The Trouble With Cowboys (9 page)

“That’s okay.” She sat in the recliner, leaving him the sofa, and opened her folder. “Braveheart is getting along okay. I put your mare in the field with him awhile to see how he did.”

“What for?”

“Sometimes another horse will step in to guide and protect the blind one. You can introduce other horses into the pasture with him one at a time, but watch him when you do. If he gets bronc-y, it’s a bad mix.”

“Gotcha. Thanks for your help.”

Annie pulled out the letters. “You’re about to earn your keep.”

He smiled. “Bring it on.”

She handed him one of the two letters and snuggled into the quilt while he read. She wasn’t going to tell him about the negative reader response. Shay was probably right. It was just the vocal few. She was sure her next column would fare better.

Dylan’s lips moved as he read. His top lip had a dip in the center, the lower one was pleasantly full. Nice, she had to admit. Of course, they’d probably touched the mouth of every available woman in the tri-state area.

Annie being the exception. And Sierra. She frowned suddenly, wondering if that was true. How was she to know what happened on those nights Sierra went out?

He handed her the letter. She jumped as thunder struck again, piercing the air, rattling the windowpane behind her.

His eyes danced in the lamplight. “Want me to come over there and keep you safe?”

Dylan keep her safe? “I’ll pass, but thanks for the offer.”

He settled back into the sofa and gave her a cocky grin. “Suit yourself.”

She held up the letter. “What’d you think?”

“Seems pretty simple. You should tell him to go for it.”

Of course that’s what he’d say. She sighed. She had to get these answers right. “What about their friendship?”

“A true friendship would weather the course.”

“If he brings his feelings out in the open, it would make things awkward. What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”

He shrugged. “What if she does, and she’s just waiting for him to make a move?”

“He says there’s no indication of feelings on her part.”

“Maybe he’s wrong. Anyway, what about honesty? You think this guy should hide his feelings?”

“Not hide them, just not wear them on his sleeve.”

“Same thing.”

“It is not the same thing. This is an eleven-year friendship; he can’t just throw it away all willy-nilly because he’s developed feelings. At the very least he should test the waters a bit.”

“And how’s he supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know. You’re the expert!”

His lips curled upward and his brow hitched higher, meeting the lock of hair that had flopped over his forehead.

Great. She’d done it now.

“Why, Annie Wilkerson, I had no idea you held me in such high regard.”

Was this all just a joke to him? “Get over yourself, Taylor. I just think he should play it a little safe, that’s all.”

He stared at her, and there was something in his eyes that made her shift and look away.

“Safe, huh?”

She had the distinct feeling he was thinking of John Oakley.

“Yes, safe. It’s not a dirty word, you know. Nor is
relationship
or
commitment
, though you wouldn’t understand either of those.”

He shrugged. “I advised the guy to start the relationship, did I not?”

Maybe he did, but his own life contradicted his advice. He was confusing her and she didn’t like it. She took a sip of her coffee, realized she’d warmed up—more than she intended—and shrugged the quilt from her shoulders.

“Why don’t we move on to the next letter?”

He took the paper and read. This time she kept her eyes averted. Instead, she sipped the coffee and took a good look around the room. The furniture was old and worn. A plaid sofa with an afghan tossed over the back, hurricane lamps with golden globes and antique brass trim. It seemed more like an elderly person’s home than a confirmed bachelor’s.

“Okay.” He handed the letter back. “She needs to move on.”

Annie’s hopes sank to her toes. Could they agree on nothing? “Why do you say that?”

“They’ve dated almost three years, and he’s clearly not interested in marriage. She’s almost thirty—”

“Oh, and her biological clock is ticking, is that it?”

“I didn’t say that. Look, she’s not going to change his mind— why do women always think they can change their man?” He gave an exaggerated shrug as if they were talking about him.

Annie rubbed her temple. He was giving her a headache. “First letter you said drop the relationship, second one you said pursue the relationship, and now you’re saying this woman should drop it. You’re inconsistent.”

“If it were that cut-and-dried, they wouldn’t need help.”

She sighed. He was right about that. Was he right about all of it? Was she really this bad at matters of the heart?

Of course she was. She was going to have to ignore her poor instincts, swallow her pride, and follow his advice. He was the expert, like it or not.

“Okay, suppose you’re right. Let’s talk about what I should tell her.”

They spent twenty minutes chatting about the woman’s situation, then went back to the first letter and discussed it awhile. She watched him closely as he talked, sensing another layer beneath his flippant
façade. His answers went deeper than she’d expected, delving into the subtext of the letters. He was surprising her again, and people rarely did that. The more he talked, the better she felt about his answer.

She watched him now, rubbing the back of his neck as he talked, the curls at his nape now dry. He had nice hands with squared fingers and thick palms, no doubt rough with calluses.

She thought back to Saturday when he’d had those hands on Marla Jenkins’s waist. There had been a brief moment, watching them move together, when Annie had regretted turning him down. He was a smooth dancer, after all, and John had been in the middle of a monologue on bilateral debt.

Okay, maybe John wasn’t all that intriguing. Maybe his kisses didn’t leave her weak-kneed. He was responsible and faithful and . . . lots of other good things.

If, when he’d kissed her good night, she’d imagined Dylan’s lips on hers for the tiniest little second, it was only a silly flight of fancy. Everyone had errant thoughts. Even so, when John had drawn away, her face had burned with shame.

She looked up at Dylan now, realizing he’d gone quiet. Realizing her face burned again from the memory of her errant thought. Curses on her Irish skin.

