Crissy secretly observed the newcomer. He stood at the edge of the circle of tourists she was regaling with a humorous word picture of life in the Ozark Mountains. After several months in her official capacity as Silver Dollar City’s storyteller, she still felt a deep satisfaction when she heard the appreciative chuckles and outright laughter at her downhome tales. In just seven days her job would be over, because the amusement center closed for the season. She’d miss playing her mountain gal character, Tulip Bloom. So now, with added zest, she continued to spar verbally with her audience and make all of them feel “to home” with amusing stories describing her fictional relatives and kinfolk.

She leaned toward a woman about her age and, using a stage whisper, she inquired, “You shore you ain’t kin to the Bloom clan, gal? I swar, you shorely remind me of my cousin, twice removed, Bessie Bloom. Yes, siree, her pappy done shot ten men afore she were fifteen, account of their amorrous intentions! Then one day, she jist up and disappeared, with a travelin’ man, and we ain’t heerd hide nor hair from her since. You plumb shore you was birthed and raised in Kansas City, gal?” All the woman did was giggle and blush furiously at being singled out.

Crissy tilted her head to one side, giving her bouncy black curls a shake that sent tiny shock waves to her precariously perched tattered straw hat with a red tulip growing out of its crown. The gold of her dark brown, heavily fringed eyes danced with merriment as she worked her way around the group, telling one story after another. Her appealing vitality was only enhanced by painted on freckles sprinkled liberally across her pert upturned nose and round pink cheeks. Her mountain gal costume was winsome and fetching; she was glad it was still comfortable under the Indian summer sun. The top was what she called her “Daisy Mae” blouse - white, with large purple polka dots. Its oversized short puffed sleeves and scoop neckline were attractive, but certainly not daring. The dark green homespun prairie skirt brushed the tops of her heavy clodhoppers.

“Got to ware good sturdy boots ifen you want to outsmart them copperheads,” she would tell people who questioned her footwear.

Within a few minutes she’d circled to stand before the stranger. Quickly she sized him up, a practice at which she had become rather astute, and one she thoroughly enjoyed. This man was definitely not an ordinary tourist. His well-tailored dark suit and blue dress shirt told her he was a businessman; the expensive silk tie around his collar told her he was a successful one. He was ruggedly attractive, too. About six feet tall or a shade more, he looked as though he might be in his late thirties. His provocative, cobalt blue eyes sent shivers down her spine when they locked with hers. Was he laughing at her or with her, she wondered? A light breeze ruffled his medium brown, thick, wavy hair: the September sunlight filtering through the trees glinted off natural streaks of gold.

She was suddenly and vividly aware of his forceful virility.

In her role of Tulip she could be as outspoken as she wanted to be. She continued to grin drunkenly at him. His thick moustache twitched slightly when he tried to suppress the smile playing at the corners of his wide, sensuous mouth. Finally he could not contain it, and when he smiled at her, his eyes lit up and deep dimples appeared as if by magic in his lean, tanned cheeks. How those dimples complemented the cleft in his well defined chin! She allowed her mouth to gape open in theatrical adulation, but her heart told her with its double-time hammering that it wasn’t all an act. He was something else!

At once she decided to go into her flirting routine, sure that the rest of the crowd would enjoy her antics. Sidling up close to his tall, straight frame, she purred enticingly, “Howdy, mister. You shore do look like a big city feller. Where does you hail from?”

He seemed to enjoy being part of her little act. “I’m from New York City, Ms. Bloom,” he answered, his deep voice even, but his clear eyes sparkling with challenge. Her training in speech and theater made her admire his dulcet tones.

She sighed audibly, and gushed, “You kin call me Tulip, mister. What be yore name?”

“James Robert Prince III,” he answered, bowing slightly and simultaneously reaching into his jacket pocket. “My card,” he added, handing her an engraved thick piece of cream-colored paper. “At your service . . . Tulip,” he murmured, smiling handsomely.

She sighed again, this time in earnest, but no one knew, except perhaps the man with whom she was parrying. His eyes grew a shade darker when their fingers touched electrically. Oh, this man was sure of himself, she thought. Needed to be brought down a peg or two, though . . . and she was just the one to do it! She looked with longing at his lean features. Shyly she reached out to stroke his cheek and touch his thick moustache. She almost snatched her hand away when she felt again that chemical reaction. “You shore is purty, mister,” she drooled audaciously, turning her head to wink broadly at the chuckling crowd around her. “Yore jist about the purtiest thang ever I seed. I reckon I jist might ask my pappy to git you fer me,” she said, licking her lips with only half-feigned hunger.

Before she could continue, he took a step forward and slid his strong forefinger down her ski jump nose, gently grazing her full, parted lips until he settled on her chin. “I doubt your pappy’s intervention would be necessary, Tulip,” he said, playing his part to the hilt.

