Cinderella Cowgirl Page 2

  Frustrated with her sisters, Linda decided to appeal to them one more time for their help so that they too could get to the dance at a reasonable time. Though her sisters were never in any danger of facing consequences, Linda dared not risk upsetting her stepmother by going to the dance with the work unfinished for the fear of a retaliation that her stepmother constantly hung over her head: taking the stables away from her for good.

  The dance itself was near enough to see and hear, but her sisters would not stand for attending a public event without several hours of hair and makeup preparation, and Linda was fully spattered with manure from head to toe and desperately needed to shower and change. They all needed to go home.

  When Linda approached the office and saw that the lights were off, she walked a little farther to the dirt parking lot and saw that there was not even a cloud of dust in the air from when her sisters had driven off without her. They were long gone.

  She didn’t have her ticket, her wallet to buy a new one, any friends to ask for help, or a change of clothes. After rifling through several options in her head, she sat down on a bale of hay at the end of the parking lot near the manure pile, alone, and realized that she had none.

  She had lied to her sisters. All she cared about was seeing Blake, but she couldn’t do it covered in manure. She buried her head in her hands and thought about her father, listening to the nearby music grow louder.

  Under the setting sun at the Stagecoach Ranch, she could see the twinkling lights of the dance she would not be attending while the big Montana sky laid out above her made her feel alone.

  She wondered how her sisters could have done this to her; stepsisters, she reminded herself, and then wondered why she hadn’t expected it. She had been blinded by her excitement, and ignorant. The delusional, Cinderella dream that she was finally admitting to herself; a secret hope in the back of her mind that a famous rodeo star would swoop her up and take her away from this smelly manure pile, picking her among all the eager, gorgeous women that she could see in numbers entering the enormous doors of the barn, was stamped out.

  The knuckle on a dirty, leather glove was used to wipe away a small tear that had snuck onto her cheek, and she switched to a different knuckle to tip up the hat she was wearing; a deep brown Stetson she had been given years ago.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “How?” Linda asked Carl as she discovered a pile of fresh manure that sat densely on top of the new bedding she had put down for him. She opened his gate and he stepped out of his stall, looking for oats.

  The horses poked their heads over their gates curiously, also wondering if they would be receiving an extra feeding tonight, but Linda merely began brushing the dirt and the knots out of Carl’s hair and his old skin, and he decided he would tolerate it.

  A large portion of the work she had been assigned still remained, but she began to realize that the task she had been given was intentionally impossible, and since she would not be receiving the reward of attending the dance anyway, even though it was close enough to see, she took on an easier task of giving Carl’s coat some much needed attention.

  “Shouldn’t you be at the ball?” A voice spoke from behind Linda, starling her. She jumped and turned around.

  There was an old woman standing there. Linda had not heard her approach.

  “How did you... get here?”

  “Same as you, on my two feet.”

  At the mention of her two feet, Linda looked down and saw that the woman was wearing two distinctly different shoes. In fact, everything about her outfit was mismatched. Her skin was tanned and wrinkled and her hair was filthy. Linda even glanced around briefly at the stall doors, suspecting that the woman had been sleeping in one of them. Clearly, she was a homeless person.

  “Why aren’t you at the ball?” the old woman asked.

  “I um...” Linda was a little off guard, but she had no reason not to speak to the woman. “I’m not allowed to go. If my sisters caught me there, I’d get fired.”

  “Are your sisters there now?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Well, why don’t you head on over for a little while? It couldn’t hurt. I won’t tell.”

  “It’s not just that. I can’t go dressed like this. I smell.”

  “I don’t think you smell.”

  “That’s probably because you smell.” Linda bit her lip a little bit, having come across ruder than she intended.

  “Perhaps,” the old woman chuckled, “but I believe I can help.”

  “Oh really? Are you going to haul a few wheelbarrows full of manure for me so I can finish?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, well, thanks anyway. I’ll just finish up myself tomorrow.”

  The old woman nodded. “Does that wash rack work?” she asked.

  The wash rack was a simple shower on a concrete slab at the end of the barn that housed the stables. It had a spout and two cross-ropes meant to keep a horse in place while it was being hosed off.

  “Oh, um, yes it does. Did you want to... take a shower in it?” Linda paused, not knowing if she had insulted the woman by asking. “Because it’s for animals, but...”

  The two stared at each other for a moment and the old woman’s lack of response prompted Linda to continue to speak, making things more awkward as she pressed on. “You can use the horse shampoo if you do, it’s actually really good shampoo, it will make your hair, um...” She trailed off and stopped herself before saying the last word in her sentence upon noticing that the old woman’s hair seemed to form a single, dense dreadlock dangling off the back of her head and would be impossible to wash. “Shiny,” she finished, still without any response.

  Finally, the old woman, amused, interjected. “I meant for you, to wash the manure off.”

  “Oh.” Linda glanced back at the wash stall. “That would be incredibly cold, and I don’t have anything to change into.”

  “Well, then you’re lucky I’m here to help.”

  Noticing how strange the conversation had gotten, considering the context, location, and questionable mental state the woman she was talking to was in, Linda asked, “Who are you again?”

