They say every girl has her price...even if she's a boy?

Thirty
Million
Reasons


by Erin Halfelven

<> 

Chapter 1

He staggered into my mom's deli looking as if someone had shot him. I hadn't heard anything but I came around the counter quickly, "Mr. Hardiman! What's wrong?" One of the old hardscrabble ranchers of the area, Mr. Hardiman was pushing seventy and I thought he might be having a heart attack.

He straightened up a bit and grinned at me, like the pitcher does when he's caught a line drive that just bounced off his ribcage. "I'm okay. Kit, I'm fine!" He laughed strangely. "In fact, I'm just fucking marvelous!"

That stopped me for a moment and I looked around to be sure Mom was in the back. "Mr. Hardiman, you shouldn't cuss; Mom might ask you to leave."

He shook his head, still grinning. "Sorry, kiddo. But it's a situation that calls for a bit of cussing. I just...I'm rich, Kit, I won the lottery!" He held out a ticket. I stared at it but I didn't try to touch it. If it were really a winner that would be rude and if it turned out not to be, I still didn't want to touch it.

"Are you sure?" I asked, trying to read the numbers and remember what the winning combination last night had been. Then something else caught my eye; the ticket end said, "Highway 60 Deli & SuperMiniMart - Whitewater Canyon, CA." Our store had sold him the ticket, in fact it was probably the one I had sold him two days ago.

I shrieked.

*****

Things got crazy for awhile, everybody running around and hollering and jumping up and down and crying, too. Deputy Clay Wilson came in and sort of rode herd on everything. "Some excitement, huh, Kitten?" he said to me. He helped coach baseball part time at the high school, so we knew each other and he could use that version of my nickname without making me mad. "Nothing like this ever happens in Whitewater Canyon."

"Guess not, Coach." I grinned at him. "You want a big drink?"

"Nah. I' d better not get too distracted." He laughed. "This could turn into a riot at any moment."

A real crowd had appeared for sure, but it wasn't hardly any riot. Mostly, everybody wanted to see the ticket and talk to the winner and tell him how lucky he'd been. Mr. Hardiman pushed his rancher's hat back on his head, making his long face look even longer. He grinned a lot and denied any sort of system in how he picked his numbers. "Kit done that," he said. "I just gave him five dollars and took the slip he gave me." He winked at me.

Everyone looked at me. I'm fair-skinned, which is a problem for someone who lives in the desert and likes to play baseball but even worse, it makes it easy to see when I'm blushing. "The machine just gives random numbers, Mr. Hardiman," I said. "I didn't do any picking."

"Even so, Kit," he said. "I've a mind to celebrate right here. All these nice folks, filling up your store to talk to me ain't hardly buying anything." He grinned and a lot of them had the grace to look sheepish. "So, I'm buying! Kit, fix a lunch special for everyone that wants one!"

A Lunch Special is a regular sandwich, soda and chips, $5.95, a good deal. Karen and Alison, my two oldest sisters, took over the cash registers while Mom and I made sandwiches for everyone. It got real busy, so busy I didn't have much time to pay attention to what else went on. The rush lasted all afternoon, when we added it up later, it came to over $1300 dollars. I didn't think there were that many people in town on a Thursday afternoon. People must have been getting off the freeway to come in and celebrate Ed Hardiman's good luck.

Bobbette Domingues from the "Whitewater Rose-Gazette" newspaper came in and interviewed everyone. Then people from the TV stations in Palm Springs and Los Angeles came in. Bobbette is a tiny, round little woman, not five feet tall but she got in a squabble with the tall blonde reporter from Channel 46 over who was interviewing who first. Marcia Deever, the TV reporter, had pushed her microphone right in front of Ed's face, reaching over the top of Bobbette head. Bobbette used to wear the Donald Duck costume and deal with crowds at Disneyland, so she's usually a pleasant person but not shy.

Deputy Wilson called for backup.

Jay Clemmons came in to buy comics right in the middle of things. Jay was about my only close friend from high school, he would be going away to college in a few weeks. We'd been trying to spend some time together whenever Mom could spare me but it was just too busy with all the excitement. He hung around for a bit and even refilled the ice dispenser for us before finally heading out. "Give me a call tomorrow, maybe we can do something next week?" he said as he left. I promised I would.

Finally, about ten that evening after Mr. Hardiman left, it all got sorted out and Mom and I sat down to rest a bit while the twins, Stevie and Curtis, started cleaning up. Alison had taken the little ones home to put them in bed and Karen was counting out the registers in the back and putting the numbers into the computer.

"Two hundred thousand dollars, Kit," Mom said. I nodded, that was our share after the company that owned the SuperMiniMart chain took their cut; I'd looked up our agreement with them earlier in the day. The big winner was Mr. Hardiman but the retailer who sold a winning ticket got a prize from the lottery commission, too.

"We'll have money to pay down the bank loan, fix the cars, get a new couch, maybe braces for the girls." She sighed.

"There'll be paperwork, a lot of it, and it may be months before we get the money," I pointed out.

She grinned. "My little worry wart," she said and patted my hand.

Well, I'm not so little anymore but ever since Dad's accident I had been the man of the house, even if Alison was oldest. So I worried.

Everyone said Mom had too many kids, too close together; Alison would be twenty in six more weeks and I had just turned eighteen, two months ago on June 5. Karen was sixteen, the twins fourteen, Dougie eleven, Winnie nine and Sue Beth had just turned six the day after my birthday. Another brother had been killed at the same time Dad was crippled by the drunk driver that broadsided our van almost four years ago. Little Davy hadn't even been born yet and we almost lost Mom, who'd been seven months pregnant with him.

We were all fair-skinned. Curtis had red hair and blue eyes like Karen and Mom, the rest of us varied from Sue Beth's ash blonde to Stevie's dark chestnut, all with grey or hazel eyes. I was about in the middle of that range. Dad's hair was dark wavy brown and his eyes were even darker but with green and gold flecks in them. He had been almost movie-star handsome before the accident.

Mom smiled at me. "Mr. Hardiman winning the lottery on one of our tickets is the first piece of luck we've had in a long time," said Mom. "Don't worry all the pleasure out of it, Kit." My real name is Keith but Alison couldn't say that when I was a baby and I've been Kit ever since except to the teachers at school.

"Okay, Mom," I agreed. "We'll just savor the luck for a little while, huh?" I sipped on coffee and watched the front door while Mom talked about things we might do with the money. We locked up at eleven on weeknights and I intended to close right on time in case anyone else came by wanting to celebrate. I kind of hoped that Jay would stop in again but he didn't show.

Just as I went out to help Curtis drag the chain guard across the front, Mr. Hardiman drove up in a brand new pickup truck, one of the big four-door Ford crewcabs with flared fenders and a grill like a shark's mouth. It even had chrome running boards. Curtis got excited and soon he and his twin, Stevie, were all over Mr. Hardiman and the truck, asking questions and being nuisances. Curtis wanted him to open the hood and, of course, Stevie helped him ask about forty times.

"Kit, can I talk to you?" Mr. Hardiman said when Mom had called the twins off of him.

"Sure," I said. "Just let me get locked up. What's it about, sir?"

He hemmed and hawed a bit but didn't really say. Mom and the girls finished up closing and I double checked all the locks, while he just waited patiently. Finally he said to Mom, "Mrs. Prentiss, can I borrow Kit for awhile? I'll give him a ride home later, I promise."

Mom allowed as that was okay with her if it was all right with me and I nodded. Curtis practically howled his envy, "There's enough seats for everybody!" He couldn't stand it that I would get a ride in the new truck before he could. Stevie teased him about it and of course that really set him off and Mom had to order them twice to get them into the van for the ride home.

Mom gave me a quick hug and climbed into the van herself. I sat in the cab of the new truck and waved to Alison as she wheeled the clan out of our parking lot and headed for home.

"You and Alison going to junior college this fall?" Mr. Hardiman asked, climbing in on the driver's side.

I shook my head, "Just her this semester, she'll graduate in the spring and then it will be my turn."

He nodded and didn't say anything else for a bit. I began to wonder what it was he had to say that was this much trouble for him to get out. "Kit," he finally said. "I'm a rich man now, the Ford dealer practically insisted I take this new truck on credit. And he gave me a ridiculous amount in trade-in for my old heap."