Now, Crissy knew that many tourists were thwarted actors, and she could never be sure how her improvisational skits were going to turn out. But this man’s thespian skills were more professional than any other visitor’s so far, and at the moment she wasn’t all that sure he was acting! Take control again, she ordered herself.

“Well, Jimmy Bob,” she began, noting with relish how he winced at her blatant nickname for him, “my Granny Bloom would think yore a prince of a feller fer me.” She giggled with the rest of the group when he raised an eyebrow at her broad pun of his fine, aristocratic name. “But you don’t strike me as a businessman, Jimmy Bob. No, siree, you looks more to me like a hunter . . . but I can’t rightly decide ifen you hunts the four-legged or two-legged variety of critter.” Her jab at his inflated ego was hidden behind an innocent expression. Head cocked flirtatiously, her forefinger pressed against her rosy cheek, she pretended to ponder.

The esteemed Mr. Prince had complete control of his features when he answered in a serious tone, “It all depends on which is in season. Ms. Bloom. If my perceptions are correct, by tonight it will be open season on two-legged mountain gals,” he drawled. His comment was heavy with sexual innuendo. “Have dinner with me,” he ordered softly, unmindful of the surprised looks on the faces of the strangers encircling them.

“Pappy wouldn’t ‘low it, Jimmy Bob,” she shot back, her eyes narrowing. “Remember my cousin Bessie and her travelin’ man,” she warned, stepping back into the center of the group and immediately catching everyone’s interest with a longwinded story about a citified hunter who used a bird mule. She had the crowd howling with her frozen statue caricature of a pointing mule. Just as the story ended, everyone turned when the crowd heard a man calling to her from the small stage nearby.

“Tulip! Tulip Bloom!” the man called in his mountain twang. “It’s time fer our show, gal.”

Crissy excused herself and ran gaily over to the stage and climbed the three steps to the large wooden platform where two men waited for her. Both were dressed in tattered bib overalls with faded blue work shirts and the ever popular battered straw hats and clodhopper boots. The man who had called her was clanging a huge triangle with a hammer, sending out an earsplitting announcement of their intentions. “Ya all come over here and set yo’self down. We’s fixin’ to entertain you’uns,” he bellowed.

Soon the heavy, hand hewn log benches were filled, and out of the corner of her eye Crissy saw that the unlikely tourist, Mr. Prince, had taken a seat near the front and to the side. His clear blue gaze still held a challenge for Crissy as she walked about the stage, setting up props and waving to the crowd. When it was time for their opening number, she hoisted her unfashionable boot up on the rim of a washtub bull fiddle and began plunking away. One of her partners took up a time-worn banjo, the other a washboard, and the thimbles on his hand beat out a wild rhythm to match the other two. Soon they were warmed up for a rowdy rendition of “When the Sun Don’t Set on Bald Mountain, I’ll Be Comin’ Back to You.”

Crissy was the MC, and stepped up to the microphone. “Howdee, folks. I’m Tulip Bloom. This here’s my brother Jesse,” she went on, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder at the gangling, shy youth at her side. “And this here’s my brother Jake,” she added, turning to grin at her fifty-year-old partner, who wore a bushy, grayflecked beard. “They’s twins, you know,” she informed the audience. Hoots and hollers were the response.

“Jake was born first. We never hurries anything in the mountains,” she declared drolly, waiting with precise timing to go on. “Jake, here, jist looks older,” she explained. “He runs moonshine, and he’s had enuf close calls with the revenooers to age him twenty years. Jesse, here, jist drinks the stuff, so’s he gits younger lookin’ every day!” She laughed.

The show moved right along and, as usual, Crissy’s timing was perfect as she fed lines to the two men. They, in turn, gave her the center stage for her storytelling. But part of Crissy’s attention was focused on James Robert Prince III. His eyes didn’t leave her throughout the performance. The challenge was still there, and she felt drawn to him.

She split the air with a mountain yell, and her face glowed. “Well, gosh o’ mighty, folks, I’s jist spotted some kinfolk,” she said, leaving the stage to plop herself onto Prince’s lap. She didn’t count on his arms snaking around her waist to hold her tightly in his steel embrace, threatening to cut off her circulation. When she dared to glance at his face, his eyes told her she was going to have to pay a heavy price for making him the butt of her humor. She tried to get up, but he held her fast.

For a moment she almost panicked. But then one of her partners shouted from the stage. “Hey, Tulip, why ain’t you givin’ our couzin the regular Ozark Mountain greetin’ fer kinfolk?”

She looked the man straight in the eyes and burst out nervously, “Becuz he ain’t no kissin’ cousin!”

