Grand-Prize Cowboy
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Heatherly Bell
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Chapter One
If Sofia Sanchez read one more contest entry from a frustrated wife, she would simply explode. This particular one, so much like the others, read:
Please, please, please choose my husband. He desperately needs a makeover. With better clothes, and maybe a haircut, he wouldn’t look so disheveled. You have my promise that I’ll make him wear the new clothes.
*Anna, (Tony’s wife)
“This is ridiculous.” Disgusted, Sofia tossed the letter aside.
Sofia’s boss, Alexis Huntington, owner of BH Couture, where Sofia worked as a stylist, had come up with the idea for the makeover contest as a way to promote their men’s clothing and introduce a new designer line. But the cowboys of Bronco weren’t exactly lining up for the chance to be dressed by fashion experts. Alexis wanted the perfect spokesman to bring in more men, and rather than hire a model, she wanted someone from Bronco. In exchange, the winner would get the wardrobe and agree to a photo shoot for publicity. Alexis had also mentioned possibly a billboard in town, showing the winner in a before and after photo.
“Another entry from a wife or significant other?” Alexis asked as she turned from the mannequin she was dressing.
Sofia would much rather be doing that, but in trying to call attention to her value, she’d taken on every dull task at the Bronco Heights boutique. She arrived early, stayed late and tried to make herself indispensable.
She held up another envelope. “Isn’t any man in Bronco interested in a new wardrobe and a complete makeover?”
Sofia would have jumped at the chance to win a designer wardrobe. Then again, she only had to think of her brothers to realize that not every man in Bronco cared about the way he dressed. Most, no matter how wealthy, preferred leather, flannel, denim and cowboy boots. The men who did care about clothes, like the Abernathys and Taylors, could already afford them.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find the perfect man.”
“Really? Will we?” Sofia smirked at the double entendre, because her boss was a bit of a flirt with their few male clients.
“You know what I mean.” Alexis smiled back, draping an emerald silk scarf across the mannequin’s neck, then expertly tying it into a knot. “The man who deserves this wardrobe, who really wants it, will come along.”
Sofia sighed. If they were to find this man, it would be entirely up to her. Glancing at the stack of contest entries, she briefly flashed on the old “find a needle in a haystack” saying. Somewhere in this big pile there was a man who deserved to win. Maybe the wardrobe would be all that stood between him and an executive-level position. She would love to find a man who needed this wardrobe, maybe someone from her side of Bronco Valley, where this could make all the difference to his future. But she wanted this man to write the entry essay, not his frustrated wife or significant other.
The whole point of the contest was for any man over the age of eighteen to win the wardrobe by writing or emailing to explain how a new look might help or change his life for the better. From there, Sofia would pick the most compelling and qualified entry.
When the doors to the boutique swung open, indicating they had a customer, Sofia glanced up from the next envelope. Alexis had decided to stay open later in October in anticipation of the coming holidays. Not to mention all the weddings of late. This month it was the big Daphne Taylor and Evan Cruise wedding, which Sofia would attend. She didn’t have a plus-one, but she’d already chosen the perfect dress and accessories.
She walked over to greet a new customer who had just entered—an elderly woman. Sofia vaguely recognized the nonagenarian. This was the so-called “psychic” of Bronco Ghost Tours, the somewhat eccentric Winona Cobbs. She’d been recently reunited with her daughter, who’d been presumed dead, but actually given up for adoption without her knowledge. The sweet-faced woman whose arm she clung to must be her newly discovered daughter, Daisy McGowan.
With a glance in Alexis’s direction, who waved Sofia to go ahead, she greeted them. “Welcome. I’m Sofia Sanchez, and I’m a stylist here. How can I help you?”
“Hello, dear. Aren’t you lovely? I’m here to find the perfect dress. A very special dress for the Taylor-Cruise wedding,” Winona said. “It’s my great-grandson’s wedding, after all.”
“She already has so many clothes. I don’t know what we’re doing here,” the other woman said with a wry smile. “I’m Daisy McGowan, by the way. And this is my mother, Winona Cobbs.”
The older woman put a veined hand on her daughter’s arm. “Hush now. I’ve told you that I don’t have anything that feels right. I need a stylist.” She turned to Sofia. “For me, it’s all about instinct. Do you have a sixth sense about clothes?” Winona cocked her head.
Did she have a sixth sense? When it came to fashion, yes. And more so than anyone else in her somewhat conservative Latino family, Sofia did believe in a muse. She believed in inspiration and creativity, and sometimes they came without any logical explanation.
“Yes. Sure do.”
Color, fabric, print, design lines and form. If that was instinct, Sofia had it in spades. Her older sister Camilla had an instinct and head for business, and one of her three brothers was a born teacher. Everyone had their gifts. Sofia had been color-coordinating outfits for the family since age twelve. For her mother and Camilla, anyway. Her brothers wouldn’t let her near their flannel and denim. So they continued to live happily fashion-challenged. Sofia loved them anyway. She, on the other hand, adored the beauty of a perfect outfit and matching accessories. And she’d been accessorizing since grade school, so yeah, one could say that she had a sixth sense.