We both grinned. "You sound like the money is a problem to you, Mr. Hardiman?"

"Well, not the money itself, but having money can cause problems; people treat you entirely differently."

I nodded, it made sense.

He went on, "I want to do some good with my money, Kit. And I want you to help me."

"Huh? Me? Mr. Hardiman, I'm just a kid, what you need is a CPA and maybe a lawyer."

He nodded, "And I'll get them, but Kit, I need you, too."

Now he wasn't making sense, what could he possibly need me for? I tried to protest but he wasn't letting me get a word in.

"I need you because you are sensible and good-hearted, responsible and willing to work. I need someone like that and I want it to be you. For at least a year? I'll pay you a salary, and I'll give your Mom some money, too. Enough that your mother can hire someone to do your chores in the store so you won't feel guilty leaving your family."

"I'll still feel guilty," I said but now he had me thinking. "How much of a salary?" I asked.

"How much would it cost your Mom to hire someone to do your job?"

Shoot. Well, I generally put in a seventy hour week, now that I wasn't going to school, how much would that be worth? Figure Mom would have to pay at least half again minimum wage to get someone decent, then double that for the other expenses of hiring someone, taxes and benefits and training. Holy crud, that came to more than $40,000 dollars! I told him.

He didn't bat an eye. "I'll give your Mom $50,000 to buy you out of your contract." We grinned again, though mine was a little shaky. We frequently talked baseball in the store and the metaphor made the offer seem somehow unreal. "And I'll pay you the same for the year. Plus, give you a place to live and all expenses like food and travel and clothing. Medical insurance, the works. At least one year, maybe more."

I stared at him.

He kept grinning, his leathery face all laugh-wrinkles and teeth. "Kit, I'm sixty-seven, I asked for my winnings in a lumpsum; after paying federal taxes on it, I'm still going to collect a check for thirty million dollars in a week or two. I doubt I'm going to live long enough to spend all of it."

"What--what would you want me to do? Mr. Hardiman, that's a lot of money! I mean, you're talking about giving my family $100,000 dollars; you know we get a share of what you won, don't you?"

He nodded. "Yeah, but with eight kids and a husband in a coma at the VA hospital, I'm sure your mom can find things to do with another hundred grand."

Well, yeah, of course. I could think of a thousand things without even trying. Mom would probably put the money aside to help us kids with going to college, though.

"But as to what you would be doing--well, travel with me--I want to travel. Make arrangements for transportation and hotels, take messages, run errands, read and write letters for me. I'm sure I will get a ton of letters, most asking me for money."

I nodded as if I understood; it didn't really sound like a job for an eighteen-year-old kid, nor one that was worth $100,000.

He went on, "Sort of a personal assistant. We'll make up the duties as we go along but I don't have anyone in my family that could do this and I need someone I can trust."

"You? Why? You would trust me?"

He nodded. "You'll be writing checks for me, I'll get you a credit card in your own name that you can use for me. I do trust you, Kit. I've watched you grow up, you and your sisters and the little ones." He looked serious. "Your family deserves something good to happen, I'd give your Mom a million dollars but she probably wouldn't take it. This way I can give her something and she can see I'm getting something back. You."

He looked off toward the darkness of the desert hills. "I'm not a poor man to begin with. The ranch and other property and investments, I'm probably worth a couple million or so already, maybe more. I know I didn't live like I had money, cause, well, I didn't have cash but I own stuff and I've got income."

He looked at me again, "I'd already been thinking of doing something like this, sell everything and retire. I think I'll go ahead and do that, too. But we can talk about that later. What about it, Kit? Want to go to work for me and be my 'Gal Friday'?"

I blinked. "You mean 'Man Friday,' I'm a boy."

"Right."

I tried to think about it but it didn't seem real. I just sat there and looked at him for a long time. The security light from the store made for odd blue-tinged shadows and his craggy, weather-beaten face looked dramatic, like it had been carved out of a piece of old steel from some vintage battleship. His big hands were folded together on his lap and his hat was pushed back so I could see his eyes under the grizzled brows.

The 'Gal Friday' remark bothered me a little bit. I'm not tall but at five-eight, I'm not completely short either. The only sport I've ever really enjoyed is baseball; and I didn't always have time for one that. I had a tendency toward pudginess, working around food all the time didn't help that, either. I didn't have a girlfriend--again, who had the time? I hadn't started shaving regularly yet and my voice had never really broke properly but sort of just drifted downward to a high tenor.

Briefly explained, I got called fag and queer and worse things by a lot of the guys at school and not a few of the girls. I thought I'd better say something, "I'm not gay, Mr. Hardiman."

He laughed. "Neither am I, Kit. I've been married three times and I'd still be married if the last one hadn't run away from me. No, this is about...friendship and trust. Not...nothing else."

"Okay," I said.

"You'll do it?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I still didn't completely believe it, like the $30 million lottery prize, it just wasn't something that felt real right away. "We'll have to ask my Mom, though."

"Sure," he said. "Let's go do that." And he started up the truck.

*****

Chapter 2

Mom wanted to think about it, of course. We'd managed to get some privacy by going outside where no one but the two big yellow hounds we called turkey dogs could hear us.

"Why pick Kit?" Mom asked.

Mr. Hardiman shrugged. "Alison is going to go to college, Karen is too young and I wanted it to be someone from your family, Maggie."

I noticed that; Mr. Hardiman never called her anything but Mrs. Prentiss in the store but they had known each other a long time. Mom's first name was Margaret and lots of people called her Maggie. She had once dated one of Mr. Hardiman's sons, Gordon, the one who got killed in the rodeo. "Gordo" Hardiman had been a rodeo bum and a local celebrity since he'd got old enough to ride the bulls until he broke his neck up in Salinas less than two years back.

Mom tried to talk about alternatives. "What about your own family, your other kids, Mr. Hardiman? Gordo's wife and kids..." Gordo had married a girl from Reno the year after Mom married Dad; they had two kids, one about my age. I remembered vaguely that Mr. Hardiman had another son, much younger than Gordo and a daughter even younger than that, a girl named Helen who had graduated high school when I was in junior high. I thought there might be another daughter, too, one between the two sons but I had never met her.

"I wouldn't trust any of them the way I can trust Kit," he said simply.

"But they're your family?" Mom was really baffled thinking that someone couldn't trust his own family. I almost understood, would I give Curtis $30 million dollars to keep for me? No, I wouldn't and neither would anyone else sensible; Curtis wasn't dishonest but he lacked the kind of self-control someone needed to handle a lot of money. Maybe he'd get better as he got older and the medicine he took for his ADHD was helping, but my brother was the wild one in the family, a lovable goof that made you want to strangle him while you were laughing.

Mr. Hardiman tried to explain about his family. "Don't think Kit is going to be getting money they would get, they'll get their share," he made a face. "And that's part of it too. If I picked one of them, the others would think I was playing favorites. This way, Kit is just a hired hand to them."

"Well, I just don't know?"

He took her small hand, roughened by years of work in the house and the store; it looked lost and dainty between his big sunbrowned ones. "If Gordo had had any sense, he'd have married you instead of joining the rodeo. Then you'd be my daughter-in-law and Kit here would be my grandchild. You're almost family, let me do this for you. I promise to make the boy work hard for the money." He grinned after the last part.

Mom chuckled and looked at me. "Do you want to do this, Kit?"

I nodded and that settled that. When Mom gave one of us our own choice, she never took it back.

*****

I didn't think I slept at all that night but I must have because the phone ringing in the morning woke me up. I glanced at the clock and sat up quickly, it was almost eight which meant Mom and Karen had gone to open the store without me. I felt guilty.

Alison would be feeding and riding herd on the others and there I lay in bed, sleeping in. Since I was the only kid with my own room, the smallest of the bedrooms in the mobile home we lived in, no one had to wake me while getting up themselves. Karen and Alison shared the biggest bedroom in the mobile, Mom had the second largest and I took the third. The other kids slept in two bunkrooms built as an addition onto the side of the mobile.

I heard Stevie answer the phone and Curtis, of course, ask her who it was before she could possibly have found out.

One of the little ones ran to my door and yelled the message, "Mr. Haffaway says meet'im out f'unt in twenny minutes." Sue Beth could talk plain enough when she took the time but she had a little of Curtis's impatience about her.

