The Cowboy's Perfect Match

by Cathy McDavid

  The more distance between them, the easier it became for Ryan to focus, and he forced himself to relax.

  Without soap, cold water from the spigot on the side of the stables would have to do. Wetting the handkerchief, he scrubbed it over his face and neck, then washed his forearms and hands. Not much, but it would have to suffice.

  Sensing he wasn’t alone, he turned and spied Bridget retreating. Had she been watching him? Hard to tell, but he thought she had and smiled to himself.

  Feeling marginally refreshed, he returned to his truck and donned the clean shirt. Bridget was sitting on the bench and not looking his way. He used the opportunity to tuck in the shirt and adjust his belt before joining her.

  “Here.” She lifted the plate to him.

  “Mind if I sit?”

  “Please do.”

  The bench wasn’t much wider than the wagon seat had been. During the ride, they’d inadvertently bumped shoulders and knees while traveling over rocks and potholes in the road. Ryan wished for a pothole now.

  He removed the plastic wrap covering the plate. “What have we here?”

  “Grilled chicken on ciabatta bread. I was going for ease and efficiency. The square dance starts in fifteen minutes. Not to rush you or anything.”

  “Thanks.” He lifted a long, green slender object from the stack next to the sandwich.

  “Pickled asparagus,” Bridget said. “Homemade. My grandmother’s recipe.”

  “Emily cooks, too?”

  “My other grandmother. She passed away a few years ago. As the story goes, she took first place eighteen years straight at the state fair with her pickled asparagus.”

  “Is that true?”

  Bridget shrugged. “I’ve seen the ribbons and newspaper articles. And the asparagus are good.”

  Ryan took a big bite, appreciating the crunch and burst of sour, spicy flavors. “I can see why she won so often.” He finished a second asparagus. “Is she the one you inherited your love of cooking from?”

  “I’d like to think I did. She was a country cook and not much when it came to gourmet cuisine. But you never had better fried chicken and mashed potatoes in your life.”

  Ryan finished his sandwich while Bridget shared a fond memory, when her paternal grandmother taught her how to boil, peel and can tomatoes at the tender age of six.

  “She sounds like a great lady,” Ryan said.

  “My dad’s death nearly broke her. She wasn’t the same afterward. None of us were.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Automobile accident. He lived for five weeks afterward, the last one in a hospice facility. Technically, he died from pneumonia.” Her voice cracked. “He just wasn’t strong enough to fight it off.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too. I was fourteen at the time. All these years later, and I still miss him.” She turned misty eyes on him. “I must sound like a little girl to you.”

  “You sound like a daughter who adored her father.”

  Ryan lifted his arm. To heck with rules and warnings. Bridget needed a hug, and he wanted to give her one.

  Before he could accomplish his goal, she planted her palms on her thighs and pushed to her feet. Had she seen the hug coming and wanted to avoid it?

  “We should hurry,” she said.

  “You’re right.”

  “I didn’t intend to be so maudlin. Not sure where that came from.”

  Standing, Ryan disposed of the paper plate and plastic wrap. “Before we go, tell me something.” He came over and stood toe-to-toe with her, forcing her to look up at him.

  “Should I be worried?” Her teasing tone held a note of concern.

  “Why did you bring me supper?”

  “You missed the cookout.”

  “You could’ve sent someone else or brought it to the clubhouse. Why the personal delivery?”

  “No reason.”

  “I want to know.”

  She inhaled slowly. “My way of saying thanks, I guess, for helping me not to feel entirely stupid about Gregory—Dr. Hall—bringing a date.”

  “And here I thought you liked me.”

  “I do. Like you,” she added, as if trying out the words.

  “Trust me, Bridget. I like you, too.”

  He waited for her gaze to connect with his. When it did, the jolt of awareness nearly brought him to his knees. Every fiber of his being urged him to take her in his arms and kiss her, until they were both breathless and until they’d forgotten all the reasons why being together was a bad idea.

  He refrained only by drawing on every ounce of his willpower. No way was he starting something he couldn’t finish, regardless of how tempting. Instead, he settled for leaning in another fraction of an inch and reveling in the incredible scent of her that always reminded him of deliciously decadent desserts.

  “He’s the stupid one, Bridget,” Ryan said. “Not you. Don’t ever think differently.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m really not interested in Gregory. I tried to convince myself I was because he checked off so many boxes.”

  “Boxes?”

  She glanced away. “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I kind of have this list. Qualities I’m looking for in a man. Gregory has a lot of them.” She sighed. “Apparently I should have included a reciprocal interest in me as one of those qualities.”

  Ryan satisfied that requirement and then some. He didn’t ask how many of her other desired qualities he possessed, afraid he’d come up short.

  “Come on.” She swiped her hands together as if being done with something. The doctor perhaps? “Grandma will chew us out if we’re late.”

  Together, they walked to the clubhouse. Loud voices reached their ears well before they got there.

  Bridget took Ryan’s hand and pulled him along the last thirty feet, half running and half walking. At the gate to the clubhouse, she let go, and disappointment squeezed his chest. Her impulsiveness, innocent though it had been, excited him more than any overt come-on.

  They entered the brightly lit, crowded room. In addition to furniture being pushed against the walls, folding chairs had been set up and a linen-covered table held water and other beverages. Square dancing was thirsty work.

