The Texan Tries Again (Men 0f The West Book 44)

by Stella Bagwell

  She stood with her hands folded in front of her, surveying him with uncertainty in her eyes. It was obvious she still didn’t trust his motives and that frustrated the heck out of him. But maybe she had a right to be suspicious of him, Taggart thought. Especially when he didn’t know himself just where his feelings for Emily-Ann were headed.

  She said, “You and the Hollisters keep late hours.”

  “That’s part of the job,” he said, as he took in the pretty picture she made in a dark red skirt and white blouse. “Were you—er—busy? I don’t want to interrupt.”

  “You’re not interrupting. In fact, I was just about to make myself a sandwich. Would you care to join me? Or have you already eaten?”

  Relieved that she was inviting him to stay, he took off his hat and raked fingers through his flattened hair. “A sandwich would be great. I haven’t eaten since early this morning.”

  She motioned for him to follow her. “Come with me to the kitchen.”

  On the way out of the living room, he dropped his hat on an end table, then trailed her through a short hallway that led off in three different directions. A wide door directly in front of them was open and as she entered the brightly lit space, he could see it was an old-fashioned kitchen with knotty pine cabinets and a single white porcelain sink.

  A stack of books was piled at one end of the farm table and she quickly began moving them to the far end of the cabinet counter.

  “I’ve been studying for a test. Human anatomy. The last one I made a B, but I’m afraid this one is going to be much harder,” she said, then gestured for him to take a seat. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get the sandwich makings.”

  “I can help if you’ll tell me what to do,” he offered.

  “Thanks, but I can manage.”

  She opened the refrigerator and bent down to the crisper. Taggart couldn’t bring himself to look away from the rounded shape of her bottom and the way the fabric of the skirt clung to the tempting curves.

  He drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Do you normally eat this late?”

  “No,” she answered, with her head still half-hidden in the refrigerator. “After I closed the shop this afternoon I went out with Camille on a little shopping venture and she insisted we go for milkshakes. So I’m just now getting a bit hungry.”

  After piling packages of lunchmeat and cheese onto the cabinet counter, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “What about you? You didn’t have time to stop for supper?” she asked.

  “No. Everyone on the ranch has been very busy. We’re getting ready for spring roundup and that takes all hands and the cook.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard Camille talk about those days. She and Vivian used to go help.” She gathered more items from the refrigerator and shut the door. As she washed a tomato and a head of lettuce at the sink, she said, “I haven’t heard from you since we went to Jose’s. I’d pretty much decided you probably didn’t want to see me anymore.”

  “Why would I decide that?” he asked, while feeling like a heel. Not that he owed her any explanations. It wasn’t like they were a couple or anything. But it was like Blake had implied, Emily-Ann deserved a nice guy. She deserved to be respected and he wasn’t giving her that by ignoring her. Nor was he being a nice guy by leading her along to nowhere.

  “Personal reasons,” she said frankly. “What else?”

  Taggart couldn’t bear the distance between them. Not while she was talking as though there was nothing between them except a meal and a bit of conversation. Damn it, he’d kissed her. Had she already forgotten that? Or did she have the idea that a kiss meant nothing to him?

  How could she possibly figure out what you’re thinking? About kissing or anything else, Taggart? She doesn’t know who you really are. You haven’t told her about Becca or the baby, or any of the things that are still twisting your vision of the future.

  Heaving out a heavy breath, he walked over to where she stood. “Well, I could say I’ve been working overtime and I wouldn’t be lying. But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t have pulled out my phone and sent you a text.”

  Her gaze locked on the task of slicing the tomato onto a plate, she said, “That notion did cross my mind. But you’ve mentioned before that you don’t like phones. And anyway, it’s all okay, Tag. You don’t owe me explanations or anything. It’s not like we’d planned to see each other again.”