"Okay, Chibi-Sue," I said. "Thanks." Her nickname came from a cartoon character who wore her blond hair in the same sort of double ponytail Mom kept the younger girls in. I got up and didn't dawdle, twenty minutes was just enough time to get dressed and comb my hair and drink a glass of milk at the kitchen table.

Alison sort of glared at me but I ignored her. She'd finished with the kids and didn't want me messing up the kitchen again. Plus, she had the Macintosh laptop out on the other end of the table with the modem hooked up and didn't like anyone else in the room while she chatted with her online friends. The Mac she had bought for herself with a student discount; besides the company computer at the deli, our only other machine was an old Sony that still had Windows 95 loaded on it.

I vaguely wondered what kind of computer we could buy with just a little corner of the money we were going to be getting. It felt almost sinful to be thinking about something like that but I'd wanted a computer of my own for a long time. I'd probably need one for whatever work I'd be doing for Mr. Hardiman.

About the time I'd finished my milk and rinsed the glass, Mr. Hardiman drove up in a small blue sports car, a Miata. He had a big grin and he wasn't wearing his rancher's hat, because of course, it would have blown off. I usually saw him wearing his hat and it always surprised me when I saw him without it because he had a lot of curly, dark brown hair, a lot like my dad's but curlier and shot through with gray.

I ran out to meet him and Curtis and Stevie were right there with me; Curtis moves fast when there's something that interests him and Stevie won't let her twin leave her behind. "It's a convertible," screamed Curtis unnecessarily.

Mr. Hardiman laughed and got his long, bony body out of the little car and retreived his hat from the little shelf where a back seat would be in a regular car. He winked at me which confused me.

"Can we have a ride in it, Mr. Hardiman?" Curtis asked. Stevie whacked him in the back of the head and added, "Please?" for the both of them.

"I don't think so, not today, kids," said Mr. Hardiman. "Kit and I have stuff to do and besides, only one of you could ride at a time."

"Did they give you this one, too?" I asked.

Curtis had been about to protest not getting a ride but instead screamed, "They gave it to you!"

"Well, they expect me to pay for it later, but come on, Kit, we do need to get going. You want to drive this over to the Ford dealer for me so I can get my new truck back?"

My license to drive was so new I sometimes forgot I had one. The idea of driving a brand new car made me nervous but I stepped up and smiled like a rookie called on to start the Series. "Okay, Mr. Hardiman," I said, "but I hope it's an automatic."

It was. I got behind the wheel and checked things out a bit while Mr. Hardiman folded his length into the passenger seat. "I'll just hold my hat," he said, putting it into his lap.

"Good idea." I laughed. I turned the key and the little engine purred like a happy cat. With Curtis and Stevie screaming their envy and excitement, I wheeled out of the drive and back onto Lambert Road.

"I didn't actually buy this one," Mr. Hardiman mentioned. "I signed a three year lease. But this will be your car to drive, Kit."

"My car?" I squeaked. I'd dreamed of getting a computer as part of my new job but not a car.

He laughed. "Yup. As my personal assistant, you should have a car of your own to drive. I'm looking at a nice sedan for driving around the city with other folks too. A Lincoln or maybe a Jaguar, of course." Mr. Hardiman, like a lot of people his age was loyal to his brand of car and it would probably be Ford products all the way. It still seemed a little odd that Mazda and Jaguar were both Ford brands now, and carried in the local dealership.

Mr. Ron Shipley himself was there to meet us when I pulled into Shipley Ford. He seemed surprised when I got out of the car. I tried to hand the keys back to Mr. Lambert but he said, "Those are your set, Kit."

"How'd you like the way it handles?" asked Mr. Shipley. I murmured something and Mr. Shipley grinned. "When you said you wanted a car for a young friend, Ed, I thought you had something else in mind."

I know my face turned red but Mr. Hardiman just laughed. "Kit is going to be my personal assistant and gofer. He'll need a car and I do like the way the Miata handles. And looks." Ed, that was Mr. Hardiman's name to people his own age but it wasn't short for Edward. Something else. I knew that when he'd been with the rodeo, years before I was born, he'd been called Whitewater Ed Hardiman.

"Maybe you'd like one of the new Thunderbirds for yourself," suggested Mr. Shipley.

"Maybe I would." Mr. Hardiman laughed. "But not today, Skip. We've got business out to the ranch and maybe in Palm Springs. Kit, you know the way out to my ranch?" He went to the big pickup he had bought only yesterday, the day of his big winnings.

"Yes, but maybe I should follow you? Some of those dirt roads all lookalike." I said nervously. I didn't feel any better when both of them burst into laughter.

Mr. Hardiman explained, "You don't want to be behind me in a convertible on a dirt road, Kit."

"Maybe I should put the top up? See how it's done while Mr. Shipley is here to help?"

"Good idea," he agreed.

Mr. Shipley called over one of the men who worked for him, Bill Short. "Shortbill" had been a junior in high school when I started ninth grade, so we sort of knew each other. He towered over me, six-foot-plus. He'd played football at school, mostly left end of the bench, but I remembered him better as the homerun-hitting firstbaseman on the team where I spent most of my time on the bench and sometimes at second base if we were winning or losing by a big margin.

He hadn't been good enough to get scouted by the pros or to get offered one of the rare college baseball scholarships and with his grades at the local junior college, I think he'd just called a halt to his education and gone to work. Black hair and dark eyes, but he didn't look Hispanic and I knew for a fact that he wasn't one of the local Indians. His folks had moved out from Oklahoma before he was born so maybe he was Cherokee or something. He wore dungarees and a blue work shirt and he'd put on maybe fifty pounds since graduation.

He showed me how to raise and lower the built-in soft top and made rude comments. "So, found you a sugar daddy, Kitten?" he grinned. He knew I didn't like that version of my nickname but at least he hadn't called me 'Kitty' like some people. Or the other nickname that had sometimes caused fights.

I didn't answer the suggestive remarks but just ignored them and asked questions about the car. "Does it have a hardtop?"

"Oh, I know you like it hard," he said almost like he thought it was in the script. "But no, we're out of the good hardtops, Skip ordered one for you." He glanced at where the two older men were talking in front of the big deep red Lincoln, about fifty feet away. "Did old Ed really win thirty million dollars in the lottery?"

"You can read about it in the papers; I won't say anything else about money, Short; so don't ask."

"Okay," he agreed. "Skip doesn't like us greasemonkeys talking money either." He grinned at me, friendly despite his insults. "But I never figured grizzled, old goat-pokers to be your type, Kit. You and Jay Clemmons being so tight and all."

He laughed because he saw me turn red. "Let me put the top up by myself, this time," I said. "You watch, that's what you're good at."

He grinned and winced as if my weak return had actually pained him. I got the top up without his help and he grinned again. "You've stepped in it, you know," he said.

"Huh?" I checked my work to see if it was all okay and I couldn't see anything wrong.

He just laughed. "The top is okay, Kit. I meant you'd stepped into something good."

"You're not good at being mysterious, Short. What are you talking about?"

He glanced at where Mr. Hardiman was still talking to Skip Shipley. "I'm talking about thirty million dollars and a lonely old man, Kit," he said.

This from a jock going to fat before his time? "It isn't like that, I'm just his assistiant."

"Uh, huh. Mr. Shipley!" he called out. "We're done here."

Shipley waved a hand and Shortbill started back toward the shop, "If all he wanted was an assistant..." He let the sentence trail off, grinning at me. "I knew I should have tried you back in high school," he added before turning away.

I felt my face burning. I tried to get my mind around what had just happened and it wouldn't fit with any comfort at all.

*****

Chapter 3

Mr. Hardiman gave me instructions on how to get to the ranch, just in case, then he followed me out in his big red truck. The little Miata handled wonderfully, but what did I know? My only real driving experience had been with a van full of kids.

The Hardiman ranch had one of those big wooden arches over the road, like you see in movies. In the center of the arch was a representation of the Hardiman brand: a capital H with wide, wavy horns growing from the top, The Longhorn H. On the sign, the horns were real longhorns. Ed's grandad had founded the first Longhorn H in Montana back in the eighteen-nineties. Longhorn Henry Hardiman had been a lawman and bounty hunter, too; you could read about him in some histories of the West and in copies of fragile and faded old dime novels. I knew all this because it had been mentioned in Gordo's obituary in the local weekly paper, The Whitewater Rose-Gazette.

