The Cowboy Upstairs

by Tanya Michaels

  He should probably be insulted that she was so eager to get rid of him. “I’m sure the room will be just fine. Even if the bed’s lumpy, with mismatched sheets, it’ll be better than all the times I’ve slept on the ground during a trail ride or stayed in a crappy motel room.” He’d been to rodeos in luxury Vegas settings and tourist-destination stockyards, but those weren’t the norm.

  “Mr. McCall, I do not make up beds with mismatched sheets.”

  He couldn’t help grinning at her affronted tone; the woman took her linens seriously. “I’ve always cared more about what happens between the sheets than about whether they match.”

  She sucked in a breath, but the doorbell rang, saving him from a potentially blistering retort. Redirecting her anger, she glared toward the front of the house. “That better not be the pizza already!”

  Was she that set on having events unfold according to her timeline? “Most people are happy when they don’t have to wait long for delivery.”

  “There are three regular drivers,” she said, as she dug through her purse. “But Keesha only works weekends. Which leaves D. B. Janak, who I happen to know has the flu, because I ran into his girlfriend at the store, and Callum Breelan, who is proving to be just as bad as his disreputable uncles.” Money in hand, she strode toward the door, rattling off the rest of her explanation over her shoulder. “Only seventeen and he already has one speeding ticket and two warnings—Deputy Thomas went easy on him. I don’t need lead-foot Callum using my dinner as an excuse to mow down pedestrians and small animals.”

  Sawyer blinked at the unexpected blast of information. She’d been talking too fast about people he’d never met for him to process all of it. The upshot seemed to be Becca knew a lot about her neighbors. And had strong opinions.

  While she stood at the door haranguing the delivery boy about his driving habits, Sawyer found his way down the hall to a huge kitchen, the kind that was big enough to include a full-size dining room table and china cabinet. Marc stood on his tiptoes at a marble-topped island, trying to pour lemonade into a red plastic superhero cup. Sawyer lunged forward, taking the pitcher from the boy’s hands just as it started to wobble.

  “Here, better let me get that for you. I’m guessin’ your mama doesn’t like spills.”

  The boy shook his head, eyes wide. They were the same color as Becca’s. “She hates messes. And snakes, even though they’re cool.”

  “Not all of them,” Sawyer said. He’d had a few close encounters with rattlesnakes and copperheads he’d rather not think about. He eyed the pitcher on the counter, noting the slices of fresh lemon bobbing inside it; obviously, Becca did not serve lemonade that came from powder. “Where can I find a glass?”

  Marc directed him to a cabinet next to the stainless steel refrigerator—not that it was easy to see the silver steel beneath the clutter. The kitchen was pristine—no dirty dishes in the sink, no mail sitting on the counter—but the fridge was practically wallpapered in Marc’s schoolwork, crayon drawings and photos. As he looked closer, Sawyer realized there were also a number of newspaper clippings that all seemed to be about Cupid’s Bow events. One mentioned a Watermelon Festival, while another—

  “Can I help you find something in particular?” Becca asked from behind him, her voice icy.

  Busted. He straightened, making light of his snooping. “Guess I was just curious about the family I’ll be staying with, trying to reassure myself that you and Marc here aren’t—” he’d been about to say ax murderers, but murder jokes weren’t appropriate in front of the little boy “—aliens from outer space.” That made the kid giggle, and Sawyer winked at him. “Or dangerous robots. Or spies for the CIA!”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Becca said, exasperated. “Our CIA handler is the one who gave us all that fake documentation to support our covers in the first place.”

  Sawyer rocked back on his heels. So she did have a sense of humor? Good to know. The next few weeks were looking up already. He grinned at her, but she turned away to set the pizza on the table, almost as if she were hiding her smile.

  “Marc was kind enough to show me where the glasses are,” he said, pulling one from the cabinet. “The lemonade looks delicious. Want me to pour you some, too?”

  She cocked her head, seeming confused by the question.