  Her casual attitude stung him. Which was really stupid. That’s the way he wanted things to be with Emily-Ann. Simple and easy with no ties or promises. So why did he want to grab her and hold on? So he could be hurt all over again? And possibly hurt her, too?

  Shoving away that dismal thought, he said, “I didn’t call or send a message because I’ve been telling myself that the best thing I could ever do for you is to never see you again. I mean—as in a date.”

  She dropped the knife and turned to face him. “Why? Because you thought about all those things I told you—about my mother? About the irresponsible bastard who fathered me?”

  Frowning, he gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “No! You’re not even close. The doubts are inside of me, Emily-Ann. I think you ought to know that when it comes to women—well, several years ago some things happened in my life that changed everything for me. Now, I honestly don’t think I could ever be a husband to any woman. And I don’t believe I’m supposed to be a father. So you see, if we started dating and getting close...it...wouldn’t be fair or right for you.”

  Her eyes darkened as she continued to stare at him. “Then why did you ask me out in the first place? Why in hell did you kiss me?”

  His fingers tightened on her shoulders and it suddenly struck him that trying to be a nice guy was the toughest challenge he’d ever faced. “Because I like you. Because I was lonely and wanted company. Your company. And why do you think I kissed you? You’re damned desirable, Emily-Ann. And I’m not made of steel.”

  “Here’s a revelation for you. I’m not made of steel either,” she muttered.

  Groaning, he said, “Now you’re angry with me.”

  A resigned look came over her face and then she turned away from him and walked to the end of the cabinets. As she pulled out plates and glasses, she said, “No. I’m not angry with you, Tag. In fact, I want to thank you for being honest and not leading me down a dead-end street. That’s more than I’ve ever gotten from other men. It’s just that the other night—when we were together—I honestly began to think you might be different. I was wrong. But that’s okay, too. I’ve been a fool before. Many times.”

  She looked at him and smiled, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. Actually, everything about it said she was looking at the biggest disappointment she’d ever seen in the shape of a man. Until this moment Taggart didn’t know it was possible to feel lower than a heel, but he did. He was now on the level of a snake.

  “But that doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends,” she told him, then held up a hand as he took a step toward her. “But no kissing. No romance. No ideas that we’re going to be a couple. Ever.”

  He felt sick inside. He felt like he’d been hammered and nailed and tossed aside like a horseshoe that couldn’t bend to a shape that would fit.

  “That’s—uh—fine with me, Emily-Ann. We can be friends and not hurt each other.”

  “Right. I’m good at being a friend. Not so good at being a lover.”

  Lover. His lover. Dear Lord, he had to be the biggest hypocrite walking the earth. He was standing here trying to pretend that he wasn’t aching to take her to bed right this minute. But having sex with her wouldn’t work. No. Not now or ever.

  He tried to smile, but the best he could do was twist his lips to a lopsided slant. “Now that we have all that settled, let’s have that sandwich. What do you say?”

  She didn’t smile back at him. Nor did she bother looking him in the eye. Instead, she quickl
y turned back to the cabinet. “I say the sandwiches are coming right up. And I’ve changed my mind, you can help by getting ice for the glasses and putting the plates on the table.”

  Well, that was that, he thought. She knew where he stood and he understood how she felt about it. Problem solved. All he needed to do now was to figure out how to get rid of the empty feeling in the middle of his chest.

  With a silent sigh, he rose to his feet and joined her at the cabinet.

  * * *

  It was silly of her to feel deflated, Emily-Ann thought, as she choked down the last bite of ham-and-cheese sandwich. From the very first, she’d known that she didn’t have the slightest chance of having any kind of meaningful relationship with Taggart. Even after their evening at Jose’s and that kiss on the desert, she’d continually told herself not to set her dreams on the man. She wasn’t his kind of woman. And heaven knew he wasn’t her kind of man.