His deep laugh of appreciation rumbled in his chest. “Don’t let that stop you, Tulip,” he returned smoothly, shocking her to her toes. When he released her and she could breathe again, he hissed out of hearing from the nearby patrons, “Have dinner with me.”

She shook her head sternly and scurried away back to the stage like a flushed rabbit. She took a great gulp of air and went into the closing, which was a foot stomping, loud singing, down home dance number. When it was over, the three performers bowed to the audience and waved, shouting, “Yo’all come back, hear?” When the last member of the audience had left, the team reset the props for the next show and quietly congratulated one another on the good performance.

It was Crissy’s break time, and she longed for a big, cool lemonade. She strode along the pathway toward the cold drink stand, unaware that she was being followed, until she felt strong fingers at her elbow. She knew who it was before she looked around. Keep it light, she warned herself.

“Well, ifen it ain’t Jimmy Bob,” she enthused. “Yo’all will have to ‘scuse me right now, mister. I’m on my break, and I got a powerful thirst,” she declared, smiling brightly but trying to pull away from his insistent hold.

Without pausing in his stride, he returned her smile, rather wickedly, Crissy thought. “Good! I’ll join you.”

She shrugged her shoulders, unable to control the nervous tremors down her legs. This is ridiculous she scolded herself. You’re acting like a silly teenager, and what’s worse you started it! They arrived at the lemon aide stand, and she insisted on paying for the drinks, saying, “I owe you that much after all my joshin’.” She continued to use her mountain twang, feeling that somehow it was a defense.

“What do you do when you’re not Tulip Bloom?” He guided her to a nearby bench and seated her at the corner. When he sat beside her she was effectively trapped between the shrubbery and his hard, warm thigh.

“I teach . . . up in the mountains,” she told him hesitantly, deciding she didn’t want this man, particularly, to know she taught classes in theater and speech in the high school in Springfield.

She often enjoyed dating interesting men whom she met in this job, but she was always careful to remain a mystery to them. Five years ago she’d almost been raped by a man she thought she knew and could trust. That one terrifying experience and in her own home had made her paranoid about guarding her privacy and the exact location of her isolated mountain cabin. Her friends and neighbors knew what had happened, and never gave out information about her to anyone, particularly strangers. Yes, the trusting little country bumpkin had been forced to grow up overnight, but, fortunately. that one bad apple hadn’t put her off the whole barrel . . . she had just learned to be very careful and wary of outsiders. And the way she planned any meetings, she was totally safe, always designating a public restaurant, to which she could drive her own car and leave when she wished.

She glanced shyly up into the stranger’s face, noting that his eyes were revealing his awareness that she chose to give very sketchy details of her personal life. “What do you do?” she asked, trying hard to sound sure of her self.

“Didn’t you look at my card?”

She dug into the deep side pocket of her long skirt and extracted his slightly bent business card, reading aloud. “Prince Toys and Games. Branson, Missouri. James R. Prince III, President.” Her eyes darkened as she turned to face him. “You said you was from New York City,” she challenged. “This, here, says you has a company right in town.”

“I am from New York,” he explained, “but I resigned my position at an ad agency there, and I’ve set up a new manufacturing company here. It’s been a dream of mine for some years. And now it’s finally a reality.” He went on to tell her his company made authentic wooden toys and games from another era. “Old-fashioned and sturdy,” he enlarged. “There’s too much plastic junk on the market. and I mean to change all that. Children should have toys that spark their imagination.” He explained that he had taken over a large plant and remodeled the interior for his operation, which now employed over one hundred people year around. As he told her, Crissy remembered reading about it in the weekly Branson Herald.

The business had been started four months ago he told her, and his appearance at Silver Dollar City was prompted by a meeting he had had with its buyers to insure big orders for next season. “It was a good meeting,” he ended, his features unreadable.

Jumping to conclusions and ready to defend her mountain heritage. She rejoined curtly, “We ain’t like the characters out of Deliverance.” Did he think he could come here and make a killing from some ignorant Ozark folks?

He met her defiant glare with steady blue eyes. “My dear Ms. Bloom, I never thought that for one minute,” he said firmly. “The directors here are fine business people. I would never treat them in a condescending manner. They have more integrity than many other business people I could name. Besides,” he added, “we understand one another. We want to do business together, and they never hide behind their charming mountain drawl with me. I’m proud to say they know I’m not a big city shyster, so there’s no need to put on an act.” He looked at her with hooded eyes. A faint lift of one eyebrow signaled his piqued curiosity. “Now, I wonder, Tulip, why you’re hiding behind your mountain character.”

She had to continue her charade; he was moving too fast for her. “Why, shucks, Mr. Prince, sir. I’s jista country gal, and yore sweepin’ me right offen my feet,” she gushed, unable to meet his direct gaze, which turned silently to ice.