  “Becca?”

  “Sorry, I’m not used to someone else serving me in my own kitchen. Lemonade would be lovely, thank you.”

  Sawyer remembered Brody mentioning an ex-husband who’d bailed on her and the boy. How long had she been alone, that something as simple as someone else pouring her a drink was jarring?

  “Wait, Marc, slow down!” Becca batted her son’s hand away from the open box as Sawyer joined them at the table. “The pizza’s still pretty hot.”

  “Guess what, Mama? I’ve decided not to get a pet snake when I grow up.”

  “Oh, good.” She dropped her arm around his shoulders in a brief hug. “I was going to talk you out of it, anyway, but this saves me the trouble.”

  The oval table was big enough to seat eight. Marc and Becca sat next to each other, toward the center, and Sawyer went around to the other side, taking the chair opposite Marc.

  “It’s so cool Mr. Sawyer could have dinner with us!” Marc grinned so broadly that Sawyer noticed for the first time that the kid was missing one of his bottom teeth.

  Becca hesitated. “Actually, he might be staying a few days. Or longer.”

  “In the new upstairs room?” Marc shot out of his seat with a whoop of excitement.

  “Marc Paul Johnston, what kind of table manners are those?”

  “Sorry.” He slid back into his chair, his tone sheepish. But he was still smiling.

  Sawyer locked his gaze on his plate, not wanting to make eye contact with the kid. If he returned Marc’s grin, Becca might think he was encouraging the boy’s rambunctious behavior. Besides, it was discomfiting to be the source of so much joy. He’d signed autographs for kids at rodeos and assisted tourists with children, but he’d never had prolonged exposure to one. You’ll be an uncle soon. Would he be close to his future niece or nephew? Doubtful. He sure as hell wasn’t close to his brother.

  Charlie hadn’t even been the one to share the news that he and his wife were expecting; Sawyer’s mom had told him the last time he talked to her on the phone. The next day, Charlie had sent a terse email and Sawyer had replied with dutiful congratulations. That had been a couple weeks ago, and he could still hear his mother’s chiding tone in his head.

  Gwen’s due at the end of October. Surely you’ll want to arrange your schedule so that you can be here?

  He’d told her he really couldn’t say what his schedule would be in the fall, but that he’d be in touch. Then he’d quickly found an excuse to get off the phone. The truth was, even if he could make it, what would be the point? His sister-in-law was a nice lady, but her own family lived close to the ranch, so she had plenty of support. And as for Charlie... Ever since his older brother had returned to the ranch from college, the two of them could barely be in the same room without an argument erupting. Their father always sided with Charlie. Their mother just wanted everyone to get along. In her mind, that meant Sawyer—the outnumbered younger son—should cave.

  “Something wrong with your pizza?” Becca asked tentatively.

  Sawyer realized he was scowling. “Uh...you were right about it being hot. I burned the roof of my mouth,” he lied.

  “Kenny Whittmeyer’s dad burned his hand when he took Kenny and me camping,” Marc volunteered. “We were roasting marshmallows and he said a whole bunch of bad words. I—”

  A trumpet sound came from beneath the table, and Becca shifted in her seat, pulling a cell phone from the pocket of her shorts. She glanced at her son. “You know I’m only checking this because of the race, right?”

  He no
dded, informing Sawyer, “Mama has a no-phone rule at the table. But we make ex-sections ’cause of the race.”

  “Exceptions,” Becca corrected absently, reading a text. She frowned, but put the phone away rather than responding. “Who wants the last slice of pizza?”

  Sawyer shook his head, letting the growing boy snag it, and reached for his glass. “What’s this race you mentioned? Are you a runner?” He could easily imagine her in a marathon. She seemed disciplined enough, and judging from her toned figure, she did something to keep in shape.

  “Not literally. I’m running for mayor.”

  Sawyer choked on his lemonade.

  “You find that funny, Mr. McCall?”