  And yet, her heart was heavy with disappointment. Maybe if Taggart had been the first man to tell her he wasn’t the marrying kind, she could shrug the whole thing off. But now she had to add him to a long list of guys who’d been too commitment shy to give her a serious thought. It was something that had happened to her over and over. And in spite of Camille’s optimism that Emily-Ann would find true love someday, she was beginning to accept the fact it wasn’t meant for her. Just as it hadn’t been meant for her mother.

  Rising from her seat at the table, she went over to the cabinet and began filling a coffee maker with grounds and water. “If I’d known you were going to drop by I could’ve had something better than sandwiches for you. But I do have a few fried apple pies—if you’d like one for dessert.”

  “No. I’ve already eaten two sandwiches and most of your potato chips. I don’t want to eat up all your groceries,” he said.

  Shaking her head, she opened a flat plastic container and placed three of the small pies onto a paper plate. “I can’t eat them all. Besides, you bought my dinner the other night. So we’re even on the groceries. Sort of. You got the short end of the stick.”

  He smiled at her. “I don’t think so.”

  Grabbing two mugs from the cabinet, she filled them with coffee and carried them and the plate of pies over to the table.

  “Did you make these?” he asked as she placed one of the pies onto his plate.

  She chuckled. “No. Don’t worry. Conchita made these for the shop. Fried pies are something she doesn’t do on a daily basis. Just whenever she gets the urge. I’m not that good of a cook. I can do simple things like spaghetti or pork chops and mashed potatoes. I do try brownies once in a while, but they usually turn out like rubber. Conchita tells me I’m cooking them too long. Easy for her to say. She’s cooked for fifty years.”

  “Mmm. The pie is delicious,” he said. “And so is the coffee.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “At least I’m good at that.”

  He consumed the pie and she motioned for him to take another. “They’re small. And I don’t want to be tempted. So please eat all of them.”

  While he continued to eat, she asked, “Was the mare you brought into the clinic injured or something? I hope she’s going to be okay.”

  “She doesn’t have any kind of injury. Holt wanted a few tests done on her that Doc could only perform at the clinic. She lost her first foal, so he wants to make sure everything is well with her before he breeds her again.”

  “It was nice of you to haul her to the clinic for him. I’m sure Holt wants to spend as much time as he can with Isabelle and baby Carter.”

  Taggart sipped his coffee. “I’m not so sure Holt was going straight home. He wanted to use the extra time to have a talk with Blake. I think the brothers are trying to figure out the situation with Gil and their mother.”

  Emily-Ann shrugged. “What’s to figure out? Gil has moved back and he wants to spend time with Maureen. That’s the way I see it.”

  “Yes, but he’s moved into the ranch house with the rest of the family.”

  “Makes sense to me, too,” Emily-Ann said. “The house is huge. Even with Blake and Chandler living there with their families, there’s still plenty of room.”

  Nodding, he said, “On the surface it should be that simple. The way I see it, if Maureen wants to be close to her late husband’s brother, then that’s her business. Not Blake’s or Holt’s or anyone else’s. But from what Doc has conveyed to me, the brothers are still trying to solve the mystery of Joel’s death.”

  “Don’t you mean murder?” she asked grimly, then shook her head. “I realize the family doesn’t come out and say those words in front of just any and everybody. But Camille and I have discussed it. And Isabelle has also talked to me about the situation. She says Holt is haunted over the circumstances of his father’s death. Camille says the same thing about Matthew.”

  Nodding soberly, he said, “Losing a loved one is bad all around. But I figure the not knowing makes it even harder for the Hollisters, Gil included. After all, the man lost his brother. Being a detective for thirty years makes Blake and his brothers wonder if he’s really come back to Three Rivers to do some investigating of his own, or if he’s only interested in their mother.”

  “Maybe he’s interested in both,” Emily-Ann reasoned. “I didn’t talk to the man that much the night of the party, but he seems very sincere. I only wish—”

  He arched an inquisitive brow at her. “What do you wish?”

  She looked away from him and sighed. “Only that my mother could’ve had a man like him in her life.”

