Frisco Joe's Fiancee Page 12

  “We can’t come here,” Katy said. “We’re going to stay and fight.”

  “Fight?” Now there was a word Mimi had some passing acquaintance with. “What kind of fight?”

  “Oh, metaphorically speaking. Never mind that,” Delilah said, brushing off the question. She smiled at Mimi. “We have to go now, but have a good time.”

  Mimi hugged Delilah. “You’re like my fairy godmother.”

  “I hope the mystery man is a prince, then.”

  “Oh. Him. Yeah, maybe he will be.” Too bad Mason can’t see this dress. It would knock his boots off!

  Of course, there was no need for drastic measures. She didn’t even know why she cared about what His Highness the Hard-Headed thought.

  “Goodbye,” she said, walking the ladies to the door. “Stop back by some day.” Not too soon, of course, because Helga was due to come tomorrow, and she didn’t want anyone’s feelings hurt. “Bye!”

  “Bye!” the group called back. It was like watching a camp retreat, Mimi mused, as the ladies put their suitcases on the porch and went outside.

  Thirty minutes later, they loaded up into various trucks, driven by the Jefferson brothers, and headed out. For the bus station, likely.

  The phone rang, and she jerked it up, still amazed by the woman staring back at her in the mirror. How did those women get her hair to curl like that? So sexy and feminine! It was almost like not looking at herself, but someone soft and gentle and desirable. “Hello?”

  “Mimi, Frisco.”

  She frowned at his growl. “So?”

  “So you remember when you said you weren’t helping us out while Mason was gone?”

  Her lower lip stuck out. “Yeah?”

  “Well, you done a fine job of keeping your word, but now you’re going to have to come over.”

  Not in these heels, buster. Delilah’s crew had talked her into pantyhose—disgusting!—and high heels. The dress and heels were to be shipped to the Lonely Hearts Salon after tonight. She wasn’t going to risk ruining this get-up just because Frisco had been careless. “I can’t. Can it wait until…tomorrow?” When Cinderella will be wearing jeans and boots again and not borrowed girlie glam?

  “There’s a woman here—in my room, I might add—who seems to think she’s applying for a job,” he said tersely.

  Mimi blinked. It couldn’t be any of Delilah’s girls—they’d all just left. Annabelle was long gone. “You shouldn’t let strangers in the house, Frisco. Anyway, there’s no position to apply for. I thought we settled that a few days ago.”

  “We did. This lady says—in very broken English—that you sent for her. Her name is Helga.”

  “Oh! Helga! Why didn’t you say so? I’ll be right there. You be nice to her, Frisco. Just because you’ve got a broken leg is no reason to be a sourpuss.”

  She hung up, gave herself one last glance in the mirror—and a fluff under her long, curly hair just for fun. She called to her dad that she was leaving and decided that this once she’d drive next door.

  “WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?”

  Mimi glared at Frisco, prone in the bed with a very large, very old woman sitting next to him on a chair she’d moved quite close to the bed—almost as if she were afraid he might escape.

  “Why are you dressed like that? You look like a showgirl,” he complained.

  “A showgirl?”

  “Yeah, the kind that—”

  “Sh! I’m sure you have wide experience in the different varieties of showgirls, Frisco. We need not hear about your downfall.” She pinched the big toe of his bad leg surreptitiously and smiled at the grim-faced woman tucked right up beside Frisco’s bed.

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” she said with a sugary smile. “Welcome to Union Junction, Helga.”

  “Tank you,” Helga said without smiling.

  She was perfect. As nice as Delilah’s crew had been, this was the housekeeper Mason needed.

  “You’re hired,” she said.

  “Tank you,” Helga replied, her eyes gleaming as she looked down at Frisco. Mimi pinched his toe again, enjoying his smothered curse.

  That would teach him to call her a showgirl.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I’m home!”

  A man’s voice from downstairs brought a gasp from Mimi. “Mason!”

  She tore downstairs, fluffing her hair one last time before bursting from the stairwell. He was looking through the mail.

