Cowboy Come Home

by Carly Bloom

  “What is that?” she asked.

  Ford got out and walked to the front of the truck. He stopped and looked around for a minute or so, shaking his head the entire time, and then climbed back in.

  “Well?” Claire asked. “Can we get across it?”

  “I can’t see how deep it is, but by the way it’s moving, I’d say it’s a pretty good cut.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re not going home tonight.”

  “That’s ridiculous. It’s just a bit of runoff.”

  He began backing up.

  There were risk takers, and there was Ford.

  “Can you just take me to my parents’?” she asked.

  “They’re on the other side of Wailing Woman.”

  “I know that,” she snapped. “Let’s go up Harper’s Hill.”

  “It won’t do any good. With Wailing Woman that far out of its banks, the bridge past Harper’s will be underwater.” Ford sighed. “You’re coming home with me.”

  Her heart pounded as she tried to come up with an alternative plan. But everything he said was true, and there wasn’t one.

  Excitement ran circles around irritation and worry. Because even after nearly being washed away in a flood, her body reacted strongly to the idea of spending the night with Ford.

  But she could never go down that road again. All he’d wanted was a good time.

  And she’d fallen in love.

  * * *

  Ford hoped his exterior didn’t match his interior, which was a jumbled mass of nerves and adrenaline.

  They were not going to have sex tonight. He had to keep his wits about him. And his clothes on.

  Easier said than done around Claire.

  He’d hoped time and distance would lessen the intensity of the attraction, but he glanced at the seat between them, and it seemed he’d unconsciously scooted closer to her.

  It’s like his charge was negative and hers was positive.

  Although, Claire was hugging the door. Maybe he was the only one feeling the tug.

  He followed the winding path through the cedar trees to the foreman’s cabin. A side glance at Claire confirmed that the chatter he heard was her teeth. He’d get a fire going as soon as they got inside.

  He wanted to gather her up in his arms. But he couldn’t. If anything, he needed to be brusque. A little harsh, even. Otherwise Claire would melt all over him, and then he was in trouble.

  The woods thinned to a small clearing, revealing the cabin sitting in the center. The windows glowed. “The lights are back on,” he said.

  “That’s a good sign, right? Maybe things are letting up.”

  “Maybe.”

  If he was going to spend the evening with Claire Kowalski, he’d prefer to do it in a well-lit room.

  The rain had slowed, and Ford got out of the truck to check the rain gauge nailed to a fence post. He was curious as hell to see how much rain they’d gotten, and he wasn’t anxious to get inside the cabin with a wet, sexy Claire. His hands were damp, and he couldn’t tell if it was rain or nervous sweat.

  Ford squinted at the gauge. They’d gotten two inches in about an hour. He got back in the truck. Claire shivered like a cartoon character whose limbs had turned to ice. She glared at him from beneath her matted mass of wet hair. “Must you lollygag so?”

  Ford didn’t know what that meant, but he had a sneaking suspicion, so with a barely concealed grin he closed the door, buckled his seat belt, adjusted the heater vents, and drove slowly through the gate, which now that he thought about it, really didn’t need closing.

  He put the truck in park.

  Where was she going to sleep?

  He opened his door and climbed out of the truck.

  What the hell was she going to wear after getting out of those wet clothes?

  He closed the gate.

  Should he check the rain gauge again?

  A door slammed. Claire’s bedraggled figure, illuminated by headlights, stomped its way up the lane.

  Ford ran after her. “Hey! You’re barefoot. Get back in the truck.”

  Claire spun and faced him. “I wouldn’t want my hypothermia to interfere with your meandering around checking on things.”

  “You’re going to step on a mesquite thorn. Stop being silly and get back in the truck.”

  Her nostrils flared at the sound of silly.

  “I’m halfway to the cabin,” she said. “It makes no sense to walk back to the truck on my poor delicate feet when they could take me to the porch in the same amount of time.” She started back up the lane, but Ford jumped in front of her.