  “Did your mother ever marry?” he asked.

  Glancing back at him, she nodded. “Yes, once. Gorman Smith was a salesman from California. Somehow he ended up here in Wickenburg—that was about the time I turned a year old. Back then I think he sold tires or cars. Later on, he turned to selling insurance policies. But never had much money to show for it.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I have no idea and I’ll be happy to keep it that way. As a stepfather, he wasn’t abusive or anything. He was just mostly absent, if you know what I mean. The neighbor next door was more of a father to me than Gorman ever was.” She clutched her coffee cup and tried to keep her emotions in check. “Iris thought he could do no wrong and when he talked about all of his big dreams, she honestly believed he was going to achieve them. She was always telling me that someday Gorman was going to make our lives much better.”

  “Did your mother love the man?”

  Emily-Ann stared into her coffee cup. “That’s the saddest part about it. She loved him with all her heart.”

  “I don’t see that as sad, Emily-Ann. Loving the man must have made her happy, otherwise she would’ve kicked him out.”

  Lifting her gaze to his, she said, “Mom didn’t know any better. She was gullible and softhearted and Gorman used that to his advantage. A week hadn’t passed after her death when he packed up and lit out.”

  His eyes narrowed as he studied her face. “Were you grown then?”

  “I was eighteen and had just graduated high school. So I suppose I qualified as an adult. I tell you one thing, I was better off with him gone than I would’ve been with him sitting around drinking beer and bragging about his next moneymaking scheme.”

  “I’m sorry, Emily-Ann,” he said quietly. “I wish it had been different for you and your mother. But you’re still very young. You can make your life what you want it to be.”

  No, Emily-Ann thought. It was impossible to make a man love her if he didn’t want to. But then that kind of self-pitying attitude was not going to get her anywhere. In fact, she needed to be smart enough to see that she didn’t need a man in her life to make her happy. She didn’t need babies like the Hollister families were having right and left. After all, she was going to be a nurse. The profession would provide all the caring and nurturing she needed to feel fulfilled.

  “
You’re so right. And I want to be a nurse. Anything else, I’ll leave up to fate.”

  Rising from her seat, she began to clear the remains of their light supper from the tabletop.

  Taggart rose, too, and carried his empty plate and cup over to the sink. “Fate isn’t always kind, Emily-Ann.”

  “Neither are some people.”

  “I suppose you’re talking about me now,” he said.

  She twisted open the hot water knob and dropped the stopper into the sink. As it filled, she glanced over to see a frown on his face. Both his expression and remark surprised her.

  “Why no. I don’t think you’re unkind at all, Tag.”

  “Well, I feel very unkind and very phony.” His frown was more like a look of anguish as he stepped toward her. “I’m a hypocrite, a liar and a coward to boot. A while ago when I told you I didn’t want us to be anything more than friends I was lying. Hell, even as I was speaking the words, I wanted to make love to you.”

  Make love or have sex. She didn’t know which one he meant and her mind was spinning at such a rapid speed she couldn’t begin to absorb everything he’d just said. But she had managed to latch on to one key word. Want. He wanted her.

  “If that’s the way you honestly feel, then why did you lie to me?”

  Groaning, he wrapped his hands over her shoulders. “I was trying to be a gentleman and do the right thing. Blake says you deserve a nice guy and he’s right. You deserve a good man and everything he can give you. But I—” He paused and shook his head with defeat. “These past few minutes I’ve come to realize that I’m too selfish to give you up to some other man. I want to be the guy who holds you, kisses you—makes love to you.”

  By the time the last of his huskily spoken words had passed his lips, he was drawing her into the tight circle of his arms and Emily-Ann’s heart began to thump so hard and fast she felt light-headed.

  Her breathing turned to shallow sips as she dared to flatten her hands against his chest and slide them slowly and surely up to his shoulders. “I lied, too, Taggart. I don’t want to be just your friend. I want to be everything to you.”