  Hell, yes. Weren’t politicians supposed to kiss babies and suck up to people? Becca was far too imperious for that. She hadn’t even been able to pay for a pizza without lecturing the hapless delivery boy.

  She misinterpreted the smile he was fighting. “I’ll have you know that women are every bit as capable as—”

  “Whoa. No argument here. I’ve known plenty of badass women.”

  “So what’s the big joke?” She challenged, those eyes sparking again.

  He doubted there was any answer that wouldn’t get him in trouble. Might as well go with the truth. “The idea of you courting votes is a little funny, don’t you think? You seem like someone who speaks her mind, whether the opinion is popular or not.”

  “And that’s bad? Community leaders should be honest and straightforward.”

  “In theory, sure.” Feeling Marc’s gaze on him reminded Sawyer that there was a seven-year-old listening to his cynicism. “But don’t listen to me. I’m just an outsider. What do I know about the people of Cupid’s Bow?”

  Becca stood, gathering up the empty plates. “About that—you being an outsider? Would you mind finishing your lemonade on the porch and enjoying the evening breeze while I call Brody Davenport? I need to start checking your references.”

  “No problem.” He scraped his chair back. “Checking up on me is the responsible thing to do.”

  She gave him a smile that was part apology, part amusement. “Well, I’d hate to accidentally rent the room to a dangerous alien robot.”

  “That would be awesome!” Marc said.

  “Which,” she told him affectionately, “is why I’m the one who makes the decisions around here.”

  Sawyer understood not letting a second grader run the household, but alien robots aside, he was pretty sure Becca preferred to be the one making decisions no matter who was involved. Just like Charlie. But a hell of a lot prettier.

  * * *

  AFTER BECCA FINISHED her phone call, she tucked in Marc, who was supposed to read for thirty minutes, then go to sleep. From the excitement on his small freckled face, she suspected he wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon. She wasn’t sure yet how she felt about her new tenant, but she had to admit he’d been great with her son.

  She should go thank him. And let him know the room was officially his.

  She stepped onto the front porch, where the heat was sticky in comparison to the air-conditioned house but not intolerable. Intolerable came in August. Sawyer glanced up from the swing with that too-appealing grin that could’ve belonged to a movie star; the spectacularly vivid sunset behind him added a cinematic effect. The only thing missing was a musical score. Becca told herself she was unaffected and had always liked books more than films, anyway.

  “Did Brody vouch for me?” he asked.

  “He said I should kick you to the curb—that you’re a pain in the ass who likes to get his own way.”

  Sawyer shrugged. “Well, who doesn’t like to get his way?”

  Hard to argue that. Brody had also said Sawyer was dependable, loyal and never drank to excess or let himself get goaded into bar fights, like a few of their former rodeo friends.

  “Let me show you the room. Pay me cash for tonight, and you can decide in the morning how long you’re staying, after you’ve had a chance to judge the accommodations for yourself.” She almost said something about making sure the bed was comfortable, but stopped herself, recalling his comment about sheets earlier. She did not need to hear any jokes about what took place in his bed.

  He unfolded himself from the swing, and she took a moment to appreciate the novelty of being with someone taller than she was. Only a handful of men here in Cupid’s Bow were. In elementary school, she’d hated being the tallest in her class—probably the tallest in the whole school. But she’d decided her height was an advantage at home. Towering over her siblings helped her secure their obedience.

  She’d foolishly taken it as a good sign that she and her ex-husband had been the same height; she’d joked to a friend that there was no better way to start a life together than seeing eye to eye. Nice symbolism, lousy results. Pushing aside memories of her failed marriage, she opened the door.

  After Sawyer’s reaction to her “pink” furniture, she was hyperaware of her feminine decorating touches as she led him to the back of the house. The hallway was lined with pictures of her and Marc in scallop-edged and filigree frames. A curved glass vase of yellow roses sat on the kitchen counter. The delicately patterned stair runner that went up to the second floor looked like lace from a distance.

