Chapter Nine

The Fourth of July caught them in a small Utah town so tinder dry all fireworks had been banned. Wandering among fair-haired families with enough children to compete with any Cajun Catholic brood, they ate watermelon slices and watched the veterans, trailed by children on decorated bicycles, parade down the main street. Clint lost the seed-spitting contest to the local champ and good-naturedly accepted a second place ribbon. Renee claimed watching the hot dog eating contest made her queasy.

The next day, they were on the road again ending up at a small rodeo each weekend. Clint promised they would hit the big time in Wyoming at the end of July for the Daddy of ’em All, Cheyenne Frontier Days, where he had a big contract to fulfill. He had to say Renee was being a good sport about the situation. In fact, her docility worried him. Casually as they bumped along the back roads, he asked her, “How come you decided to stay with me.”

“Oh, that evening you returned to The Tin Can all bruised up it came to me that I’d been acting like a bitch. I mean, I’m always a bitch, but bitchier than usual, and you didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. You asked for some respect and to live within your budget. I threw that in your face. I did plan to leave, but I kept hearing these insistent little voices in my head all night long saying I’d regret it if I didn’t stay.”

“You still hearing those voices, honey, because the heat can get pretty bad this time of year and the Nelle’s AC hardly works?”

“No, they went away once I made up my mind to keep traveling with you. Maybe it was my conscience talking. I didn’t know I had one.”

“Of course, you do. You just haven’t put it to good use for a while. Well, I’m sort of glad you stayed and that comes as a surprise to me, too.”

Dependent upon him for cash, she earned her keep by making their lunch, mostly salads and sandwiches since her cooking skills were limited, doing the dishes and laundry, and helping out when he signed autographs. She gave a great massage, too, which really counted for something far from whirlpool baths and professional services.

Clint thought Renee finally believed him when he said her eyes were lovely and her freckles added charm to her face. Or maybe it wasn’t his reassurances. As she gave out the stuffed toys they garnered at every truck stop claw machine along the way, small children often told her she was pretty and fingered her hair when she bent over to give them a small teddy bear or a yarn octopus. On one occasion when she’d offered to hold a tired child while the parents chatted with Clint, the little girl told Renee she was “comfy” and promptly went to sleep. Even Renee knew that very small children usually called it as they saw it.

She complained only once—about her backside spreading from too much driving and too little exercise. Yes, she knew she wore her clothes a little tight, but her jeans stretched to the point of uncomfortable. Clint had an easy answer for that. They got up at dawn and went running. He needed the workout as well without having access to the machines he used at the bigger venues. Preferring to run on a treadmill in the comfort of a gym, Renee had some trouble keeping up on the rough roads and in the high altitudes. He adjusted his stride and encouraged her each step of the way. He let her use his lighter hand weights, too. To tell the truth, she’d gotten a little less buff, not quite as honed, a little rounder, a little softer—and he liked her that way.

Out in the wilderness, wi-fi hot spots came few and far between. Carefully, he left Renee at the laundromat with their dirty clothes and a few new fashion magazines when he made for the local libraries to check his e-mail, confirm future performance dates, leave instructions for his broker, and drop his mother a line. Snuffy wrote often, asking how the Nelle and The Tin Can were holding up.

A couple of days out of Cheyenne, Renee took off her straw hat to fan herself at a gas station and obviously saw something horrifying the side view mirror.

“Ohmigod! My roots are showing. They’ve grown out more than half an inch. I can’t go back to civilization looking like this, Clint. I just can’t. My touchup kit was in my bag.”

“Well,” he said slowly, “your roots are a nice color, about the same shade as some other hair I’m fond of.”

“And that is growing out, too! I haven’t had a waxing in ages. Don’t joke about it, please! This is a crisis. What if they show me on the big screen while we’re in Cheyenne?”

“Keep your hat on. Everyone else does.”

“I’m not going then.” Renee plopped on the Nelle’s running board and crossed her arms. I’ll wait here for you, wherever here is.”

She looked as stubborn as that little donkey Snuffy used in his act. Clint glanced down the blacktop with a few small stores clumped on both sides, wherever’s Main Street, he guess. He hadn’t caught the name of the town when they veered off the highway to fill the tank.

“Okay, sit there for a minute while I pay for the gas.”

He went into the station with the inevitable sandwich shop attached, paid for the fuel, and picked up two club sandwiches for lunch. He asked the two sandwich assemblers, teen-aged girls, if the town had a beauty shop. They rolled their eyes. Their moms went to Miss Franny’s Hair Affair next to the local insurance agency office. Clearly, they wouldn’t be caught dead there even on the day of the prom. Sounded good to Clint.

He got the number and called ahead while the giggling sandwich specialists finished his order. Slinging the sack of subs over his arm, Clint picked up his cold drinks, an unsweetened iced tea for Renee and a full octane Coke for himself, and went out to deliver the goods news.