Behind the arch, desert grassland stretched away to the foothills and up the slopes of the mountain. It looked lonely and forbidding and a fit setting for the old melodrama about the Mexican road agent and his sweetheart, "The Tragic Love of the Whitewater Rose". Besides the newspaper, there was a Whitewater Rose Cafe in town and Rose's Rest, a touristy sort of general store near the lookout where Rose is supposed to have died of a broken heart while waiting for her lover who had already been hanged for killing her.Yeah, it's that kind of story. The weekend before Valentine's Day, a local group always performs the melodrama in the open air theater next to Rose's Rest.

But this was some of the last open range in California and fifteen ranchers leased parts of it from the federal Bureau of Land Management. Ed Hardiman didn't have the most cattle running on the range but he had enough.

Through the arch, the road split; one way turned uphill toward the ranchhouse and the other downhill toward the corrals, barns and equipment sheds of a working ranch. A big modern windmill pumped water from the local aquifer and further downhill, I could see more buildings and corrals. A few cowboys and mechanics were working at various tasks but Mr. Hardiman had said I should drive on up to the house and wait for him, so I turned that way and parked in front of the wide, one story building and turned the engine off.

The silence of a desert mountain is too big to be broken by the sounds of people working within a hundred yards or even the faraway, almost subliminal, hum of the Interstate freeway ten miles away and hidden by a low ridge. I could hear a jay scolding a squirrel and the lowing of cattle and a pot of something savory simmering.

I knocked on the door and called out before I went in. No one in the desert locks a door if they are to home, "Mrs. Lopez?" Mr. Hardiman had told me the name of his housekeeper and cook.

The wide front door had longhorns mounted over it, inside and out. The main room of the ranchhouse was about thirty feet long and half that wide; two long tables took up most of the space with a few smaller tables and assorted chairs. The walls were pine and the furniture oak and the wood floor covered with braided rugs from Mexico. A big TV in one corner and a very new computer in another looked almost out of place, but I smelled peppers, beef, tomatoes, beans and tortillas cooking and that certainly fit.

Mrs. Lopez came out of the kitchen and smiled at me, "Ed told me you are called Kit?" she said. "I'm not called Mrs. Lopez, I'm Juanita." She had dark hair with just a touch of gray and looked to be a bit older than my mother but might even be as old as Mr. Hardiman. She had that plumpness that good cooks tend toward, comfortable looking, not fat.

It would be very difficult to call her by her first name but I gave it a try, "Pleased to meet you, uh, Juanita." I probably blushed and she laughed.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"Not really, are you cooking lunch already?"

She nodded. "Oh, yes, I feed the hands, too. There are going to be fifteen of them eating here today."

"Do you need any help in the kitchen?" I asked.

She seemed surprised. "Sure, always something to do, come on in and we can talk."

I followed her into the large ranch kitchen, making note of the oversize, fairly modern appliances. Two younger women were working in there already, "These are my daughters-in-law, Julie and Rosie. Their husbands, my sons, have cattle on the ranch and work here, too," Juanita explained. They both nodded and smiled at me. Rosie seemed likely to be Hispanic like Juanita but I took Julie for one of the local Indians. "This is Kit, Ed Hardiman's boy friend."

I blushed at the description and the women all giggled. Rosie hid her mouth when she did so but Julie laughed right out loud. "What you said, Mama Juana!"

"What did I say?" Juanita asked but her eyes twinkled.

"She's just having fun, Kit," Julie told me.

"Um, what did you need me to do, uh, Juanita?" I asked.

Rosie was making tortillas on the griddle so fast it looked like a high speed film of a surreal checker game. Julie had been stirring a pot of something. Juanita went to one of the ovens, "I got to get the roasts out, you can check in the cooler for some green things to cut up?" she told me, gesturing toward a walk-in almost as large as the one at our deli.

"Okay," I agreed. I found some lettuce, tomatoes, green onions, radishes and cucumbers and got busy. The women talked cheerfully and shot me amused glances as I cut up the vegetables and arranged them on three large platters.

"Wow, Kit," Julie commented, "you making us look bad. The boys are going to be afraid to eat it, it's so pretty!"

Juanita laughed, while she carved two roasts into thick slices. Julie took some biscuits out of another oven. "Some of the gringos won't eat tortillas," she told me.

More laughter. Shyly, Rosie handed me a fresh tortilla hot off the grill. I rolled it up and ate it quickly. "Thanks. Nothing like it, they don't know what they are missing. This is delicious." Rosie smiled at me.

Julie went to finish setting the table and Juanita asked me, "You going to be living out here, Kit?"

"I don't know? Mr. Hardiman hasn't really said. I had the impression that he wanted to...travel?"

She nodded. "He's going to sell the ranch to my boys, I guess. Half the cattle are theirs anyway, but they can't pay him cash." She shrugged. "Eddie--my son Eduardo--was born out here; Ed, Old Ed, says it belongs to my family as much as to his." She beamed.

Mr. Hardiman would probably think of something so the ranch could continue. Certainly, none of his kids really wanted to work the place. Gordo had loved the ranch, I had heard, but only as a place to live in the off-season. The rodeo had called him away and eventually caused his death. Ranch life didn't have enough excitement.

The house seemed suddenly full of dusty men in boots and wide hats. I didn't get many of their names and remembered even fewer of them later. A handful I had seen around once in a while, in town or even in the Deli and those, of course, knew my name. "Kit!" called one of them. "Can you make me one of those beef sandwiches with the little Italian peppers?" I treated it as a joke and handed him the bowl of jalapenos, which got a lot of laughs.

Ed Hardiman came in flanked by two large Hispanic young men. They looked alike and had something of Juanita in their wide, brown faces. Neither was as tall as Mr. Hardiman but either would have outweighed him by twenty pounds or more.

"Kit!" he called to me. "Come, sit down and eat. Juanita put you to work, huh?" he grinned and motioned to some empty chairs at the head end of the table.

I sat down on his left side and Juanita's two sons, for that's who they certainly were, sat down on the other side. "These fellows are Eddie and Johnny Lopez." They nodded at me, their eyes twinkling with hints of their mother's humor. "I'm gonna sell them the ranch," he added.

We ate for awhile and conversation moved in fits and starts as men came and went at the long tables. I learned that Mr. Hardiman intended to give "the boys" half of the ranch and sell them the other half, financed over twenty years. The land leases were in his name for another seven years, which should give them enough time to work something out with the BLM, assuming the environmentalists didn't end up shutting down ranching entirely in this part of the state. Some of the non-BLM land was already in their names, gifts at various times over the years.

Conversation at the table took place at high volume with lots of enthusiasm. Everyone must have known what was going on between the bosses but no one spoke of it directly. I listened to everything and tried not to feel to out of place.

The cowhand on the other side of me was named, "Dooley", apparently. "You taking the boss away from us, Kit?" he asked me.

"Uh, no?" I said.

He grinned, tobacco-stained teeth in a tobacco-colored face. "Ed's a good guy, but he ain't hardly been pulling his weight these last few years!" he said loudly. "Getting old, I reckon!"

Several people laughed and Mr. Hardiman turned to regard Dooley with a smile. "You're talking to the laziest man on the Longhorn-H, Kit. Dooley Grainger ain't afeared of work, 'cause he's never done any of it."

"Duly noted," the cowboy said. "But the boss kept me on all these years 'cause I'm the only one that'll listen to him complain." More laughter. I had the feeling that a deep relationship existed among the hands at the Longhorn-H, one of friendship, deprecating humor, and respect. Dooley had hands ridged with calluses and rope scars and in the several years Ed Hardiman had been coming into the Hiway 60 Deli, I'd never heard him complain about anything.

I got a lot of looks, mostly smiling, and even got kidded about being so skinny, which I wasn't really. Some of the looks had an odd quality, speculative. It made me uncomfortable.

Big Ed and Mexican Ed, as the hands sometimes called Mr. Hardiman and Eddie Lopez (even though Eddie was the bigger person, weight-wise), were deep in conversation about cattle prices and bank loans. Eddie bounced up a few times to go print something out on the computer to bring back for discussion. "Save a lot of time if you'd look at the screen, Ed," he grumbled at one point.