  Although Sawyer would never see it, her own bedroom was a frilly, silky haven complete with scented candles and ornamental pillows too small to have any practical purpose. Becca prided herself on being sensible and getting things done; she wielded coupons with genius, killed bugs and occasional rodents and could single-handedly fix a lot of the plumbing problems that came with home ownership. But after growing up in a grungy trailer with three brothers—and later, two sisters who wore their brothers’ hand-me-downs—she couldn’t resist surrounding herself with soft, girlie indulgences.

  The staircase felt uncharacteristically cramped with Sawyer on the steps behind her, as if he was closer than decency permitted. She suddenly wished she was wearing a loose T-shirt that hung down past her butt instead of a tucked-in polo shirt. Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong with your butt, and you don’t care about his opinion of it, anyway. Although...turnabout being fair play, it would make them even if he noticed her body. She’d certainly ogled his earlier today.

  “The master bedroom, guest room and Marc’s room are all on this floor,” she said, as they reached the landing. “The attic is one more flight up.”

  The extra trip involved a narrow spiral staircase with an iron railing.

  A quarter of the way up, Sawyer huffed out an exaggerated breath. “Good thing I’m in shape. But just in case, do you know CPR?”

  Of course she did. She’d taken half a dozen first-aid and emergency preparedness classes when she’d been pregnant. But she said nothing, refusing to encourage any jokes about her mouth on Sawyer’s—which didn’t stop the forbidden image from flashing through her mind. The man might be cocky and unapologetically brash, but he’d demonstrated moments of thoughtfulness this evening, too. The right combination of confidence and attentiveness could make for a devastating kiss. Her toes curled inside her sneakers.

  Get a grip, Rebecca.

  She had no business thinking about kissing her tenant. Or anyone else, until the centennial celebration was over. She was the chairwoman of the centennial committee, and a flawless series of public events would help her win this election. Stick to the plan.

  While she was at it, she needed to stick to an impersonal, informative tour—more letting him know where the clean towels were, less imagining where his hands would be if he were kissing her. “Coming up from the outside will be a lot easier than this. The house was built into a little bit of a hill, so the staircase is short. Not to mention, using the private entrance will be less disruptive to me and Marc if you keep late hours.”

  Would he be staying out late? He was a
good-looking single man in a town with two bars and a popular dance hall. Opportunities abounded. Her stomach clenched. What if he wasn’t alone when he came back to his room at night?

  She bit the inside of her lip, conflicted. She didn’t really have the right to insist he be celibate while he was in Cupid’s Bow...but she was responsible for the impressionable child sleeping one floor below.

  The attic door wasn’t a standard size; they both needed to duck slightly to go through it. Inside the room, the ceiling was comprised of crazy, irregular angles, but nothing that Sawyer would bang his head on.

  “Cozy,” he said, looking around. “I meant that in a good way, promise.”

  To their left was a queen-size bed covered in a quilt she’d won in an auction at the Cupid’s Bow Watermelon Festival; to the right was a small sitting area with two antique chairs, a bookshelf and a modest-sized, flat-screen TV. He would also have his own microwave and mini fridge. The windows were tiny, reminiscent of the portholes on a ship. When she’d had Zeke install the back door, she’d also asked him to include sidelights for a little more sunshine.

  “See? No pink,” she told him. The general decorating theme up here was “furniture I didn’t need anywhere else in the house” but she’d tried to tie everything together with navy and cream. “Bathroom’s around the corner. Everything you need should be in the linen closet, but let me know if I overlooked anything.”

  He poked his head through the doorway and laughed. “I haven’t seen a tub like that since Granny’s house.”

  “And where did Granny live? Brody talked about how long he’d known you, but didn’t mention where you’re from.”

  “Most of my family is west of here, toward the Hill Country. We have a... My father and brother run a spread in Kerr County.”

  “Are you close to them?”

  He rocked back on his heels, thumbs in his belt loops. “Let’s just say, I thought it would be better to strike out on my own.”