Renee had moved her spreading behind to a picnic table stationed under some dusty shade trees. Sullen for the first time in weeks, she picked through her sandwich, determined to find fault with it. The trouble was they had been together so long now he had gotten her order one-hundred percent right. No mustard, mayonnaise, onions, or jalapenos, but all the rest of the veggies dressed with oil and vinegar. If she had been the one ordering, she knew he’d want the works plus extra jalapenos. They were becoming like some old married couple. Renee shoved her bag of chips, the only thing she could find to gripe about, at Clint when he finished his corn chips.

“I can’t afford the calories. I’m too fat.”

Clint sidestepped that one. “Hey, Tiger, we are in luck. There’s a beauty shop right down the street, and I am going to treat you to an afternoon at Miss Franny’s Hair Affair. How about that?”

Renee’s mouth dropped open. She clamped her lips shut again and mumbled, “I can wait until we get to Cheyenne.”

“Nope, I can tell you are unhappy. I want to fix that right now. Finish up. Miss Franny is waiting for you. I called ahead. It’s so close we can walk off those chips.”

With the tar bubbles in the deserted road bursting beneath their feet, Clint marched her down the main street until they came to a sign with an eighteenth century lady, hair piled high in silhouette and the words in lurid pink, The Hair Affair.

Full of dread, Renee entered the small shop. The place had only two dryers, two chairs, and one wash bowl. Miss Franny, her hair up in rollers, her chosen tint an I Love Lucy shade of red, greeted her warmly.

“It’s been slow today, so I worked on myself. We can go under the dryers together,” the hairdresser said, friendly as could be. She wore a smock covered with printed pups and kitties over her dumpy body and rocked back and forth on her white SAS shoes as she sized Renee up. “Need a change, do you?”

“No, just a touch up, maybe a small trim, only the ends, and a blow dry. Clint, I really could wait.”

“I heard there’s a truck stop at the next exit where I can use a computer. Be back in a couple of hours. That about right, Miss Franny?”

The hairdresser nodded. “You bet. I know what to do.”

The man had done more than call ahead. He’d left instructions and promised double the usual fee if she did as he asked. Wasn’t like this redheaded woman was one of her regular clients. After today, the two drifters would be gone, and business had been real slow lately what with people cutting back on luxuries like a good cut and curl.

Clint patted Renee’s hand as Miss Franny covered her with a pink plastic cape and lowered her head into the washbowl. Then, he ran.

“Let’s see.” Miss Franny consulted a chart with little tufts of colored hair sticking to it.

“That one.” Renee stabbed a finger at a bright red strand on one end of the chart. “I don’t suppose this place does a bikini wax?”

“You couldn’t pay me enough to fool with a woman’s privates. That’s why all those kind of salons hire foreigners. It ain’t American to mess with yourself down there.”

Having firmly stated her position on the matter, Miss Franny got out her mixing bowl and concocted a dye three shades darker that should just about match those roots and slathered it on. After the dye had set and been rinsed, she combed out Renee’s long hair, still dark from the water, and began to trim.

“Oops, got to straighten that out,” Miss Franny said after every snick of the scissors. “You know what would be great—bangs.”

“No bangs!” Renee ordered.

“You got a face could wear ’em,” Miss Franny assured her as she drew Renee’s hair behind her shoulders and continued to clip. The beautician spun the chair to face her, grabbed a hank of hair, and cut. “Wait till you see how cute this is.”

With that gouge taken out of the front, Renee had no choice but to go with the bangs. Every time she tried to assess how much hair fell to the floor, Miss Franny said, “Hold your head straight, or I’ll never get this right.” That kept Renee still as could be, but there would be no tip.

“A blow dry, right? I could put you under the dryer in curlers and give you a good spray that would last the week.”

“No, no more. Just dry it, and let me call my boyfriend.”

“Whatever you want, hon.”

Miss Franny finished just as Clint arrived. “Ain’t she pretty now?” Miss Franny asked.

“I think so,” Clint answered.

Renee stared at the mirror. All of her siren red waves, gone from her head, lay on the floor. Her hair hung straight, forming a little wedge toward her chin, and a thick row of bangs covered her forehead. The color was a dark auburn, a shade she hadn’t possessed since she turned twelve. She’d gotten highlights in Paris, and let her hair grow because Uncle Dewey said men liked long hair. The cut made her stunned hazel eyes seem even larger, her mouth more vulnerable. In the reflection, she saw Clint pass Miss Franny a wad of money.

Miss Franny whipped off the pink plastic cape and dusted Renee’s shoulders with a soft brush. “There you go, hon. You can get up now.”

Clint helped her from the chair, keeping a firm hand on her elbow, and escorted Renee out and into the Nelle before she could say, “Clinton O. Beck, I’m going to kill you.”

Fortunately, Renee’s way of killing a man involved lots of punishing sex, more than one guy could handle—almost. All he had to do was run his hands through those straight, silky strands, ruffle her bangs with a hot breath, and say, “I really do love you this way,” and she leapt on him again, clawing and biting and riding him hard. Life with Renee was pretty damn near perfect now.