  “I’m your fairy godmother.”

  Linda, in disbelief, slowly nodded her head in silence.

  “We haven’t officially met,” the old woman said.

  “But you just decided to fly in tonight?”

  “Yes, to help you get to the ball.”

  “Just like Cinderella.”

  “Exactly.”

  Linda nodded a couple more times, then she confronted the woman with some mild questioning.

  “That’s interesting because it kind of looks like you’re holding a bag of aluminum cans from our dumpster. Is that usual for fairy godmothers?”

  The woman definitely was holding a bag of aluminum cans, but she moved it from one hand to the other and behind it was another plastic bag with something in it that was not cans.

  “The things some people discard can have great value to others.”

  The old woman raised her arm, extending the torn plastic bag towards Linda. Her first instinct was, of course, not to take the bag for fear of it most likely containing a live ferret or a used adult diaper. Regardless, some twinkle in the woman’s eye gave rise to the desire to find out what the bag actually did have inside it.

  “This isn’t...” As Linda reached for the bag, she stopped herself from asking if it contained a soiled adult diaper, realizing the implication would have been offensive to her fairy godmother. She took the bag out of her hand, which seemed like nothing more than shrink-wrapped bones with long, cloudy fingernails.

  She held her chin back and looked cautiously into the bag with her eyes, but when she saw what it held she did not hesitate to dive right in. She removed, somewhat carefully so as not to let it unravel into the dirt, a quite beautiful, white lace, summer dress. It shone in the dark as if it were on display in a storefront window, and twinkled here and there with white light from which there was
no source.

  “How did you get this!?”

  “I told you, I’m your fairy godmother.”

  "That's true, but you also strongly implied that you found this in a dumpster," Linda replied while holding the dress out in front of her, and then holding it against her body to see if it would fit.

  “I only said it had been discarded.”

  Linda examined the dress closely. It seemed to be composed of very fine lace that, if she didn’t know better, she would say had been crocheted by hand. It had intricate patterns that flowed loosely but was also solid where it needed to be and was made to fit snugly in the right places.

  The dress had an old-western feel that would look great with cowboy boots but was short enough to be contemporary. Again, she noticed that the dress was only cotton and yet seemed to sparkle impossibly in places when they weren’t looked at directly. And without a stitch out of place, she concluded that it had never once been worn.

  “That’s impossible, this dress is brand new.”

  “Well, I suppose it must be magic.” There was a strong implication in the old woman’s tone and a gentle smile on her face that made Linda wonder why she was so pleased with herself.

  “Okay, if it’s magic then why is there still a price tag on it?” She waved an attached tag at the woman between two of her fingers. The old woman looked a little caught off guard.

  “That’s the price...” she replied, most likely hesitating to think of an answer, “of maaagic...” she said, drawing out the last word and raising her arms above her head and wiggling them around for effect.

  The woman continued to wiggle her arms and her fingers above her head with a wide-eyed, scary look on her face and Linda chose to watch her do it for a while.

  “Okay, listen,” Linda finally interrupted, “do you want me to pay you for this or something? Because I am literally the last person you would want to ask for money.”

  “Fairy godmothers don’t ask for money,” the woman replied, offended but also amused.

  “Are you giving this to me?”

  “I am giving it to you to wear for tonight, but there is a catch.”

  “It’s going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight?”

  “Not the dress, no.”

  Linda wasn't willing to let the woman's insinuation lie. With a sigh, she asked, "Is something going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight?”

  “Not tonight, no.”

  “Well that’s not very Cinderella-like of the situation, is it?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Alright, what’s the catch?”

  “You must return the dress.”

  “Pfft, no problem, I only need it for one night anyway.”

  “... by midnight.”

  Linda rolled her eyes. “I should have known. Okay, that’s no problem, I can’t let my stepsisters catch me there anyway and they should be back before then. Do you want me to leave it... by the dumpster, or...”

  “Just set it on that windowsill in the corner. It will be lit by the moonlight.” She pointed to a certain windowsill in the stable.

  Remembering her other problem, Linda asked, “You don’t happen to have a ticket to the dance, do you? Fairy godmother?”

  "Yes, of course, I brought your invitation."

  "Okay, umm... is that a door ticket, or..." The old woman pulled an envelope from her pocket and, from the envelope, she produced a ticket to the barn dance. "Wow," Linda exclaimed. "Okay, I'm just gonna take a freezing cold shower now and get to the dance then." Linda was confused, but eventually realized she was very happy with what the old woman was doing for her. "You don't happen to have a clean hair tie, do you?" Linda looked at the woman's dreadlock and wondered why she asked.

  “No.”

  “How about some makeup? Is that part of the magic?”

  “I just have these.” The woman produced two small earrings and approached Linda to hand them to her. They were very tacky looking cowboy boot earrings, but were still cute in their own way and, like the dress, seemed to have a sparkle to them, so Linda took them.

  "Better than nothing, I guess," Linda said, pleased with the funny earrings, and took Carl by his mane.