"I've yet to be bitten by one of those things," said Big Ed, "and I aim to keep it that way. The paper means a lot more to me."

"Yeah, yeah," Eddie Lopez waved his hand and laughed.

Something in my expression must have attracted Johnny Lopez's attention. He grinned at me from across the table, "Kinda whiff, ain't we?" he said.

"I-i'm sorry?" I stammered.

"The smell, sweat and leather, and stuff we've stepped in." He grinned, "Sorry we didn't take time to get cleaned up a bit, but this is how it is."

I smiled nervously, unsure of how I was supposed to react. Mr. Hardiman turned and grinned at me, "What do you think, Kit? You like the smell of cowboys?"

I know my face lit up like a stoplight and several of the cowhands laughed at his joke. "I don't know, Mr. Hardiman," I said seriously. "I guess the improtant thing is do cows like the smell of cowboys?"

And they really roared at that. Their boss and mine just chuckled and looked pleased. I grinned at him, pleased myself that I had made a comeback.

"You're going to 'Mr. Hardiman' me to death, Kit. If we're around bankers or something, it's okay but otherwise just call me Ed."

I never called adults by their first names unless they told me to, but no one else here called him Mr. Hardiman and I could see how it might make him uncomfortable for me to do so. "Okay, Ed," I said, trying it out.

He laughed and put one of his big gnarly hands over mine and squeezed it. If he had squeezed as hard as he probably could, it would have broken all the bones in my hand but this was a light squeeze. Maybe like one a grandfather would give a grandson, maybe not.

The hands came and went over a period of about an hour and a half; some of them napped in the big padded chairs in the corners of the wide room, some watched TV or grumbled that Eddie had the computer tied up with business. Maybe others did other things but I stayed with Ed and the Lopez brothers while they talked business. I listened; it seemed to me to consist mostly of Eddie and Johnny trying to talk my boss out of basically giving them the ranch.

"You stubborn old fart," Johnny said at one point, then he looked at me and murmured, "Sorry, Kit." Like I hadn't heard the word 'fart' before?

The women came in and began cleaning things up. That made me restless, I wasn't used to sitting while someone else did such work.

Julie took the opportunity to rub her thigh against Eddie's shoulder when she reached past him to retrieve his plate. He grinned and swatted her lightly but kept on talking. "That's it?" she complained. "No wonder we only have the one kid!"

Rosie got the giggles and Juanita scowled and laughed at the same time. A few of the hands still in the room made semi-lewd remarks and Ed announced, "Palaver's over. Kit and I are going into the city to find a place to live that isn't overrun with cowboys."

"Just one, huh?" Julie asked which confused me for a moment.

Ed stood and shook hands with the brothers, "I'll have Buzzard Mendoza draw it all up and make it legal. Kit, we have to be going, it's near to two o'clock." I stood also and the Lopez brothers shook hands with me, too, while Julie gave Ed a big hug. By 'Buzzard Mendoza', Ed probably meant Art Mendoza, a lawyer and C.P.A. in town who did most of the legal work for the ranchers in the area. I'd never heard him called Buzzard before but it kind of fit; he was tall and stooped with the lugubrious expression of a cartoon undertaker.

There was a lot of handshaking and backslapping and some of the big old cowhands looked kind of sad but Ed smiled and joked as he said goodbye to his former employees. Before we left, Juanita gave me a hug, then Julie and then Rosie hugged me. It kind of felt right; we were always hugging in my family too.

As we walked out the door, Ed did a little hop and hung his rancher's hat on the longhorns over the door. "And there let it stay," he said, still smiling. The Lopez boys nodded and I knew it would still be there as long as they lived if Ed didn't come back to claim it.

*****

Chapter 4

I rode into Palm Springs with Ed driving the convertible. "We don't want to live in the Springs," he said. "Too damn hot in the summer time, but it's the closest place to get nice clothes."

"Clothes?" I said, watching the desert stream by and listening to the little air leaks that, I found out, even a new convertible has.

"Yup. I'm not a cowboy anymore, Kit. I shook hands with the Lopez boys and they own my ranch now. I don't think it's right to dress like a cowboy if you're not one." He grinned to show that was some kind of joke and ran his free hand through his nearly black, curly hair.

I'd have to get used to seeing him without his rancher's hat, I realized. "So what kind of clothes are you going to get?"

"I'm not sure," he said. "What kind of comfortable clothes does a rich old man wear?"

I mulled that over for a minute but anyway I looked at it, it made me smile. I couldn't imagine what Ed would look like without his rancher's hat and blue jeans and wide leather belt.

He saw me smiling and grinned again. "We'll get you some new clothes, too."

That thought embarrassed me and I kept smiling to hide it. "I don't need new clothes, Mr. Hardiman."

"Ed," he reminded me. "Sure you do, Kit. You're not just a kid working in a deli anymore, you're a rich old man's favorite assistant."

I didn't say anything for a bit, still letting things settle into place in my mind. The whole situation kept looking different from different angles, first one thing then another then something else.

"I'm still not sure about what I'm supposed to be doing for you, uh, Ed," I ventured after a bit.

"You'll figure it out as you go along, Kit," he said, still smiling.

*****

There are a lot of expensive places to buy clothes in Palm Springs. It rather surprised me when Ed drove directly to one and didn't cruise past several before finding the one he wanted. This place was called Mr. K's and the sign wasn't that large. We parked in the lot and walked toward the side door of the stucco and glass building.

"Don't let me make myself look foolish, Kit," Ed asked before we went in.

"Yes, sir," I said, having no other idea how to reply to that.

Inside, there were displays of clothing on slim, manly mannequins and there were several slim, manly sales people waiting on customers. One of the salesmen gave us a look, that look, but before he started toward us another man, older and wiser looking somehow nudged him aside and approached us. "Mr. Hardiman?" he asked.

Ed looked pleased and I realized he must have called ahead. "Yes, I'm Ed and this is my assistant, Kit."

"I'm Cooper," said the salesman with a nod toward me, "Mr. Kreuzlieber asked me to help you find what you needed. A couple of good business suits and some casual clothes? Is that correct?"

"Yeah," Ed drawled. He seemed amused by the attention. "And some clothes for Kit here, too."

Cooper, first name or last I never found out, glanced at me and said in a slightly louder voice, "Temple, would you help young Kit find some clothing?"

Temple turned out to be a taller, blonder, slimmer version of Cooper who stepped up and introuduced himself. "Shall I take your measurements, Kit?" I nodded and he used his tape to quickly measure me, "Are you going to be needing shoes?" he asked at one point.

"I guess so," I said looking down at my slightly ratty sneakers.

"Have a seat," he said, indicating a plush chair.

I sat and looked around again. There were two other customers, or perhaps in a place like this, clients. Both were getting the same level of personal attention that Ed and I were receiving. Thinking about how much this would cost made me nervous but I tried not to show it.

Temple got out one of those foot-measuring caliper things and pulled a stool over. He saw me looking toward where Ed was being shown suit fabrics. "Let me take off your shoes," he said and did so. There was something about Temple that made me nervous, too. The way he spoke, the way he moved, the way he wore his clothes.

He grinned at me from under brows I felt sure he had plucked to achieve such a perfect arch. "Where did you meet--him?" he asked.

"At the deli where I work--worked," I said, keeping it simple. He took off my shoes and even my socks, then slipped a pair of silky, blue socks on in their place before measuring my feet.

"Ah, hah," said Temple through his nose. "You take a 6-1/2B, probably a 7 in some styles, is that right?"

I nodded, my small feet and hands had been rather embarrassing at times but this whole situation had begun to overload those circuits. Ed waved at me from behind one of the racks of suit coats.

I waved back. Temple glanced up, saw Ed and chuckled. "Oh, he's a hunk, isn't he?" he whispered.

I felt my face get hot, okay, the embarrassment circuits hadn't completely burned out. "It's--" I began but gave it up. No simple way of denying Temple's inferences came to mind; at least, none that weren't just as embarrassing as letting him think whatever he wanted to think.