“Then I trust you to find me the perfect dress.” Winona pointed at her. “There’s something very honest about your face. I’m getting a feeling about you.”
“My mother has her own psychic booth inside Bronco Ghost Tours,” Daisy said.
“I’ve heard.”
Sofia led them to the back of the store with the changing rooms and the mirror. A pristine white leather love seat and matching plush chair sat kitty-corner to racks of clothing and cases of shoes.
“Please, take a seat.” Sofia ushered Daisy to the love seat, then took Winona’s frail hand and stood her in front of the mirror. “Based on your lovely alabaster complexion, I’d lean toward white, black or blue because those neutral colors will make your beautiful white hair pop. But since this is a wedding...”
“No black or white,” Winona said. “Blue sounds wonderful, but it has to feel right.”
Sofia flipped through the racks, knowing the exact royal blue dress she had in mind.
“You’re about a size six, yes?” She held up the dress to Winona so she could view it in the three-way mirror, and they both admired the way it draped across her thin frame.
“Right on the money with my dress size,” Winona said. “That must take a special talent. But this just isn’t right, dear. Darling though it is.”
Sofia might not always get it right the first time, but she was always close. She could feel it in the air like the snap, crackle and pop of a thrill. She was in her wheelhouse. Flipping through the dresses, she turned to Winona.
“How do you feel about a bright pop of color?”
“I’d say you’re speaking my language,” Winona said.
Sofia had a sense that this small woman was a force to be reckoned with. She chose the long-sleeved red dress from the next rack, a simple and classic dress with a waist-defining tie-belt.
Draping it over Winona’s form, she met her eyes in the mirror and smiled. “Deep inside, you’re quite fierce, aren’t you?’
“Not all that deep inside, but yes.” The smile was returned. “This is the one.”
“It looks like you and my mother will get along just fine,” Daisy added from her chair. “You both have good intuition about people.”
“You look vibrant,” Sofia told her new client, “and I bet you feel powerful.”
“I am powerful.” Winona tilted her chin.
And, of course, she was. Winona was now part of the Abernathy family, after all, one of the biggest ranching dynasties in Bronco Heights. That kind of wealth and influence defined a person.
Last year, with help from her grandson Evan, Melanie Driscoll and a long-lost journal, Dorothea—known as Daisy to her family—had discovered that she was in fact the long-lost secret child of Winona and Josiah Abernathy, Winona’s first love. Unfortunately, he’d died last year shortly after being reunited with Winona and Daisy. Though she’d only known both of her real parents for a brief time, Daisy was grateful to be able to share time with her mother, and the two were usually found about town together.
“Please try it on for size while I search for the perfect accessories.”
Sofia chose silver flats and a black scarf to accessorize and had Winona try on the entire ensemble.
“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” she joked.
A few minutes later, Sofia carefully wrapped the dress, shoes and scarf, and Winona paid for her purchases.
While her daughter picked up the shopping bag, Winona zeroed in on the stack of envelopes near the register. She appeared to be in a kind of trance.
“Those are entries for the contest we’re having.” Sofia briefly touched the stack.
“That’s the right one, believe me.” Winona pointed to a blue envelope, just one in the stack of contest entries. “I can tell you’ve been searching. Well, this is the one you’ve been looking for. You won’t be sorry.”
“Why? Do you know who wrote it?”
“No clue! But it’s the right one.”
That sounded ridiculous. Winona couldn’t possibly know the winning entry without reading it first.
“But...why this one?” Sofia asked, picking up the envelope, but Daisy and Winona were already making their way out of the boutique, waving to someone outside.
Confused but intrigued, Sofia opened it and read.
My name is Boone Dalton. I’m 31 years old, and I’d like a chance to win the wardrobe. I think I need a total makeover to finally be accepted into Bronco. My family and I moved here two years ago, but we’re not well respected. Sometimes I think that maybe because of the way I dress, I get passed over. I know I shouldn’t care what others think of me, but I’d like the chance to make my family proud. Looks can only go so far, but maybe I can finally prove to everyone that I’m someone they should respect.
Sofia’s heart gave a powerful tug. How well she remembered years ago when a mean girl had made fun of Sofia’s hand-me-downs. She’d thought the clothes she wore were beautiful until someone pointed out that they were “second rate.”
“Finally,” she whispered. “Alexis! I think we have a live one.”
“Great.” Alexis came to join Sofia, who handed her the entry. She read it, too. “Oh, my. Poor guy.”
“I know. Winona Cobbs said he’s the one! How about that? She just knew and pointed right to the envelope.”
“You mean Winona Cobbs, Evan Cruise’s great-grandmother? The lady who has a psychic booth at Bronco Ghost Tours?” Alexis shook her head. “I wouldn’t go by her. Read all of them and see if you find another guy. It’s only fair to read them all.”
