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to be a hotel restaurant, a very classy one. Mandelyn had definite misgivings about how this was going to turn out, but she’d never be able to teach Carson any manners without going into places like this. So she crossed her fingers and followed him in.
    â€œDo you have a reservation, monsieur?” the maître d’ asked with casual politeness, his shrewd eyes going over Carson’s worn jacket and polyester trousers. “We are very crowded today.”
    There were empty tables, Mandelyn could see them, and she knew what was going on. She touched Carson’s arm and whispered, “Give him a tip.”
    â€œA tip?” Carson growled, glaring down at the shorter man with eyes that threatened to fry him to a crisp. “A tip, hell! I want a table. And I’d better get one fast, sonny, or you and your phony French accent are going right out that front door together.” He grinned as he said it, and Mandelyn hid her face in her hands.
    â€œA table for two, monsieur?” the maître d’ said with a shaky smile and a quick wave of his hand. “
Mais oui!
Just follow me,
s’il vous plait!
”
    â€œTip him, hell,” Carson scoffed. “You just have to know the right words to say.”
    She didn’t answer. All around the exclusive dining room, people were staring at them. She tried to follow some distance behind him; maybe she could look as if she were alone.
    â€œDon’t hang back there, for God’s sake, I’ll lose you,” Carson said, gripping her arm to half drag her to the table the maître d’ was indicating. “Here. Sit down.”
    He plopped her into a chair and jerked out one for himself, “How about a menu?”
    The maître d’ turned pink. “Of course. At once.”
    He signaled a waiter with almost comical haste. “Henri will take care of you, monsieur, mademoiselle,” he said, and bowing, beat a hasty retreat.
    Henri moved to the table and presented the menus with a flourish. “Would monsieur and mademoiselle like a moment to peruse the menus?” he asked politely.
    â€œHell, no, we want these crepes,” Carson said, pointing at the entry on the menu. “I’ll have about five. Get her two, she needs fattening up. And bring us some coffee.”
    Mandelyn looked under the table, wondering if she might fit beneath it if she tried hard enough.
    Henri swallowed. “
Oui,
monsieur. Would you care for a wine list?”
    â€œHell, what would I do with that?” Carson asked, glaring belligerently at the waiter. “I don’t give a damn what kind of wine you’ve got. Want me to give you a list of my herefords, lot numbers and all? I’ve got several hundred….”
    â€œI will bring the coffee, monsieur!” the waiter said quickly, and exited.
    â€œThis is easy,” Carson said, smiling at Mandelyn. “And they say it’s hard to get service in fancy restaurants.”
    She covered her face with her hands again, trying to get her mind settled so that she could explain it to him. But meanwhile, he’d spotted a fellow cattleman across the room.
    â€œHi, Ben!” he yelled in that deep, slow drawl that carried so well out on the range—and even in this crowded restaurant. “How’s that new bull working out? Think your cows will throw some good crossbreeds next spring?”
    â€œSure hope so, Carson!” the cattleman called back, lifting his wineglass in a salute.
    Carson didn’t have anything to salute back with, so he raised a hand. “So that’s what the wine’s for,” he told Mandelyn. “To make toasts with. Maybe I better order us a bottle.”
    â€œNo!” she squeaked, grabbing his hand as he started looking around for Henri.
    He stared pointedly at her long, slender hand, which was wrapped around half of his enormous, callused one. “Want to hold hands, do you?” he murmured drily. His