He slipped some leather sandals on my feet and stood up. "Let's look at some fabric, shall we?" I followed him toward some racks of cloth. "You're a spring," he commented. That left me blank for a moment until it made sense in context. "Harder to find good business suit colors for you. Perhaps a pearl-gray with a narrow royal stripe?" He showed me what he meant and put a length of the cloth in my hand.

I'd never felt cloth like that, soft, smooth--"It's silk!" I said.

"Well, yes," he nodded. "It's crazy to wear wool in Southern California?"

The fabric was a soft, warm, pale gray with a stripe of blue in it so faint as to be almost imaginary. It was a beautiful piece of cloth and I guess my face showed what I thought of it because Temple laughed softly and said, "Yes, this will do nicely."

We picked another similar fabric in an off-black color for a more formal suit, and then we began choosing shirts. Royal blue seemed a natural choice but I balked a little when Temple picked a couple of shirts in a sort of peachy-pink. "I don't think I could wear those," I said.

"Trust me," said Temple. "You'll look fabulous in these colors." He grinned. "You're young, you've got a rich 'friend', you might as well dress the part." I could hear the quote marks in the way he said 'friend'.

I didn't argue because I couldn't think of how to begin and Temple threw me off stride with his next question. I had to ask him to repeat it, not because I didn't hear it but because I didn't believe he had asked.

"How're your legs? I bet you have nice legs," he added the second time and he giggled.

"I don't really know," I said honestly. "I've never thought about it."

He looked at me oddly. "You're pretty new at this?"

I nodded. New at everything but I didn't want to think too hard about just what he meant by 'this'.

"Okay, well, everyone in the Springs wears shorts; we'll get you a few pair." He picked up a set in an unlikely shade of--I can't think what to call the color--hot burgundy? He handed me the shorts and a knit polo in blue-green. "Try these," he urged. "We'll see how you look." He inclined his head toward the dressing area.

Reluctantly, I went behind the partition and pulled a curtain across the opening. I took off my good Levi's and the white shirt I had been wearing and tried on the shorts. They fit, a bit snug in the back and more than a bit shorter than any shorts I'd ever worn before. The shirt fit well too and did a lot to conceal the fact that I carried a bit too much softness around my middle.

The mirror didn't lie, I did look good in those colors but the cut of the shorts bothered me. "If they didn't have a fly, they'd be hot pants," I muttered to myself.

The curtain flew aside and Temple regarded me. "Oh, yes!" he enthused. "And you have fabulous legs!"

Startled, all I could think to say was, "I do?"

*****

We finally left Mr. K's with a few parcels, and more to be sent to our hotel. I didn't say anything about that until we were in the car. "Our hotel? When did we get a hotel room?"

Ed laughed. "I called in reservations early this morning, and it's not a room, it's a suite. I think you'll like it."

I mulled that over. Something about the easy way Ed moved through this environment was bothering me. I'd been talked into wearing the burgundy shorts and blue polo shirt out and I had on a pair of shoes brought over from the cobbler next door to Mr. K's--sneaks that probably cost more than my sister's books and fees at the local junior college. I had no way of reckoning up how much the shopping excursion might have cost since there were no prices anywhere visible in Mr. K's shop.

We drove on down the boulevard and turned in at one of the more expensive hotels in town. And Palm Springs has some expensive hotels; even in the summer off-season this would not be a cheap place to stay. "Ed, have you done this sort of thing before?" I finally managed to ask.

A parking valet opening my door, just as Ed stopped the car, startled me and saved Ed from replying just then. We got out of the car, Ed took the chit offered by the attendant and we went inside, into the cool of the lobby. For August in Palm Springs, it was actually quite pleasant outside, not above 95 degrees F. In my shorts and thin shirt, I suddenly felt a little chilly.

Ed dealt with the desk while I just looked around. Marble floors, statuary, fountains, tall colonnaded windows, long marble-topped desks and tables, four couches and several over-stuffed chairs decorated in some Renaisance-themed print, the furnishings of the lobby were probably worth more than the city hall of the town where I grew up.

I noticed two men standing near the entrance of the restaurant were looking at me. They were both tall, with moustaches and sleek haircuts and they wore--well, they were wearing what were basically versions of what I wore--shorts, sneaks and a polo shirt. But their chests and arms were heavily muscled and their legs were hairy. I knew I must look like a little kid next to them. One smiled at me and raised his eyebrows.

I turned away quickly and looked for Ed. He motioned me toward him and I went and stood next to him while he finished with the desk. "We're expecting some packages to arrive, just send them up to the suite, please," he told the deskman.

"Very good, Mr. Hardiman," agreed the clerk. "Alfredo, would you please take our guests and their luggage up to their room."

A smiling Hispanic bellman pushed a cart holding the purchases we had brought with us and my one small bag from home and Ed's two larger ones toward the elevators. "These way, senors," he said in a soft, buzzing, Central American accent. He told us about the amenities the hotel offered; a gym, two pools, restaurants, bars, a night club on the roof, dry cleaners, shoe repair, etc. Why would a hotel in Palm Springs need a tanning salon?

Ed laughed and joked with the man in border Spanglish but the bellman stuck to English until I had murmured something in my high school Spanish to indicate that I understood the language, "As long as no one speaks too fast."

Alfredo laughed, "You have the accent of Madrid! It is charming." I blushed and Ed winked at me.

Alfredo showed us the room, the bar, the phone and the air-conditioning and window blind controls--electric window blinds--and Ed gave him a five and he left. The suite had a wide main room with couches, a computer desk (but no computer), a big screen TV, the bar, and a tiny kitchenette. A balcony gave a view of the mountain and the hotel swimming pools and a large bedroom opened off each side with a magnificent bathroom apiece. I wanted to ask Ed how much this was costing but I realized it really didn't matter. Somehow that didn't make me feel better about it.

"Something bothering you, Kit?" Ed drawled, tossing his new hat on the polished bar.

"Yes, sir?" I said. "I guess so, I mean? Have you been here before?"

He nodded. "Not in this room, I have to admit I splurged a bit this time, but yes, I've spent a few weekends in the Springs over the years--and this is a real nice place, isn't it?"

I squinted through the blinds at the desert brightness and debated with myself how to phrase the next question. "Ed," I finally asked, "I'm just supposed to be your assistant and--uh, gopher?"

Ed looked at me directly, "If that's all you want to be, Kit," he said. His eyes were calm and kind. He smiled slightly.

"I told you--I'm not gay?" I said, feeling small hairs all over my body rising up in a reaction to...what?

"And I said that I'm not either," he agreed. "Gay men are not interested in women; I am." He kept smiling, keeping his arms and hands at his side. He looked powerful and confident, but not threatening. Waiting.

His statement should have gone a long way to relieving my anxiety but it didn't, not really. I swallowed hard. Things were happening that I didn't understand. Not just the way Ed was acting but the way I was reacting. I didn't feel sure about anything. "You left something out," I said.

His smile widened a bit, "Perhaps you did, too?"

I turned away. "Which room is mine?" I asked.

"Take your pick," said Ed.

I walked to the room on the side opposite the kitchen and took a look again. The enormous bed had a rust-colored covering and the furnishings were dark and rich looking. The walls were warm tan with chestnut trim. The bathroom fixtures were coppery, the porcelain a pale butterscotch.

I backed out and looked toward Ed, puttering around the bar. "I'm going to fix myself a drink," he said. "What would you like?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Have you ever had Kahlua?" he asked.

I moved toward the other bedroom. "That's a liquor?"

"A liqueur, coffee liqueur."

I shook my head, "No, I've never. I don't drink." I stopped in the doorway of the other bedroom. It looked just like I remembered from the short 'tour'. The bedcover here was sea-green, the walls pale aqua. The wood furnishings were dark but not heavy and the bathroom fixtures were bright pale brass with seafoam porcelain. I turned back toward Ed, "I'll take this room."

He nodded as if there hadn't really been any doubt. He held out a glass full of something golden with ice; I could smell spicy, citrusy, coffee-flavored bubbles. "It's 'A Cold Day in the Yucatan'," he said, grinning. "Drinks always have such foolish names."

I took the glass, "Is that what this is called?" It did smell wonderful and the first taste was even better. "Wow?" I commented.

He laughed, delighted at my reaction. "You like it?"

"Yeah? I guess so," I said, taking another sip. "This is like--coffee-and-orange-flavored soda pop?"