  “Hi, Mason,” she said.

  He glanced up, did a double take.

  Mimi’s heart soared.

  “What happened to you?” he asked.

  Her heart crash-landed. “What?”

  He stared at her, his gaze taking in the oh-so-short skirt, the high, strappy heels and then the curls. Scratching his head, he said, “Let me guess. Costume party?”

  Drawing herself up tall, she forced herself to act as if she didn’t want to kick him in the shin. “Not tonight. Maybe in October, though. Mason, the housekeeper is upstairs with Frisco.”

  “Great.” His head swivelled as he glanced around the den and kitchen, his gaze much more interested and approving than he’d been to her. “New curtains. Flowers. Mm, and something’s in the oven.”

  Delilah and her crew must have put something in for the guys before they left. Mimi stood statue-still as Mason looked at his feet. “And vacuumed, even.” He looked up at her, his eyes full of…surprise. “You were right,” he said, not bothered at all to have to make the admission. “We did need a housekeeper around here. She’s awesome, Mimi.”

  Her heart crumbled, she wasn’t about to tell him that Helga wasn’t the cause of his newfound contentment. He looked too happy, and it was so great to have one of her plans go right instead of backfiring like a bad firework.

  “I’m glad you…think she’ll work out for you.”

  “Well, if she did all this, then yeah, it’s going to be great!”

  His enthusiasm was heartening, yet it was killing her. Why not that glow in his eyes for her?

  “I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”

  “What’s the hurry? Stay and have dinner with us. It smells great.”

  Stay and have dinner with me and the boys, she wanted to mimic. She looked down at her sparkly nails and her gleaming red toenails. “I can’t. Thanks, though, Mason. Good night.”

  She went to the front door, turning at the last moment. He was looking through the mail again.

  “By the way, her name is Helga.”

  “What? Oh, okay.”

  He nodded, as if it mattered. But now she knew it didn’t. Mason didn’t care who took care of his hearth and home. She was his friend, and she always would be.

  She left, her heart broken.

  MASON COULD HARDLY WAIT until the front door closed behind Mimi. He’d nearly dropped his teeth when he looked up and saw her! His heart thundered and his blood felt as if it was going to pound out of his ears.

  It had been totally obvious that she had a date, and he wasn’t about to let on how much that bugged him. She’d never bothered to get all babed up for him, though. Whoever it was, he had to be someone she was set on impressing. He’d never seen her in high heels. Not even at the prom, damn it. She’d worn a long dress and her boots underneath.

  His brow furrowed. In fact, if they hadn’t swum in the swimming hole over the years, he’d never even have seen her toenails. And there she was, with some red glittery paint peeping out of shoes that looked as if they belonged on one of Laredo’s dates.

  He didn’t want Mimi giving another man glittery toes and heart-shaped cleavage.

  Damn and blast. More had changed around here than the curtains.

  “Mason? Is that you?” Frisco called.

  He sounded edgy. “Be right up,” Mason answered.

  Needing it bad, he grabbed a beer to keep him company. He’d swallowed half of it before he crested the stairwell, and it was a good thing, too, otherwise he would have spewed it.

 
Frisco had what looked like a busted leg—surely there was a costume party Mimi and Frisco weren’t telling him about—and an elderly female warden was frisking his brother.

  “What’s…going on?” Mason asked weakly.

  “She—Ms. Helga—wants me to change the channel. She doesn’t think watching Sex Slaves from Outer Space is good for a man with a broken leg.”

  “Why not?”

  “Hell if I know!” Frisco finally gave up and surrendered the remote. The channel was changed to a cooking show.

  “Do something,” Frisco pleaded.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Mason demanded, frowning at the leg cast.

  “Ch-ch,” Ms. Helga said.

  “Uh, sorry.” Mason looked at his brother, who looked imprisoned. Maybe Ms. Helga was only efficient like this because Frisco was laid up. All the other changes he’d seen in the house so far were positive ones. If they had to tone down the swearing, that would probably be best for all of them.

  “Do something,” Frisco implored.

