The Tin Can?”

“Oh, maybe until the end of August. She’ll probably be sick of traveling by then.

“Living so soft in that motorcoach is ruining me. Makes me think I might want to retire, too, and take it easy on the ranch.”

“If Ruth Ann can stand to have you around all the time.”

“You might have a point. Take care now. Wild cats have been known to turn on people. See you in the arena.” After releasing another gob of chewed tobacco under the Nelle as if he were marking his territory, Snuffy headed back to Clint’s luxury motorhome.

Clint had some time on his hands before the bull riding events began. He planned to show Renee how to have an innocent good time. They rode the Ferris wheel at night, bumped thighs and locked lips on the Tilt-a-Whirl. He let her win her own prizes on the midway. Without being asked, she put any toys she captured into the bag to be given away. They dined late on chili cheese fries. When Renee upchucked all the greasy food on another spinning thrill ride, Clint got her a cold ginger ale to sip and said everyone should throw up on an amusement park ride at least once in a lifetime. He made a point of tucking her into bed and not asking for sex, but he did gently rub her belly, rising up like a little ball of dough in the oven between those once sharp pelvic bones.

****

Clint rejoiced at getting back into his exercise routine in the great facilities Cheyenne had to offer, but leaving Renee alone for hours wasn’t a good idea. He asked Snuffy to take her around with him since Jones distained working out. The clown preferred to work the crowds with Renee trailing behind carrying the sack of stuffed toys.

Snuffy devised a routine to include her, giving her a horizontally-striped clown shirt that made her breasts look as big as carnival balloons and red suspenders that slipped to each side attached to her Daisy Duke short shorts. Below that, she was all long, smooth tanned leg down to her black cowboy boots. Snuffy made her practice saying, “Oh Snuffy, I’d follow you anywhere,” in a breathy voice.

They walked up and down the grandstands open to the vast Wyoming sky, and stopped to do their routine when they came across families with small children. Snuffy joked with the kids and ended by saying, “And now my lovely assistant will give you a toy from my magic bag.”

Renee rooted in the sack, trying to match the toy to the child—a green plush frog for a rowdy boy, a purple cat with bead eyes for a shy little girl—while Snuffy, pretending to be concerned, asked her if the bag was too heavy.

“Oh, no, Snuffy. I’d follow you anywhere,” she answered, fluttering eyelashes greatly enhanced by his clown kit. Then, the clown told the old joke about always leaving women laughing that Renee first heard in Casper, spun his bow tie, and wiggled his eyebrows up and down—a little something to make the parents chuckle going directly over the heads of the children. Renee found she enjoyed playing the bimbo far more than being one.

While Snuffy did his act in the ring, usually with other clowns, she bought postcards of scenes from Frontier Days, filled them out, and sent them off to Eve and Bodey, her parents, sister, and cousin. In the evenings, Clint took her out for some nice meals and brought her home for some leisurely sex. When he had the time, they enjoyed watching the skill of the steer and calf ropers and the hilarity of the Wild Horse Race as teams tried to saddle and ride unbroken horses around the arena in the right direction—which wasn’t always possible.