He nodded. "It's pretty mild; when they make them in a real bar, they add a jolt of white rum or tequila." He held his glass up as if toasting and made a question with his bushy eyebrows.

I held my glass up, too, unfamiliar with such rituals.

"To discoveries," said Ed and we both took a drink.

*****

Chapter 5

Later we went to dinner in a restaurant nearby. There were tables set under awnings around a pool and fountain. It wasn't busy but there were a few other people there, most of them casually dressed as were we. Five other pairs and a trio. Only one of the pairs seemed to be a man and a woman of about the same age. Two of the other 'couples' and the trio were made up of older men and young women. Two men who might have been in their thirties sat nearest us and across the pool sat a man about Ed's age and--a boy.

At least, I felt sure it must be a boy for the lack of hips and breasts, but whoever it was wore a bit of makeup and jewelry. He must have been about my age but he looked younger.

I felt very odd.

Ed ordered for us after asking me if I wanted steak or seafood or both. "Steak," I said without thinking too much about it. If I had said seafood he might have offered me the choice of more than one kind and I had very little experience with such dishes. Shrimp cocktail that comes in little jelly jars doesn't count.

The waiter thanked Ed, smiled at me and nanced away. I cringed a little.

Ed laughed. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, Kit. Maybe we should go somewhere else to eat?"

"It's okay," I told him. I'd known Palm Springs reputation for such things but I'd never experienced it first hand. "I guess I'm getting an education."

He nodded, still smiling. "Yeah, I guess so. Speaking of which, you've planned to get an education, I know. What had you thought of doing after that?"

I thought hard for a moment and realized I hadn't made any real plans. "I guess, I'd thought I'd go back to help Mom with the store while the other kids grew up?"

"That's not much of an ambition for such a bright young person as yourself," he said.

"Well, Alison would like to make a doctor if she can, she's the smart one in the family. I thought a two-year degree in business stuff...for me." I trailed off, realizing slowly that a lot more opportunities had opened up for my whole family.

Ed rested his chin on his knobby knuckles, looking at me without saying anything for a long time. "What do you really want out of life, Kit?" he asked softly.

I couldn't answer. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I had no idea what I might have said if I could have spoken but all the mental gears seemed jammed.

*****

During the dinner, Ed avoided putting me on the spot again with such a direct question. He asked me about school and which classes I enjoyed most and who my friends were.

He told me about growing up in a much emptier land, about riding his horse once for three days without seeing another human being. "I'm comfortable being alone," he said. "But I've given up on feeling lonely."

For some reason that comment made my ears burn.

The waiter brought the dessert tray but neither of us had any room. Ed signed the chit and we headed back to our suite.

In the elevator, Ed smiled at me.

I noticed that he was still smiling at me. "What?" I asked, suddenly nervous again.

He shook his head, "Never mind." Neither of us said anything more until Ed had used the electronic key to unlock the door of our room. He held it open and closed it behind us. Something seemed odd about that and I turned back to look at him.

He turned that same smile on me again. "You're a wonder, Kit," he said.

"Me?" I hoped my voice didn't squeak.

"Yes," he said. "You're kind and thoughtful, smart and as wise as someone your age has any hope of being--and you're a good-looking kid, too."

"I'm not," I protested.

"But you are," he insisted.

I looked away from him, something about his expression made me very uncomfortable. "If you aren't gay..." I said so softly I thought he might not hear me, "...why do I keep...why do you...?" I couldn't make a sensible question of it. I felt my neck and face burning with embarrassment.

"And if you're not gay?" he asked only a little bit louder.

I made a noise.

"There's a foolishness in the world, Kit," he said. "Fools believe that there are only two kinds of people; gay or straight, liberal or conservative, righteous or sinful, male or female." He paused and it seemed that a roar inside my head filled the silence but when he spoke again I could hear him just as plain. "The truth is, none of us are all one thing, Kit."

I found something to sit on and hid my face in my hands. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"You might be surprised how many people look at you, Kit, and think--what a beautiful girl you could have been." He looked confidently at me. "Has the thought ever occurred to you?"

The room seemed to have expanded and contracted quickly, invisibly. Noises I hadn't noticed before suddenly got so loud that I couldn't get my mind around what Ed had said. I swallowed and looked up at him. "This whole assistant thing, what's this about, Mr. Hardiman? You don't really need an assistant, do you?"

Ed sat down on the couch facing me, "Sure, I do, Kit." His big face with all its friendly wrinkles smiled at me. "But if you're willing, you could be more than that. And it's 'Ed', remember?"

I shook my head, afraid of what I thought he meant. What did he mean? Did I want to know? How in the world could I ask?

We sat silent for a bit, I couldn't seem to put my thoughts together and Ed had the patience to wait me out. I worked on the idea of Ed, and other people, thinking I might have been beautiful as a girl. I wasn't comfortable with the thought. Besides it just being ridiculous, was the fact that Ed had come right out and said it. I finally said, "I can't imagine this working out, between us, uh, Ed? I mean...."

I couldn't think of how to say what I meant. The relationship between Ed and me seemed about to change radically. Or had it ever been what I thought it was?

"I told you I'm not gay," Ed repeated when I didn't finish my protest. "And you're not either, you said." He shook his head. " I'm not interested in men or boys in my bed, Kit. And this doesn't have to go that way." What way? That little addition so derailed my thinking that I almost missed hearing the next sentence. "I do want to see you as you could be, though."

I didn't say anything; nothing seemed to make sense, so he went on. "Kit, there's no shame in this, or there doesn't have to be. I'm a rich old man and I want to do a little good in this world before I get planted. And I'd like to see you the way I've been imagining you for the last few years." He sighed. "There's no gentle way to say this. Kit, I think I'm in love with the woman you could be."

That revelation shocked me so that I jerked as if someone had yanked on my invisible strings. All this time, with Ed coming in once or twice a week to the deli -- this is what he'd been thinking about? "You want me to dress as a girl? You want to see what I'd look like as a girl?" I stammered. "Have you looked at Alison?" I tried to make a joke of it.

"Alison isn't you, Kit," he said simply. "She's a pretty girl and she'll probably make a fine doctor some day. But she doesn't have your--aliveness, your spark, I don't know what to call it. Personality? Charisma? It's not just looks."

I shook my head again. "Mr. Hardiman..." I began.

"Ed," he interrupted, correcting me again. "Kit, you listen to people, you look them in the eye and you care about them. Alison has a little of that and that's good, she'll make a better doctor for it. But she's...I don't want to say anything bad about your sister." He grinned. "But she's selfish; she's got an ego and a temper--she does the right thing because it matters to her, to what she thinks of herself. Kit, you just do the right thing without thinking about it. Because it is the right thing."

The look in his eyes made me uncomfortable so I looked away and tried to think about what he had said. He sort of had Alison nailed with that description. I often wondered if maybe she should go into politics like Dad had been thinking of, and maybe she would eventually. Sometimes I thought that Alison wanting to be a doctor might have been her way of making sending her to college matter enough to Mom so that it would happen.

But his description of me--how could he think that? "I can't believe you're saying these things," I managed.

"I can't either," he admitted. He leaned forward a little and his big, weather-beaten face crinkled into a grin. "I feel like a fool, but I'm a rich fool now. I can afford to be foolish. And like I said, I want to do some good in the world--what would you think about an education trust fund to send all of your brothers and sisters to college when and if they want to go?"

"You...? I'm not sure what you mean?" I didn't want to say what I thought he meant. My throat almost closed off with the effort of not thinking too hard about it. I felt scared and I wasn't sure of what.

He looked off, at the mountain visible outside our hotel room. Beyond it lay his ranch and the Hiway 60 Deli where my Mom and sisters and Curtis would be beginning the clean-up soon. "I'll set up such a fund, Kit, for you and all of your mom's kids, send all of you to college. We'll figure out how much it will take, not more than a million or three, I'd guess," he said. "I'll do that if you'll do something for me, Kit." His voice was gentle but his words were hitting me like dirt clods.

I squinched my eyes tight shut. "But, Ed, we're neither of us gay, we both already said that?" I started crying; that really surprised me. Soft hot tears ran down my cheeks and into the corners of my mouth, salty and fearful. Ed stood up, stepped close and put a hand on my shoulder. I trembled, I thought he might be about to hug me which would have been what happened at home if anyone of the family had started crying. 'Hug first, ask questions later.' Mom had that on a pillow her mother had given her.