  “I think…I’ll go get another beer.” He headed downstairs, his brain too twisted by Mimi’s get-up to deal with Frisco’s moaning right now. Ms. Helga was obviously very conscientious about her work. Conscientious wouldn’t kill Frisco.

  Besides, dinner smelled heavenly.

  AN HOUR LATER, MASON thought he was going to heave his dinner; he was outside counting calves and a red Ferrari pulled into Mimi’s driveway.

  He ducked behind some big-bodied heifers to spy unashamedly. Ten minutes later, out she came in her red dress, with a big lunkhead opening the car door for her. “Dressing to match the car. I’ll have to remember that,” he muttered to himself.

  Since he had a white truck, she’d have to wear something white to go out with him. Very white. With white shoes. And white pantyhose, he told himself in a very smart-alecky, discontented inner voice. No, make that white stockings, garter belt, and thong. Gotta have the thong. Waited a long time to have the thong.

  He heard Mimi’s delighted giggle float on the wind as the Ferrari roared past.

  Would like the thong between my teeth, he told himself. What am I thinking?

  This was practically his little sister he was thinking pornographic thoughts about. This was his best gal pal, his comrade-in-pranks. She could date if she wanted. It shouldn’t throw him. That was it. She’d just thrown him with the new look and the Ferrari.

  Then he sighed. He’d known for a long time that Mimi was restless. She was only staying in Union Junction because of her father. If her mother hadn’t deserted them for the bright lights of Hollywood—an act for which Mimi despised her mother—Mimi herself would have been a disappearing act only rivaled by the great Houdini.

  “Damn, damn, damn.” He kicked at a fence post that had a lean to it, righted it and worked it farther into the ground.

  Then he stopped, horrified.

  He had no idea what she was wearing under that dress.

  It could be the white thong of his fantasies.

  The skirt was undeniably short. A woman wouldn’t wear granny panties under something that delicate.

  Or…or…

  It could be not a damn thing at all.

  “Mason!” his brother yelled out an upstairs window. “Mason, help!”

  He saw Frisco wrestling with his jailer, back-lit by the light in the room. But he had much bigger problems than Frisco’s sense of injured independence. “Shut up, Frisco! Do you want the whole damn countryside to hear you?”

  “Yes!”

  The window closed with a crack. Mason shook his head and went inside the house.

  Surely Mimi wouldn’t fall for a man who drove a wimpy car like the one she’d gone off in. “City dude,” he muttered. “Mimi’ll never fall for that scarecrow-dressing.”

  And if she did—which she wouldn’t—he’d be the first one to throw rice at her wedding.

  Wedding dresses were white. That would match my truck, he thought, mulling over the startling complexity of his undiscovered feelings for Mimi.

  But knowing Mimi, she’d probably wear black just to be different—or annoying, depending on how one saw it—so he could sit in the front row and smile at the sad sack who eventually got duped into marrying her.

  FRISCO WAS READY TO KILL Mimi Cannady. Helga had made him her special project, and though she meant well, he was sleep-deprived and hallucinating. He didn’t trust the woman. No, that was too strong a word. He wasn’t comfortable with the woman manning his room. Oh, occasionally she left to clean or cook or do whatever. And Mason seemed as happy as Mason could seem. Tex and Laredo said they preferred to stay out of it and remained unmoved by his complaints.

  But he missed Emmie, and all the spoiling he’d got from Annabelle. Now that was how a man should recover. Little Emmie relaxed him, and Annabelle had made him believe there was life with a broken leg.

  Helga made him wish for the kind of conscience that would allow him to slip his pain medication into her water glass. She could sleep peacefully until his leg healed—and he could tell Mason that Mimi had hired a cadaver for a housekeeper.

  It was all Mimi’s fault. They didn’t need a damn housekeeper.

  He said as much to Mason when he came up to visit the next day. Helga was off getting him some lunch, so Frisco took the opportunity to make his case.

  “There’s plenty of changes around here, all for the better, I might add. No one would call this Malfunction Junction anymore,” Mason said with pleasure.