  “There’s only one thing to do that makes any sense.” He’d already done it once tonight, might as well do it again. He took a step toward her.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  They were way beyond dares, and Ford had her over his shoulder in two seconds flat. She did more than beat on his back this time, and an errant foot grazed his crotch. He grabbed her ankle. “Stop acting crazy.”

  It was a good thing she’d lost her shoes. Otherwise he’d have said that about five octaves higher.

  She quit fighting and went limp. Then she shuddered, and Ford thought she might be crying. Well, hell. He couldn’t put her down barefoot, but he didn’t have to carry her like a sack of potatoes, either. He shifted and she slid down his chest. He stopped her just before her feet reached the ground and pressed her against the front of his body.

  Instead of kicking him in the shins, Claire wrapped her arms around his neck.

  That felt nice.

  She gazed at him with a little sigh.

  “Ford,” Claire whispered. “What are you doing—”

  “This,” he said, putting her down so that her bare feet rested on the tops of his boots. Then he leaned over, crooked his arm behind her knees, and lifted her in a more dignified manner.

  He’d just dodged the first bullet of the evening. And dammit, he’d fired the shot himself.

  Chapter Five

  Claire was being carried through the doorway. Across the threshold.

  She’d imagined the moment many times, only in her stupid fantasy she’d been dry, warm, and perfectly draped in a Vera Wang wedding gown. The same fantasy had Ford making love to her on a petal-strewn mattress surrounded by candles instead of plunking her unceremoniously in the middle of the room.

  “I haven’t been in the foreman’s cabin since I was a teenager,” Claire said.

  Ford removed his hat and tossed it on the table. His dark hair was mostly dry, but the rest of him was wringing wet.

  He gazed at her with his hazel eyes, which were often the only feature to hold any expression on Ford’s typically stoic face. He could laugh without cracking a smile. He could question everything you thought you knew with a single raised eyebrow. He could say I love you with a glance.

  Except he never had said it. And she’d only imagined having seen it.

  If there was one thing Claire had learned from her relationship with Ford, it was that she was horrible at reading people.

  Ford’s eyes traveled the length of her body. Her nipples, perky from the chill, were clearly visible through the wet blue silk, and they hardened even more from the heat of his gaze.

  When his eyes made their way back to hers, they seemed darker and more intense. There was a slight flush beneath his scruffy five o’clock shadow.

  Suddenly, he grabbed a towel off the counter and dropped it on the floor. “Here, stand on this,” he said gruffly.

  A small puddle had amassed at her feet.

  Ford shed his flannel shirt, revealing a white T-shirt plastered to his chest. “I imagine you’ll be needing a warm shower.”

  Or a cold one.

  Ford’s chest was as familiar a landscape as Rancho Cañada Verde’s back forty. Claire’s mind traced its angles and planes just as thoroughly as her fingers had once done. She swallowed, thinking about how firm and fit those abs were, and although she couldn’t see it now, she kn
ew there was a delicious trail of hair dipping into the waistband of his clinging jeans.

  “Is it smaller than you remember it?” Ford asked. “Or bigger?”

  “What?” Claire asked. Was there a cartoonish thought bubble floating over her head?

  “The cabin,” Ford said. “Bigger or smaller than you remember it?”

  “Oh.” She looked around at the sparse surroundings. A single couch. A small table and two chairs. Faded curtains. “Smaller, I guess.”

  When the Montgomery family had lived here, the cabin had been cheerful and cluttered, yet somehow, even with the two rowdy Montgomery twins wrestling all over it, it had seemed much larger.

  Claire stepped onto the towel, irritated by how quickly her thoughts strayed into the danger zone. But there was some kind of weird sexual chemistry between her and Ford. Two years ago, she’d thought it was something more than chemistry, but she’d been wrong.

