A Cowboy in Manhattan - By Barbara Dunlop Page 0,6

this morning, and she popped her feet into a pair of sneakers.

Mandy stuck a battered Stetson onto her head. Her boot heels clunked on the wooden porch, while Katrina followed silently on rubber soles. She wished she’d thought to bring along a hat. She had a white baseball cap from the Met that she could easily have tucked into her suitcase.

It took about five minutes to walk the path to the blue shed, called that because of its blue door. There was also the green shed, the yellow shed and the view shed, which had a red door. Katrina had never figured out why her family wasn’t consistent with the names. But she’d stopped asking questions like that a long time ago.

Mandy pushed open the door and made her way into the crowded storage building. “You haven’t told me what you thought of Caleb.”

“He seems like a nice guy,” Katrina answered honestly as she followed inside. Caleb had been friendly, polite and funny last night.

Mandy turned to stare, her tone turning incredulous. “‘A nice guy’? That’s all you’ve got for my fiancé? He’s an amazing guy.”

“I only just met him again.”

Caleb was six years older than Katrina, and she barely remembered him from when she was a child.

“Well, sure. But it’s pretty obvious, don’t you think?”

Katrina couldn’t help but grin at her sister’s mock outrage. “I’m sure he’s amazing. And it’s pretty obvious he’s got it bad for you.”

“Yes, he does,” Mandy answered with conviction, wrinkling her nose and sticking it primly in the air. She turned sideways to slip between a set of shelves and an ATV.

Katrina followed, tone playfully placating. “And who could blame him? You’re a great catch.”

Even in the dim light, Mandy’s eyes sparkled as she moved some plastic bins out of the way. “What about you?”

“I’m not a particularly good catch.” What could Katrina bring to a relationship? An extensive designer wardrobe? An ability to make small talk at cocktail parties? A demanding and precarious career?

“I meant are you seeing anyone?”

“Oh.”

Mandy moved a tarp as she made her way farther into the shed. “But of course you’re a great catch. You’re like some kind of dream trophy wife.”

Katrina didn’t want to be a trophy wife. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Really? What about all those debonair rich guys who go to the same parties as you?”

“None of them have asked me out.”

“They have so,” Mandy contradicted.

“Okay, some of them have. But nobody lately.” Unless you counted Quentin Foster. Katrina shuddered at the mere thought of the offensive man. He hadn’t asked her for a date. His had been a bald proposition, followed by an unsettling threat.

“New York men don’t know a good woman when they see one,” Mandy put in staunchly. “Aha. Here we go.”

Katrina banished thoughts of Quentin, coming up on her toes to peer over a wooden crate. Sure enough, there was a sturdy-looking mountain bike propped up against a workbench. She normally rode a stationary one at the gym a few blocks from her apartment, but she was willing to adapt.

“Will we be able to get it out of there?” she asked Mandy.

“Easy.” Mandy hoisted it in the air, over the clutter and outside. There she pumped up the flat tires at the compressor.

Katrina was more than a bit in awe of her older sister. “I can’t believe you did all that.”

“All what?”

“Pumped up the tires. You actually know how to run a compressor.”

“You actually know how to stand up in toe shoes. So, what’s the plan? How far do you want to ride?”

Katrina shrugged. “Fifteen, twenty miles.” Then she’d limber up, work on her arms a bit, and see how her ankle was holding up.

“I’m going up to Caleb’s later,” said Mandy.

“That’s nice.”

Mandy glanced at her watch. “If you wait until afternoon to leave and take the river trail, I can meet you at the Terrells’ and drive you home after dinner.”

Katrina hesitated. She wasn’t wild about spending more time with Reed. The man made her jumpy and self-conscious. But Mandy was the closest thing she had to a buffer against her other siblings. If Mandy wasn’t around, she feared her brothers would try to railroad her into something uncomfortable, like riding a horse.

“Sure,” she found herself saying. “I’ll meet you up at Terrells’.”

Two

Reed couldn’t seem to get his father’s voice out of his head. As he had when Wilton Terrell was alive, he got up every morning focused on an ambitious list of jobs around the ranch. Then he worked as hard