  Yeah, they could. It was. Likely it always would be. “Mason, I think Mimi pulled a fast one on you,” Frisco began.

  “Like what?”

  “Like…this Helga.”

  “Favorably recommended by Mimi’s friend, Julia Finehurst from the Honey-Do Agency.”

  “Yeah, well, remember the ad you posted on the Internet? It said over forty or something like that, right? Not forty times two?”

  “Are you discriminating against the elderly?” Mason asked with surprise.

  Mason’s shame-on-you tone grated on Frisco. “No. But, okay, what about the ‘must not be offended by swearing’ part? Every time one of us drops a minorly offensive word, even something so simple as bird crap, we get ‘Ch-ch.”’

  “It’s just as well to say bird doo when Helga’s around.”

  If Frisco’s leg wasn’t broken, he’d have slapped his elder brother with the sense he was badly lacking. “And the part about not minding big animals? She saw that bull get loose to try to jump up on the new red cow and nearly lost her dentures.”

  “She thought that he was going to hurt the female. She was just trying to point out something she thought was going wrong. Wouldn’t you want to know if something bad was happening? Frankly, I find a pair of sharp eyes around here comforting. Besides, who’s going to look after you? We can’t lose a man to baby-sit you.”

  “I was in better hands,” Frisco said, surly-toned.

  “What?”

  Frisco shook his head, unwilling to bring up Annabelle and Emmie.

  “You know, Frisco, it’s past time you and I cleared the air between us.” Mason put a boot up on the foot of the bed, leaning forward. “You’ve been at me like a bad-tempered jackass for months. It’s worse than ever since I got back. What’s eating you?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “I can’t, either. But I’m about tired of putting up with it.”

  “So shoot me and put me out of my misery.”

  “Don’t think I wouldn’t if I had a tranquilizing gun. The next time I’m at the vet, I may borrow one. I’ll tell him we’ve got a big ornery jackass that won’t simmer down.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  Mason cocked a brow at him. “Get off of Helga’s back. She’s done a lot around here.”

  Then he left the room.

  “Oh, brother.”

  Frisco had two options open to him.

  He could become a babbling idiot from sleep deprivation and hallucinations.


  Or he could lock Ms. Helga into his bathroom and call a taxi. He could get the hell out of Dodge City and go somewhere where he could curse when he wanted to, watch Suntanned Girls from Borneo when he felt like it and eat all the candy he wanted.

  Mostly, he could sleep.

  He pulled the card from his cast that Delilah had left him. Lonely Hearts Salon.

  Somehow, he had to arrange a jail break.

  Flipping the card over, he saw a penciled phone number, and a name: Jerry Wallace, Independent Truck Driver.

  Jerry must have meant to give Delilah his phone number, and she’d accidentally put this card inside Frisco’s cast.

  “Hallelujah!” Frisco yelled. Jerry was the only person Frisco knew who was big enough to help him down the stairs. Plus, he had his own transportation.

  And Jerry would understand that Helga, nice as she might be in one of her previous decades, was no Annabelle. A man could die without the basics of life: Air. Food. Beer.

  A beautiful woman.

  A pretty baby that slept beside him.

  Of course, Annabelle might not have him. She was at a crazy point in her life.

  It didn’t matter. All he wanted was her bed—and that wasn’t too much to ask considering he’d shared his with her.

  He dialed the phone.

  “Jerry Wallace, independent trucker.”

  “I need an independent trucker like nobody has ever needed you before. Jerry, it’s Frisco Jefferson, and if you come bust me outta here, I’ll pay your next month of fuel for that damn rig of yours. It’d have to be a reconnaissance mission of sorts….”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Deep breath, Annabelle told herself. She hugged Emmie to her a little tighter. The baby was dressed in her prettiest outfit, and she smelled like the sweetest baby soap. If Emmie couldn’t charm the socks off a man, they simply couldn’t be removed by any means.

  Of course, this was Tom. A father wouldn’t have to be charmed, would he? It would be a spontaneous, natural bond between father and child?