  Ford turned to hang his wet shirt on the coat rack in the corner. Claire watched the muscles of his back flex. She thought about how he’d effortlessly picked her up—even though she wasn’t exactly a dainty wisp of a thing—and the silky warmth that had taken over her body focused all of its attention between her legs.

  Ford walked briskly to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  Lightning flashed.

  Storms like this were surely triggers for Ford, even though it had probably been two decades since his little sister had drowned.

  “You’re shaking like a leaf,” he said, coming out of the bathroom. “You might be in shock.”

  He tossed a log in the fireplace and stared at it like he could light it with his eyes. “You just came pretty close to dying. You know that, right?”

  “I almost had to swim,” she admitted in a low voice. “Although, I doubt I’d have stood a chance in that current…”

  Ford drew in a sudden breath. “No, you wouldn’t have. Now go take a hot shower. Just toss your clothes out, and I’ll throw them in the dryer.”

  “It’s silk,” she said.

  Ford stared blankly.

  “It’s ruined. Do you have something I can wear?”

  Ford nodded. “I’ll grab you something.”

  She headed for the bathroom, thinking about how stupid she’d been. Tonight could have ended very badly. How could she have forgotten to check her gas gauge? What had she been thinking about when she drove into that low-water crossing with the needle on Empty?

  The store. She’d been thinking about Petal Pushers and fantasizing about the many possibilities…

  Fantasizing. She’d also been thinking about Ford.

  And it had literally nearly killed her.

  She’d been warned time and again about flash floods. From the safety of a high bluff, she’d once seen the typically calm and meandering Rio Verde turn into a torrential wall of destruction. Her dad had taken her there specifically for that purpose, having predicted the event based on a week’s worth of thunderstorms.

  See that, princess? That’s why you don’t ever mess around with low-water crossings.

  The radio screeched and stuttered and Ford’s head whipped around. He went over and began fiddling with various knobs.

  Claire went into the bathroom and started the business of peeling off her wet clothes. The silk dress was ruined, so she dropped it into the trash. Then she stepped into the shower and beneath the warm spray with a sigh.

  By the time she’d gotten rid of the chills, the water felt a tad cooler than it had when she’d started. The water heater was small, and Ford would probably want a hot shower, too. She turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and dried off.

  Ford knocked on the door, and she jerked so suddenly that her head spun.

  “Yes?”

  “I have a flannel shirt you can borrow.”

  “Thank you. That’ll be fine.”

  The door opened a crack, and Ford’s arm popped in with the shirt. Claire snatched it, and Ford yanked his hand back and slammed the door.

  He hadn’t even sneaked a peek.

  Claire picked her panties up off the floor. Like everything else she’d had on this evening, they were soggy wet. Still, she made a go of it and slipped a foot in a leg hole. The fabric stuck to her skin and generally refused to cooperate, so she draped them over the side of the tub. She’d have to go commando.

  Clutching the soft flannel shirt by its hem, she held it snugly in place and stepped out of the bathroom just as the room went dark. “Ford?”

  A beam of light hit her in the face. She let go of her shirt to shield her eyes. “What the hell?”

  “Sorry,” Ford said, lowering the beam. “Electricity is out again.”

  He stuck the flashlight in his armpit and worked to light the mantle of a small propane lantern. Once that was taken care of, he motioned for Claire to sit on the couch.

  Smoothing the tail of the shirt against her rear end, she sat and looked around the room, now bathed in the glow of the lantern and the roaring fire.

  Lightning flashed and she jumped.

  “Everything will be okay,” Ford said in a soothing voice.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “The lightning startled me.”

  “I was talking to Oscar.”

  Claire rolled her eyes as Ford awkwardly patted the wincing cat. “Leave that poor thing alone. He can barely tolerate that piss-poor display of affection.”

  “It’s not affection. It’s pity.”

  The side eye he gave her made Claire wonder if he’d meant the statement in regard to her.

