The Trouble with Texas Cowboys (21 page)

“Wake up and smell the goodies,” she whispered.

He grabbed her arm. The two front chair legs popped down on the floor, and he pulled her into his lap and tossed his hat on the counter all in one movement. “I'd love fresh-baked cookies, but I'd give them up for a kiss.”

“Today is your lucky day, cowboy. You can have both.” She set the cookies on the counter beside his hat and plastered herself to his chest.

The temperature in the store jacked up at least ten degrees when their lips touched. He forgot about cookies. She couldn't think of anything but the burning desire for more than kisses.

Finally, he drew back, picked her up, and set her on the floor. “It's after four, darlin', and it's starting to rain. Why don't you let me take care of the ranchin' this afternoon? I don't think there's going to be many people getting out in this weather.”

“Sounds good to me…what in the hell is that?” She pointed out the window.

Sawyer followed the angle, but nothing interested him as much as kissing her. She was cute when her lips were all bee-stung with kisses, her hair was tangled, and she had that bedroom look in her eyes.

“Looks like flowers for someone. Maybe Polly shouldn't have left so quick.” He picked up a cookie.

“These are scrumptious, but they take a far second to kissing you,” he mumbled.

“Mercy, Sawyer. Someone must love Polly a lot to send a bouquet that big.”

Two people got out, one lady holding an umbrella over the other one as she carried an enormous vase of red roses into the store. The flowers didn't totally escape the rain, but the few that had been kissed by drops looked even better for it.

“Jill Cleary?” The lady eyed Sawyer up and down as if she'd like to jump over the counter and pounce on him.

“No, that would be Jill over there.” He nodded toward the other end of the counter.

“Are you sure they aren't for Polly Cleary?” Jill asked.

“No, ma'am. The card says Jill. Nasty, cold rain out there, isn't it?”

“Yes, ma'am,” she said.

Jill tore into the envelope and groaned. “Shit!”

“And I thought you'd like them. My heart is hurt.” Sawyer clamped a hand over his chest.

“You know very well you didn't send this shit. You would have sent daisies, not roses. These are from Quaid Brennan.”

“Want me to throw them out into the rain?”

“Maybe. Yes. No. I'll think about it. Maybe Aunt Polly would like them after all.” She smiled.

Thirty minutes later a different florist van arrived with a long, slim box. Sawyer had no doubts what was inside that one, and he didn't even want to know who they were from. Dammit all to hell on a silver platter! Jill had gotten two dozen roses on the very day he'd asked Finn to pick up a bouquet of those brightly colored daisies he'd seen at the Walmart store. He'd even given him the key to the bunkhouse so he could put them in his bedroom and surprise her with them.

They'd pale in comparison to a vase the size of the Grand Canyon filled with roses, fluffy stuff, and a big red bow, and then a box with long-stemmed ones waiting inside. Not even the corny poem he'd written to go with the daisies would bring them up to the standards of the roses.

“Red?” he asked when Jill pulled the ribbon off and looked inside.

“Oh, yeah. Red, like funeral flowers.”

“Where did you get that notion? Red roses mean love, not death.”

“Not in my mind,” she said. “When we buried my grandpa and my granny, both sets, there were red roses on the top of their caskets. I always think of funerals when I see them, and here are two dozen of the damn things for me to contend with.”

“Do we take them home or to Polly?” she asked when they locked up at exactly five o'clock.

“Your flowers, so it's your choice. I take it those in the box are from Tyrell?”

“You got it.”

“I don't imagine Polly would want anything from the Gallaghers or the Brennans, even if they came through you,” he said.

“Then let's go home.”

He drove to the bunkhouse with a vase of roses and a box of the same in the backseat. She ignored them when they reached the bunkhouse, so he carried them in and set them on the kitchen table.

“I'm going to my room to call Aunt Gladys. I'll ask her if she wants these damn things or if I should just toss them out into the yard,” she said.

The daisies were lying in the middle of the bed in the green paper. He took the poem he'd labored over for hours that morning and put it on the spare pillow, the one that held her pretty red hair when they spent the night together. Then one by one, he scattered daisies up across the quilt.