But Ed just stood there next to the chair, resting his hard, rancher's hand on my shoulder. "That's not what I'm asking, Kit," he said softly. "I don't know if you've actually tried it but I'm an old man and I know I'm not gay because I have tried it."

That was another shocker. I just shook my head and wiped my eyes with a tissue. The idea of Ed Hardiman with another man just seemed wrong. My hands were shaking and before I knew it, I had completely shredded the tissue.

"What are you afraid of, Kit?" Ed asked quietly.

"I don't know," I murmured. And I didn't, not really. I wasn't afraid of Ed but what he wanted me to do--whatever it was--did scare me. It was the unknown, the wondering what might happen next that had me scared I decided.

"I'm not asking you to go to bed with me, Kit. I just want to--see the you that I've been imagining now for several years." He laughed softly. "Sounds crazy, doesn't it? Maybe it is, it's kept me awake nights wondering about it. But I swear I'm harmless." He held up both hands, showing me his palms and grinning.

I smiled, it was hard not to smile when Ed grinned like that, all goofy cowboy charm. I thought about the trust fund he was offering. "I don't know, I mean...no one else knows about this...no one else would have to know?" I asked. My heart seemed to have fallen into my stomach as I realized what I had just said. How could I be thinking of doing this?

"I won't tell them," he promised. "If you do this for me, we won't go where anyone will be likely to know you."

"Wh-what exactly do you want me to do?" I asked swallowing back a big lump of fear and embarrassment. Why in the world was I even discussing it, I wondered.

He just looked at me for a moment, then he moved away and turned toward the windows. It was his turn to sigh. "I don't want you to do this if you aren't going to be happy, Kit." he said.

"Well, I don't even know for sure what you want me to do?" I protested.

He nodded and turned back to look at me; his bushy dark eyebrows in silhouette for a moment against the window looked like bushes clinging to a rugged mountainside. "Look, how about I just go ahead and set up that education fund, anyway? I don't want to twist your arm. I wouldn't hurt you or make you unhappy for the world, Kit."

That sounded good but was scary in its own way. "I still don't know what you want exactly?" I said.

"First, the trust fund is yours and your family's, I promise, Kit. And I'm going to set one up for the Lopez kids, too. And my grandkids, I suppose." He grinned again. "Thirty million doesn't go near as far as it used to."

I smiled and said, "Thank you, Ed."

He rubbed a hand through his curly, dark hair. "I...this is so hard to ask. I'm just an old man with a crazy idea, I guess."

"That...that you're...in love with me?" I stammered. It was definitely a crazy idea; it made my insides feel like hot jelly.

He nodded, looking a bit embarrassed. "With the girl...you could have been? It's like a fantasy I've had, since about the time you started high school?"

The hair on the back of my neck got all creepy feeling. None of us ever knows what anyone else thinks about us, but this went beyond strange.

"I don't know how or why it happened, but I kind of have an idea. I lost a granddaughter about that time," he said. "Gordo's oldest girl was killed by a hit-and-run driver; she was just a month older than you. Her name was Kathleen and she was called Kitten, too. Her mother, Marcy, had divorced Gordo years before; she and the kids lived up in Oregon. Kitten was on her way to school, on her bike."

He looked out toward the mountain again as if he could see Oregon out there. Then he went on. "I got the news in a letter, not even a phone call. I was reading it in your Mom's deli and I had to sit down. You asked me what was wrong; I looked at you and thought, if Gordo had married your mom, you could have been my granddaughter and you'd still be here and alive."

"But I'm a boy!" I said, startled again.

He turned back to face me again. "I know. Fantasies don't need any excuses, Kit. They don't listen to reason."

I gulped. "You...I--I'm not your granddaughter, Ed. I don't want to be your granddaughter..." That was true but somehow it came out sounding as if I'd meant to say something else. I felt confused and afraid again.

He didn't say anything for a while, just sat back down in the fancy chair and looked at me. It was my turn to get up and walk around for a bit. I didn't seem to have anything else to say.

Finally, Ed started talking again. "Marcy hated the desert, she wouldn't bring the kids down for a visit. I went up there a few times a year, just so I could see them. Marcy didn't like that either." He grinned. "The two younger kids took more after their father, actually. Kathleen looked like her mom, slender, dark blond hair, gray eyes. I guess she was my favorite, even if grampas aren't supposed to play favorites."

I remembered Gordo vaguely and there were pictures around town of him, our local minor celebrity. Ed's curly black hair and blue eyes, but a face that was less long and more conventionally handsome. The Indian nose from his mother's Cherokee ancestors and a wide, white grin had made him look a bit like one of the old cowboy movie stars. I didn't remember if I had ever met Gordo's wife or kids. But Ed's description of Kathleen sounded like someone from my own family.

Outside, the desert night came quickly. Lights on the mountain marked the tramway up to where people skied in the winter. We sat and watched the night fall and didn't say anything for quite a while. "I don't really understand what you want, Ed," I finally said.

"Humor me, Kit. I'm a rich old man who's suddenly much, much richer. When you're rich enough, you're not crazy, you're eccentric." He grinned and I laughed a little. "I've been watching you grow up and I've been getting more and more--eccentric for the last few years. Waiting for you to turn eighteen--and then what? I wasn't sure."

He grinned at me ruefully, it was getting dark in the room and his teeth flashed in the shadows of his face. "Then I won the lottery and I realized I could afford to be--very, very eccentric. I suddenly had thirty million reasons to do everything I'd ever wanted to do." He paused. "And there you were in the Deli.... I won't try to bribe you again but I'm asking you as a favor to me..." He trailed off both sentences.

"What is it you want me to do?" I felt like crying again but managed to keep my voice from cracking or whining.

"It sounds crazy," Ed said after a moment of silence.

"It does," I agreed.

"I just want to see what you'd be like, Kit," he said. "I think you would be very good-looking as a girl."

I sighed. "Well, I'm not very good-looking as a guy, why would I look better?"

"It's just a crazy idea," he said.

"No one has to know?" I asked.

"No one back home, no one who knows you now. Unless you decide to tell them," said Ed.

"No, no," I said. "I don't want anyone to know..."

"Then you will do it?" He grinned.

"I--I guess so, Ed," I admitted. "I mean, it's a little crazy, like you said. But it sounds harmless?"

He nodded, still smiling. "I've got some people lined up to help you, but no one you know from back home."

"Help me," I said. I felt I needed help but not necessarily the kind Ed was offering.

"Hair, makeup, clothing," Ed said. "That kind of stuff.. I'll pay for everything, of course."

I felt like I'd been tossed into a lake of boiling ice. "When?"

"Starting tomorrow." He stood again, "And you can change your mind at anytime. Okay, Kit?"

I nodded, afraid to use my voice for fear of sounding as scared as I felt.

"Think of it as an adventure," Ed said on his way toward the bar. "Can I make you a fresh drink?"

I didn't want another drink so I just shook my head, I hadn't really wanted the first one. He made one for himself with lots of ice, a splash of amber liquid and some water. I just sat and watched him, afraid to get up and leave and afraid to stay. He came back and sat in the print-upholstered chair again.

"Are you happy, Kit?" he asked. He took a sip of the drink.

"Right now?" I said. "Uh, I don't think so. Mostly I'm scared out of my mind, almost."

He smiled. "Being afraid when you're about to do something new is only sensible. But are you generally happy, Kit. Most days, most times?"

I thought about it. "I'm happy some of the time," I said. "No one's happy all of the time."

He nodded. "No one I've ever known," he agreed. "But do you feel happy about being you, doing what you do and planning to do the things you've got planned for yourself?"

I frowned. That was a harder question. "I'm not even sure what you mean, Ed?" But suddenly, I felt the tears coming.

"I'm sorry, Kit," he said quietly. "I do want to make you happy if I can."

I stood and headed for my room. "Good night, Ed," I managed. I really couldn't figure out why I was about to cry but I wanted to get away before it became obvious.

"Good night, Kitten." The nickname startled me though people had been calling me that for years. "I'm going to make some phone calls and we can sleep in, in the morning," Ed said. I made a noise to show that I had heard him and closed my bedroom door behind me.