  She picked up a cushion and crushed it against her chest. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” she said.

  Ford looked over with a glint of humor in his eyes.

  Ranch foremen weren’t known for their decorating skills, but Ford was particularly hopeless.

  “Are you hungry? I can heat up some corn chowder on the gas stove.”

  Claire’s stomach growled. She hadn’t finished her salmon before abandoning the date.

  “I don’t know,” Claire said. “I ate on my date.” The ha! she wanted to add was drowned out by another horrific growl from her stomach.

  One corner of Ford’s mouth turned up. “Is that a yes?”

  “Maybe I’ll have a—”

  “And I’m sorry your date sucked.”

  “What makes you think my date sucked? It was ideal. The guy was really cute, very successful, and he took me to a super expensive steak place.”

  “Since when was a super expensive steak place ideal for a woman who doesn’t like to eat meat? And as for how I know your date sucked, you’ve been to Austin on an ideal date, driven all the way home to Big Verde, survived a flash flood, and then used up every drop of my hot water”—he looked at the clock over the stove—“all before midnight.”

  “It was our first date,” she muttered.

  “Must have been a doozy,” Ford said. “Our first date sure as hell didn’t end by midnight.”

  Claire controlled her facial features with difficulty. Their first date had ended at six in the morning when the wrangler walked into the stable to find her and Ford wearing nothing but hay, smiles, and an Indian blanket.

  * * *

  Ford’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched the memory of their first date play across Claire’s face. She never could hide what she was thinking, and he never could resist watching the fascinating facets of her thoughts. Damned near everything about her was fascinating.

  “Going out with him again?” he asked, hoping it sounded like he didn’t care.

  “You’re quite curious.”

  So, no, then. If Claire had a second date with the guy, she’d have said so with glee and a middle finger. He stole a glance at her as he ladled chowder into a small bowl. The glow of the fire lit up her face and made her hair dance.

  He put her bowl of soup on the table, already feeling his resolve to remain distant and brusque melt away. It was so easy to fall into a familiar pattern of chitchat with Claire,
even though he typically wasn’t much of a talker and the topic was making his blood boil. “Where’d you meet this guy? The one who tried to feed you meat.”

  He knew where she’d met him. Sizzle. But would Glass Slipper admit it?

  Claire stood up and stretched, raising her arms above her head. He only had a side view, but it was a good one. Her breasts stretched the limits of his flannel shirt. And the hem rose higher and higher until…

  No underwear. The woman wore no underwear.

  Claire suddenly dropped her arms and grasped the shirt’s hem, plastering it against her legs. Ford turned toward the sink as if he hadn’t seen anything, and really, he hadn’t. Just creamy thigh and smooth hip and…

  Claire daintily cleared her throat behind him, and he heard her scoot the chair to the table. “Well?” he asked. “You meet him at a bar?”

  “No,” Claire snapped. “Who has time for that?”

  “Church?”

  He grinned as Claire sighed loudly.

  “It was a blind date.”

  “Who set you up? Anyone I know?”

  “I don’t think any of this is your business,” Claire said haughtily. “And aren’t you going to eat? Saving a damsel in distress must make you hungry.”

  “You saved yourself,” he said. “And I already ate. I do want a shower, though. You need anything else before I get in?”

  “No,” she said, picking up the spoon. The steam wafted up and she inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. “I’ve really missed your chowder.”

  But then, as if remembering all the things associated with him that she didn’t miss, she opened her eyes, furrowed her brow, and dipped her spoon into her bowl.

  “You miss anything else?” he asked.

  Jesus, why had he asked that? Maybe he was a glutton for punishment.

  Claire paused, spoon halfway to her mouth, as if pondering the question.

  “Yes,” she said. “I miss poor Oscar. And I hate that you’re all he’s got for company.”

  Ford glanced at the corner where Oscar was currently licking his asshole. It seemed that Ford was the one in poor company, not the other way around.