Saddled and Spurred (Blacktop Cowboys 2)

“Perfect.”

As she brushed the polish on, she sensed Tiffany staring and braced herself. “What?”

“Why don’t you come out with us tonight? We’re whooping it up at Cactus Jack’s. It’ll be a blast. We can crash at Lita’s place so we don’t have to drive back from Rawlins.”

“Thanks for the offer, Tiff, but I have to work bright and early tomorrow morning. So make me jealous and tell me what you’re wearing that’ll wow all the cowboys.”

The instant Tiffany had the chance to talk about herself, she ran with it. Harper barely got two words in edgewise, which was just the way she liked it.

“Well, hello, handsome,” Tiffany said with a throaty purr.

Harper’s back was to the front door, away from the temptation of looking up whenever a new customer strolled in. This time, however, she did turn around. Tiffany had hit the nail right on the head—the long, lean cowboy was striking, and that was saying something. Good-looking cowboys were a dime a dozen in this neck of the woods.

This guy doesn’t have anything on Bran Turner in the looks department.

She ground her teeth. She’d done such a great job of putting the man out of her mind. Facing Tiffany again, she switched her hands. “Do you know him?”

“No, but I’d like to.”

“Maybe you should invite him to Cactus Jack’s tonight.”

“That’s a damn good idea. Ooh, and look. Bernice is cutting his hair, so he won’t be able to get away when I talk to him.”

The thought of the poor man being unaware that he’d become Tiffany’s captive audience caused Harper to grin.

With no other customers scheduled, Harper cleaned up her station. For the first time in weeks she didn’t have to hustle to race to her other job.

“Excuse me.”

Harper whirled around. The object of Tiffany’s affection stood on the other side of her table. “Yes?”

“Do you have time for another manicure?”

“Sure.” Harper expected he’d bring in his wife or a girlfriend, or even his mother. Never in a million years had she expected him to sit down. Her mouth dropped open. “A manicure for . . . you?”

“You sound shocked.”

“I am. I’ve never given a man a manicure before.”

He grinned. The tiny gap in his front teeth added a certain roguish charm to his almost too perfect golden good looks. “Manicures ain’t all the rage for real Wyoming men?”

“No, sir.”

“Maybe I’ll start a trend.”

Harper laughed.

“Such a melodic laugh you have,” he murmured.

Blushing, she scooted her chair up to the table. She gestured for him to set his hands on the towel. Instead, he thrust his right hand at her.

“I’m Renner Jackson.”

“Harper Masterson.”

“Pretty name for a pretty lady.”

Harper rolled her eyes. “Be careful with the compliments and pickup lines, Mr. Jackson. I might think you’re overcompensating for something.”

He threw back his head and laughed. Harper knew everyone in the salon was watching.

“Harper, darlin’, I assure you I’m all man. And I’ll admit to liking the ladies a little too much—that’s probably why I’ve got two ex-wives.” He finally set his hands on the towels.

She winced. His fingers were a real mess. The skin was red, chapped, cracked, and peeling. Two of his fingernails were completely black. He’d be losing those two nails before long. The lines under his fingernails were pure black. Too black to merely be dirt.

“Nasty, huh?” he said.

“Are you a mechanic?”

“As a hobby. My main business is a stock contractor, which means I’m outside a good chunk of the time. I wear gloves”—he turned his hands over, palms up—“but sometimes that makes it worse because the gloves get wet. Then my hands chap and freeze. It’s a never-ending cycle.”

“So what have your other manicurists done? I’ll admit this is out of my league.” She met his gaze. Wow. Up close, Renner had startling eyes. A periwinkle blue.

“Honesty. I appreciate that, Harper. Usually, they soak ’em, clean the nails, and push back the cuticles. I reckon the same treatment you give other clients.”

“That’s all?”

“Then they give me a wax dip, or rub heavy-duty cuticle oil into them and then put on a pair of cotton gloves and let the oil soak in.”

“We don’t have wax, but I’ve got a really good oil that penetrates fast. It’ll help.”

“Anything would be better than this. Tomorrow I gotta look like a businessman, not a grease monkey.”

Harper found the deepest tub and he winced when she placed his hands in it.

After he relaxed, Renner focused on Harper’s hands. “You don’t have fancy fake nails like other nail technicians I’ve seen.”

Was her lack of acrylic nails with designs that could be changed on a whim considered bad advertising? Heck, she never painted her nails these days. Keeping them trimmed was the extent of her nail maintenance routine.

“Is it because you’re the only nail tech in town and you can’t do your own nails?” Renner prompted.

“No. I swore when I finished my last official obligation as Miss Sweet Grass, I wouldn’t ever wear fake nails again.”

“You were Miss Sweet Grass?”