  “I’ll leave your invitation here,” the old woman said as she set it on a stool. Linda walked Carl back into his stall. Caught up in the oddity of the interaction, Linda realized something and stepped quickly out of the stall, saying, “Sorry, I forgot to say-“

  But the old woman was gone. "Thank you," Linda said anyway.

  She looked around suspiciously and, spooked by the woman’s disappearance, decided to roll the big barn door on the stable closed and lock it while she was showering. Just to be certain she wasn’t about to torture herself for no reason in the icy water, she opened the envelope to check the validity of the ticket.

  It was the usual door stub that she was used to seeing each year for the dance, but there was also a fancy card inside that read, “You’re invited! To the annual Stagecoach Country Ball!” which she thought was odd, but almost dropped the card when she opened it up and saw her name inside.

  She looked at the envelope it came in, and on it was her home address.

  Running out of the stable and scouring the landscape for a sign of the old woman, Linda yelled “Hey!” into the dark. There was no response, no movement, and no footsteps. Only silence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The women inside the barn dance didn’t even try to hide their intentions when it came to Blake Lockwood. The hometown hero was bombarded with chests and smiles everywhere he turned and was inundated with fake laughter after every other word that came out of his mouth, whether it was clever or not.

  The hair flipping of these thirsty country girls was out of control, and the arm touching was happening two at a time, and it would have been three or four had he been equipped with additional limbs.

  This was aggressive, intentional flirting and all the shining makeup and teeth bearing, opened mouthed laughing would have possibly driven Blake crazy, had he not grown somewhat used to it since he had become a major player on the rodeo circuit. Plenty of cowgirls wanted to get their hands on this handsome young champion, and a few had.

  But despite their intentions to lasso him in for good, Blake Lockwood would never settle down with any of them. The rodeo life was the life for him; traveling the circuit in the U.S. for four months of the year and, after his win in Laramie, touring Australia as well, along with a handful of other countries that had their own budding rodeo fan base.

  But more credit should have been given to these women. Blake was not just a famous local with more than one six-figure prize under his belt that he had earned by risking his life on the back of a one-ton horned animal; he was also very appealing in other ways.

  The wispy, clear peach fuzz that once occupied his chin had been replaced with full, dark stubble that accented his pronounced jaw and ended just below a pair of gorgeous, well drawn cheekbones. His boyish eyes had since been tucked neatly under a heavy brow as he grew into his face, and their color was a dark, sandy green.

  His lanky arms and legs had filled out as he had acquired the strength necessary to ride the top scoring bulls, and his chest had broadened and his back straightened as his growth out of adolescence into manhood had completed.

  The pimples he had suffered from in his youth were now gone, and his skin had a nice healthy tan from spending his time outdoors. His hair too had a healthy shine to it, and the girls would have died to run their fingers through it had it not been protected by a crisp, expensive looking cowboy hat.

  When the men in the room had a chance, they would pry through the women surrounding him and shake his hand, often sheepishly, some of them star struck just as badly as the women. They would ask him advice on learning bull riding, or bronco riding, and he would share secrets and advice with them with a huge smile on his face that they would take deeply to heart and remember.

  It was very rare for Stagecoach to have its own hero. In fact, he may hav
e been the first. He was akin to any other professional athlete who had gone pro in football or baseball; adored and discussed constantly by those who followed rodeo and knew he was from nearby.

  He was the closest thing this small town had to royalty, and he was treated as such. If one of these girls was going to catch his attention tonight out of all the others, she would have to make a very special impression.

  But there was more than just Blake Lockwood going on at the country ball. Inside the enormous barn and outside it, a live band could be heard for miles across the fields of Stagecoach. The floor rattled and shook with the clamor of cowboy boots square dancing and line dancing, and the hooting and hollering voices rising up from the hoe-down stretched into the sky.

  There was a long bar across one wall and a mechanical bull stationed across from it. Some food stands were there as well and some games, along with traditional rope lighting everywhere.

  It was only as Linda found herself surrounded by the crowd that she realized how few of these people from town she actually knew. These were her neighbors; people she had grown up with since she was a girl, but the isolation of the constant work at the stable had walled her in. Other than the occasional nod from someone who boarded a horse that she looked after, she didn’t see anyone she would call her friend.

  Most importantly though: she did not see her sisters. She figured they may not even recognize her in a dress with earrings on, at least not at first glance, but when they arrived, she would certainly have to high tail it.

  Goosebumps still stood up on her skin from the freezing cold shower she had taken in the stable, but she had gotten most of the smell off. She had washed her boots as well with the help of a horse brush and they looked good under her cotton dress, as if the dress were made to be a perfect match. With the help of the earrings and the incredible fit of the dress the old woman had given her, her natural beauty was on full display.

  She caught sight of a cluster of people towards one end of the bar and knew that it must have been Blake who was drawing so much attention. There were mostly women lined up shoulder to shoulder listening to him tell stories of bull riding and touring as he sat on a bar stool in front of them. They would gasp loudly when he would make a big gesture signifying some danger he was in, and laugh loudly when he clapped his hand down across his knee with a punch line, completely at ease and comfortable in front of a crowd.