His lips turned up. “Something you wanna share with the class, Miss Wilkerson?”

“No, there is not.”

It was time to go, more than. The patter of rain grew louder as the storm picked up. But still, she began packing her things, because there was a more dangerous storm brewing inside.

“Stay awhile, sugar, I don’t bite.”

She seriously doubted that. “I have to get home.”

“It’s pouring out there. I’ll freshen your coffee.”

“That’s okay,” she called after him, but he had already left with her mug.

She heard the coffee carafe sliding from its cubby, the splash of liquid, and then he returned, handing her the mug.

“That was my grandpa’s favorite chair,” he said, nodding toward her seat before plopping on the sofa. “This used to be his place, you know.”

Annie sipped the coffee, torn between her need to leave and her reluctance to be rude.

“I remember. I was a senior when he passed, I think.”

“I forget you’re several years younger than me. You’re so. . .”

She crossed her arms, waiting. Stodgy? Old-spirited? Well, if he’d had the responsibilities she’d had, he wouldn’t be so— “Capable.”

She was sure it wasn’t the first word that came to mind, especially when his eyes danced in the lamplight.

She decided not to let him bait her. “Your grandpa was a good man. He got on well with my grandpa, I recall.”

“They were childhood friends.”

“They were?” How had she not known that? Then again, her grandfather hadn’t talked much about himself.

“You didn’t know?”

She shrugged. “Until Sierra and I came to live with him, we didn’t see him much. He and Mom didn’t get along.”

“That’s too bad. My grandparents were a big part of my childhood. Me and my brother came up here every summer, and we thought we were in heaven.”

“You have a brother?”

“Luke. He’s a few years younger.”

“You’re from Texas, like Wade. . .”

He nodded. “Why didn’t your mom and grandpa get along?”

She settled back into the chair, cupping her hands around the warm mug. “Too different, I guess. Mom didn’t make the best decisions—that was hard on my grandpa.”

“Tell me about your sister.”

“Sierra?” She gave a wry laugh. “What’s to tell? She pretty much lets it all hang out. She’s very much like our mother.”

He templed his hands on his chest and rested his chin on his fingertips. “You’re more like your dad?”

“I hope not. I guess I’m more like my grandpa.”

“You were close.”

“How can you tell?”

“Your voice changes when you say his name, softens. I’ll bet you were the apple of his eye.”

He was more perceptive than she’d given him credit for. “He took us in when Mom passed, without a second thought. He’s the reason I pursued horse training. He was a great vet, the best.”

“My grandpa used to say he could talk a breech calf from her mama.”

She found herself smiling. “That might be a slight exaggeration. But he was pretty amazing. A godly man too. Not that he was very vocal about it—but he lived it, you know?”

Dylan nodded thoughtfully.

A pause stretched out as the grin fell from her face. Still, she felt reluctant to go. He didn’t seem so dangerous when he wasn’t trying to flatter her.

“Braveheart was a gift from my grandpa,” Dylan said in the quiet. “The last thing he ever gave me.”

Now Annie understood his desperation to save the horse.
Braveheart must feel like the last living piece of his grandfather. That was how Pepper felt to her.

“He’s going to be fine. Going blind can be tough on a horse, but it’s not usually insurmountable.”

The rain had slowed to a quiet patter, and Annie realized they’d been having an ordinary conversation. She didn’t know why that surprised her. Maybe she hadn’t thought Dylan was capable. Or maybe she didn’t think she’d ever drop her guard enough to permit it.

“Well.” She grabbed her bag and stood, setting down the mug. “Thanks for the coffee . . . and the help.”

He rose, towering over her. “Thanks for helping Braveheart.” His smiling brown eyes sucked her in, holding her hostage for a long beat.

She cleared her throat and turned toward the door, suddenly eager to escape. At the door she gathered her boots and stepped into them. In her hurry she lost her balance.

Dylan took her elbow, steadying her.

“Thanks,” she said, straightening, happy for the extra two inches the boots gave her. Still, now she was eye level with the V of bare chest above his unbuttoned shirt.

And he still had her elbow. She pulled away under the guise of hitching her purse onto her shoulder.

“Thanks again,” she said, opening the door. “See you next Thursday.”

“If not before.”

She hustled outside, took the porch steps, and dodged raindrops all the way to her truck. As she turned the key in the ignition, she could still feel the imprint of his hand on her elbow.

Dear Boring in Bozeman,

          
Sizzle is overrated.

11

F
ounders Day dawned bright and sunny. The blue sky stretched from horizon to horizon, and the sun crested the mountains, bathing Paradise Valley with golden warmth.

Annie tried to work up some enthusiasm for the festivities, but part of her had hoped for a rainy day that would give her an excuse to stay home and curl up with her worn copy of
Pride and Prejudice
. That the novel held more appeal than an afternoon with John wasn’t a good sign, but it was, after all, her favorite book.

She and John attended the wedding reenactment of town founders Prudence and Joseph Adams, played by Shay and Travis. After the debacle year before last when the pretend ceremony had culminated in a real marriage—thanks to the absentminded Pastor
Blevins—the couple had agreed to play the parts one more time. The joke being, since they were already married, the preacher couldn’t possibly do any harm this time.

Afterward they made their way to the town square. John had gone to fetch them lemonade, and onstage, the Silver Spurs did a sound check. The wedding reenactment behind them, the townspeople now poured onto the lawn like ants onto a crumb.

“Annie, dear,” Miss Lucy called from a nearby lawn chair on the outskirts of the crowd. “Would you like to sit with us?”