“That's about as creative as I can get,” he said. “I feel like I'm clashing with money and power.”

“Hello! Sawyer, where are you? Aunt Gladys said to do whatever I want with them, but she and Aunt Polly don't want anything from the Gallaghers or the Brennans, just like you said.”

“Hungry?” He made his way from bedroom to kitchen table.

“Not really. Mostly angry that they think they can buy me with flowers,” she said.

She opened the card on the box again. “From Tyrell, saying thank you for helping take care of the cattle situation.” She poked every one of them down into the vase with the ones that Quaid had sent.

“Quaid Gallagher says red roses remind him of me,” she said. “I probably should tell them both that they remind me of death and sorrow. And just because I have red hair doesn't mean I like red roses.”

“That's a big arrangement to leave on the table. I don't think I can see over them when we sit down to eat,” he said.

“Don't intend to leave them here. They are going into my office. Remind me to keep them watered,” she said, ripping the bow from around the vase.

“What are you going to do with that?” he asked.

“Watch this. Piggy, Piggy, Piggy,” she called out.

The gray kitten perked up her ears and scampered across the floor with the yellow one right on her tail. Jill tossed the bow on the floor, and they attacked it like it was a big red rat, kicking and growling, batting at it and playing tug-of-war with it. She carried the vase into her office and shut the door behind her when she returned.

Sawyer plopped down on the sofa and leaned back, his heart racing and his hands clammy. She slid down beside him, and he drew her close with an arm around her shoulders. “Tired? I'll gladly take care of the bartending alone if you want to stay in for an evening. If I need someone to throw a pitcher of beer on a couple of bitches, I'll call. Hey, I never asked. Why did you come to the bar that night anyway? Seemed like after you doused Betsy and Kinsey, we decided we'd best stick together, but why were you even there?”

“I wanted a cold beer, not in a bottle, but in a frosted mug. I'm not so tired that I can't go to the bar with you, and besides, it wouldn't be fair.”

“It's Monday. You know how slow it is on Monday,” he said.

“Not this one. Aunt Gladys told me that the Gallaghers' cattle is down in Salt Holler, and even though Naomi is a distant relative of Wallace's, he's going to make her pay for the grass they've eaten and the property they've damaged. So it'll be a busy night with folks comin' around to see what's goin' on next with the feud.”

“Property damage?” He made lazy little circles on her arm with his thumb.

“Says they broke through some hog-wire fences, and he had to round up his hogs. Guess the pig war lives on, even when it's really cattle,” she said.

“Well, anytime you want to, I'll take a night at the bar alone. But for the record, I sure like it when you are right there with me.”

One corner of her cute little mouth turned up. “If Kinsey and Betsy found out you were in there all by yourself, they'd take you away from me. And I don't play well with others.”

“Not damn likely.” He grinned.

She pointed toward the stove. “Look at the children.”

They each had a paw on a section of the frayed and ragged ribbon, as if protecting their interests while they slept.

“Play hard. Sleep hard,” Sawyer said.

“Like babies. Too bad the Gallaghers and Brennans haven't learned to play well with others and then plop down and fall asleep,” she said. “Got to get changed into my barroom hussy clothes. I left my bra hanging on the doorknob over in your room.”

He held his breath when she stood up and headed in that direction.

“Oh my!” Her hand shot up and covered her mouth.

Then there was silence. He waited and waited, started to get up twice, and then sat back down. His hands got all clammy again and his pulse quickened. He waited for laughter at the poem or at least some reaction. But there was nothing for five of the longest minutes he'd ever spent in his life.

* * *

Jill touched each daisy. They were so bright and beautiful, lying there on the bed as if they'd grown from the stitches that held the quilt together. Then she found the poem and sat down in the rocking chair to read. It was both funny and sweet, tugging at her heartstrings when it talked about how she made every morning as bright as the blue daisy, that the sun was brighter than the yellow ones, and that all he had to do was look across the room at her and she filled his heart with so much color there weren't words to describe it.