“I seriously doubt that. What’s your name… when you’re not working here?” he asked, picking up her hand and gently massaging the pounding pulse point at her wrist. “After all, you know who I am now,” he murmured

“My name is Crissy Brant,” she answered, just as softly, beginning to feel again the hot flush from their physical chemistry.

He repeated her name as if trying it out for authenticity. “Yes, I’d say you’re a Crissy, with your bouncing curls and great sense of humor. Well, now, Crissy Brant,” he continued, still stroking her wrist and playing his fingers along hers, “I’ll ask you properly. Will you have dinner with me this evening?”

“Are you married?” she shot back, careful to watch for any quickly hidden guilt in his eyes. They held none.

“No . . . and never have been. Are you?”

She shook her head. She wasn’t able to stop the dark shadow that momentarily swept across her painted features. He saw it, though, asking. “And have you ever been?”

She swallowed hard. “A long time ago,” she answered quietly. “My husband was killed overseas. We only had two months together before he shipped out,” she said, not knowing why she felt she could share even this small part of her painful memories with this man. “I’ve been a widow for almost nine years.”

He cursed softly under his breath, surprising her with his leashed emotions. “You must have been a baby!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry to bring up such unpleasant memories,” he said with genuine warmth. And he continued to hold her hand.

“I was eighteen,” she said, falling into silence as she recalled the fun she and Eddy had had all through school and right up until he was sent overseas. She had known him all her life, and it had seemed perfectly natural to become his wife. But she had been very young, and readily admitted to herself that the love they shared was more like puppy love than the deep, abiding flame of passion she now believed a mature man and woman could share. Perhaps they might have grown into that sort of relationship . . . if there had been time, but he was gone before his twentieth birthday, and she had pulled herself together and gone on with her life.

Because she had been an honor student in high school, she was able to get into a work-study program and obtained a small scholarship to New York’s City College, where she received her teaching degree in theater and speech. When she returned, she carved out a part time position at the high school in Springfield from which she had graduated, and was happily involved with her talented students.

Yes, she was happy, and she had gone on with her life. Yet, she felt she was missing something . . . someone to belong to, even though she dated often. She went out with local friends and with interesting or affluent executives in Chicago and New York and St. Louis, where she did her freelance assignments as a multi-voiced talent for radio commercials. No one knew about these jobs except those with whom she worked and her best friend, Katie, and they were sworn to secrecy to protect her privacy. She also went by another name - Belle Grady - which had been her married name.

She was that determined never to give another man the opportunity to catch her with her guard down. By nature, she was a giving, loving person and, although she had learned to measure the worth of a man, she was not willing to take chances.

She shook herself, coming back to the present when the man beside her quietly took her empty plastic glass from her nerveless fingers. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized lamely.

“Just have dinner with me, Crissy,” he replied, taking her hands and bringing her to her feet before him. “I want to know you better,” he said, persuasively, his eyes dwelling on her full mouth for just an instant.

Crissy felt his animal magnetism threaten to invade her own body. Her mind sent out the alarm - self-preservation! She threw herself back into her role and replied brightly, “Why. Mr. Prince, I declare. Yore a persistent cuss, ain’t you?” His raised eyebrow was her only reply as he patiently waited for her answer. His strong fingers still held her hands. Finally she turned a deaf ear to her survival instinct, and accepted his invitation. “All righty, we’ll have vittles together this evenin’. Does you think you kin find the Wooden Nickel Restaurant? It’s a mite offen the main drag,” she warned, grinning. “We don’t want yo’all to git lost in them thar hills.”

“I’ll find it,” he answered without smiling. “Will I need a new pair of bib overalls?” he asked, deadpan.

She chuckled in appreciation. The man has a sense of humor, she thought delightedly. “Nope! This here’s a fancy place, where you kin git all gussied up. Mr. Prince. Eight o’clock, then?”

Again he ran his fingertip down her pert nose, pausing longer this time at her warm lips. His eyes spoke more words than she was willing to read at the moment. “Eight is fine, Crissy . . . and the name is James.” His deep voice caused her stomach to do a flipflop.

“But Jimmy Bob is so cute.” she teased, giddily looking forward to the evening ahead. She scurried away from his light hold. “Gotta go now. See you at the Wooden Nickel.”

“Wait! How will I be able to recognize you in street clothes?”

She turned around, skipping backwards: “I’ll be wearin’ somethin’ red,” she yelled, tweaking the red tulip on her hat. “It’s my trademark. Now don’t you worry none. Mr. Prince . . . I’ll find you!”

She turned and ran back to work but not before she heard him roar, “James!”

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