Sofia sighed. It wasn’t just Winona’s input, but she wanted to stop at Boone Dalton. Like Daniel Boone. What a cool name. And the words just jumped off the page, his emotion and desire to be accepted palpable. There was a certain sparkle in that letter that she almost felt in a physical sense. But she shook it off.
She’d certainly never claimed to be psychic. It didn’t make any sense to be drawn to the letter, or why without explanation she knew he was the one. She wanted to meet this man and help him earn the respect he deserved from whatever hoity-toity people in the Bronco Heights section of town didn’t think him good enough.
She read the rest of the entries, all from frustrated girlfriends and wives, and one ten-year-old boy who wanted to impress a girl. Pretty cute but BH Couture didn’t have a children’s line. Something to think about. Sofia kept coming back to Boone. Time to make an executive decision. Alexis had put her in charge of this contest, after all.
Sofia held up the letter. “Guess what? We have a grand-prize winner.”
And without another thought, she picked up the phone and dialed the number on the entry.
Boone Dalton’s phone buzzed in the pocket of his leather jacket, and he let it go to voice mail. Not that he ever listened to his messages. Who did that? His parents, probably. Not him. He’d just take a look at caller ID and return the call when he got the chance. He led Nugget, the quarter horse he’d been training, back to the stables.
“You did good today, girl. I don’t know why they claim you’re trouble.”
At the sound of a bark, he looked down at the white dog with a brown spot over one eye. The dog had just shown up on the ranch a week ago and had taken to following Boone around.
“You, too, of course. Whatever your real name is.”
The dog yipped and yapped again, and Boone bent down to give him a quick pat. “Suppose if you stick around here much longer, I might have to give you a name.”
When his father won big at the gambling tables in Las Vegas, the family had moved to Bronco. He’d then bought Dalton’s Grange, giving Boone the opportunity to follow his dream of training horses. He’d been riding since he was four, and his mother often accused him of liking horses more than he did people. Which wasn’t exactly true.
The only people he didn’t like were the Abernathys and Taylors of Bronco Heights. The kind of people who believed that because they’d had their money longer, and had a so-called legacy, this made them better than anyone else. So far, they hadn’t even accepted the Daltons into The Association.
Well, he had news for them. People weren’t bred for good stock like horses and dogs. People were people, whether they had money or nothing at all. He’d been on both sides now. Growing up middle-class meant that he still didn’t relate to someone who would take a helicopter to go grab lunch in Missoula.
Boone handed the horse over to one of the ranch hands, cleaned up and pulled his phone out to see about that call from earlier. He didn’t recognize the number. They’d probably dialed wrong, but he called back anyway.
“BH Couture, this is Sofia Sanchez. How can I help you?”
BH Cou-what? “Well, Sofia, this is Boone Dalton. I have a missed call from y’all, but I think you must have dialed wrong. Just thought I’d let you know. You might want to take another look at that number.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Dalton! It isn’t a mistake.”
“Do I know you?” He’d never even stepped foot inside a couture, whatever that was.
She laughed. “You won the grand prize! A makeover, and wardrobe from our new men’s designer line. Your entry stood out above all the others and sincerely spoke to me. When can you come in so that we can start the styling process? I’m very excited to work with you.”
“Um, what?”
“I have some time tomorrow. About seven?”
“Wait. What do you mean by styling process?” Boone was beginning to smell a rat.
“I’m a fashion stylist, and that’s what I do. I’ll be working with you to find you the ideal wardrobe from our new men’s line.”
Aha. Suddenly everything fell into place. Last week his two younger brothers, Dale and Shep, had mentioned that Boone might want to start dressing better if he ever wanted to get a girl. But he did just fine with the ladies, thank you. If a woman wanted fancy-schmancy, she could go after the Taylors and Abernathys of this world. The “suits.” He wanted someone real, anyway. A woman who wouldn’t care about that sort of stuff and wouldn’t judge him the way everyone else in town seemed to.
No doubt, Thing 1 and Thing 2 had entered him into this contest as one of their many practical jokes. Last month they’d set up a fake profile for him on Tinder in which they’d written that he loved “walking in the rain and warm snuggles in front of a fireplace.”
Now Boone was going to have to explain this, and excuse his brothers’ lame joke because he didn’t either want or need a makeover. Besides, the minute this woman found out that he hadn’t even entered the contest, he’d be disqualified. Either way, he owed her an apology in person for having wasted her time. Besides, she sounded sweet, like she honestly wanted to help. It wasn’t her fault his brothers were idiots.
So he said, “Sure, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Hanging up, he headed from the stables to the sprawling luxe ranch house where his parents and younger brothers lived. He ran up the stone steps, threw open the ten-foot doors and stomped through the entry that still reminded him of the lobby of a ski resort.
“Dale! Shep! What did you two bozos do now?”