Tears ran down her eyes and dripped onto the ink, smearing when she tried to wipe it. When she looked up, Sawyer filled the doorway.

“This is the sweetest thing I've ever had,” she said.

“I didn't mean for you to cry.”

“I know, but it's so damn sweet. Now help me gather up these daisies before they wilt. There's enough for the kitchen table and the coffee table and for the nightstand beside your bed. I want them everywhere, so I can see them no matter where I am,” she said.

Together they picked up the flowers. “I saw some of those half-pint jars in the cabinet. We'll divide them into three bouquets. They are so bright and pretty, Sawyer. The colors remind me of sunsets. There's nothing more beautiful than a Texas sunset or sunrise. And I'm framing this poem and keeping it forever,” she said.

“You won't let anyone else read it, will you? It's kind of corny.”

She tiptoed and pressed her lips against his. Their hands were filled with flowers, so they couldn't touch each other, but the kiss was deep and sweet at the same time.

“I wouldn't share this with anyone, Sawyer. It's personal, and it's mine. I'll put it on the nightstand beside my bed. I love it, and I love the flowers.”

She stopped short of saying that she loved him. Words were words, and they needed to be heard, but she didn't want to say them until she was absolutely sure that she meant every single one.

* * *

She laughed. “You are a prophet.”

The parking lot at the Burnt Boot Bar and Grill already had a dozen trucks, and there were people huddled up next to the door, waiting to get inside.

He smiled. “I told you so.”

“This isn't even normal for Friday and Saturday.” She pulled the keys to the bar from her purse. “Get ready. If they're here this early, it means they'll want food as well as beer and whiskey.”

“It's not every day the Gallaghers have to buy back their cattle from Salt Holler. Since they are blaming the Brennans for stealing them, they'll all come in here with chips on their shoulders tonight. And the other folks will come to see the show. Maybe we should charge admission.”

“Not a bad idea. Do you ever wish there was another gathering place for the folks, other than Polly's?”

“Never thought of it. Maybe the Gallaghers should build their own bar. I don't think the Brennans would want to own one, with their religious background, but they could continue to visit Polly's,” he said.

“Let's get the doors open, but I'll tell you one thing for sure, that shotgun will stay loaded and ready.”

“I'll fire up the grill. Keep them eatin', and maybe they won't be so quick to want to fight,” he said.

Thirty minutes later, he finally looked up and said, “You are the prophet, Jillian Cleary, not me. That is my fortieth onion burger since I walked in the door. And we've used six bags of frozen fries.”

A rush of cold air took her eye to the next customers, and she smiled.

“What's so funny?” Sawyer asked.

“Nothing.” She fished in her purse and brought out a bright purple daisy affixed to a hair clip, pulled her hair back on one side with her fingertips, and fastened the daisy right there above her ear. The smile on her face widened when Kinsey and Quaid Brennan claimed a couple of bar stools.

“What can I get you this evening?” Jill asked sweetly.

“Nice touch in the hair there. Looks like you've been to the islands. Hey, Sawyer, you want to fly down to the islands this weekend with me?” Kinsey asked. “We can leave on Saturday night and be home early Monday morning.”

“No, thank you. Y'all want something from the grill?”

“No, just a pitcher of margaritas and one of Coors.”

“Thank you for the roses, Quaid,” Jill said. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

“They are beautiful, but not as beautiful as you are. I was hoping you'd see that I'm serious about getting to know you better.” His flirting was deliberate and practiced.

“Where'd you get that daisy in your hair anyway?” Kinsey asked.

“Sawyer gave me two dozen today. I picked out the brightest one for my hair.” She smiled.

“So you like daisies, Sawyer?” Kinsey asked.

He set two pitchers in front of her. “I like Jill.”

She put a bill in his hand. “As in you are dating, or as in you are friends?”

He laid her change on the bar. “As in what I said. The rest is our private business.”

“Well, you don't have to get pissy about it,” Kinsey said and flounced off to claim a table not far from the jukebox.