  “Hurry up!” Emily motioned for Ryan and Bridget to join her and Homer at the front of the room. “Is everyone ready?” she asked the group, who nodded like obedient children. “I know we have some square dancers here. Let’s see a show of hands.”

  To Ryan’s surprise, and Bridget’s, too, given her slack-jawed expression, the doctor was among those who raised their hands. Celeste giggled and gave his arm a friendly shove.

  “Wonderful. You can help Bridget and Ryan demonstrate.” Emily beckoned them to the front of the room. “Now, the four of you form a small circle, boy-girl, boy-girl. This first dance is a very simple one,” she told the people watching. “When it’s your turn, just listen to Homer, and you’ll be fine. If you mess up, don’t worry. Have yourself a good laugh and keep going.”

  The doctor’s date stood to Ryan’s left and Bridget to his right. She shifted uncomfortably, her glance darting frequently to the doctor.

  Emily pressed a button on the karaoke machine, and the music started.

  “Bow to your partner,” Homer called in a singsong voice.

  The four dancers executed the bows.

  “Now bow to your left.”

  They bowed again, Ryan to the doctor’s girlfriend, and Bridget to the doctor.

  “First swing your partner,” Homer called. “Then, gentlemen swing the pretty gal to your left. Take her hand and circle around.”

  Ryan watched as the doctor grabbed hold of Bridget’s hand, the same one Ryan had been holding minutes ago on their walk to the clubhouse, and lean clo
se to whisper in her ear.

  Grinding his teeth together, Ryan barely noticed his partner as they executed the steps. If he had known for one second that another man, especially the doctor, would be holding Bridget and whispering in her ear, he would have stolen her away long before they got here.

  * * *

  SHE’D SURVIVED. BRIDGET had danced with Gregory and avoided stumbling or making inane comments or bolting for the door after embarrassment overload. In an odd way, she found relief in his complete disinterest in her. Each time they’d come together according to the call, he’d given her the briefest of glances before peering over his shoulder at Celeste.

  Count yourself lucky. If not for tonight, Bridget might have continued carrying on with her ridiculous plan for who knew how long.

  Taking another swig from her bottle of water, she watched the square dancers. Everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. Even Gregory’s children had joined in once or twice.

  For this song, Ryan was partnering with Nora. At just shy of five feet tall, she was dwarfed by his six-feet-plus height. Regardless, she beamed at him as they met up in the middle of the circle, looking a decade younger than her actual years.

  Did Ryan have that effect on Bridget, too? She was quite certain he did. He’d soothed her injured ego, so, of course, she’d smiled up at him. His interest in her was genuine, not faked or a figment of her imagination.

  Then again, she thought as her eyes followed him circling the dance floor, he was every bit as sweet and attentive to Nora as he’d been to her. Perhaps Bridget was misreading the signals. Sadly, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  The very next second, he glanced her way and their gazes connected. Bridget’s breath stilled. Her first instinct was to look away. She didn’t, however, and his mouth widened into a hey-there grin.

  The signal couldn’t be any clearer. Ryan liked her. Liked her in that way. Possibly a lot.

  What should she do? Certainly not encourage him. If anything, she should walk away and initiate a conversation with someone else.

  Nope. Instead, Bridget smiled back. In response, he winked. She laughed and rolled her eyes. Homer made a call that swept the dancers away in the opposite direction, and Ryan was gone, ending their playful exchange.

  “Were you just flirting with Ryan?”

  Bridget froze at the sound of Molly’s voice. “What? No. We weren’t even talking.”

  “Please. Spare me. Two people don’t have to be talking to flirt.”

  “We’re friends. Coworkers,” she emphasized.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We sat together in the wagon during the hayride, and we demonstrated the square dancing.”

  “That’s all it takes.”

  “Right. To be friends.”

  “To start something romantic.” Molly jostled her arm playfully.

  Bridget bit down hard rather than say something she’d regret. Her sister was head over heels in love with Owen. Consequently, she saw romance everywhere and in every person.

  “There’s nothing between us.”

  Not unless Bridget counted her and Ryan’s undeniable chemistry when she’d tripped during square-dancing practice and their almost-kiss earlier tonight and him repeatedly asking her out. Molly being Molly, she’d blow the incidents out of proportion.

  “This square-dancing demonstration,” Molly said. “Think that will be a permanent gig for you and him?”

  “I don’t know. Grandma didn’t say.”

  The plan was to have monthly hayrides and square dances open to the public if this one went well. By all accounts, it was. Grandma Em might indeed ask Bridget and Ryan to demonstrate again. Bridget mulled that notion, trying it on for size.

  “The same thing happened with Owen,” Molly commented.

  “Square dancing?”

  “Not that, silly. Quit being intentionally obtuse.”

  Bridget was being obtuse but played dumb. “What are you talking about?”

  “You remember. Owen started out as our temporary wedding officiant. Then he assumed the wrangler duties while Big Jim’s wife was having all those medical tests.” Molly counted the items on her fingers. “Next there were the campfires. And don’t forget the Holly Daze Festival—”

  Bridget cut her off. “Get to the point.”

  “Little by little, Owen became indispensable. To the ranch and eventually to me.”

  “Demonstrating square dancing is hardly indispensable.”

  Molly went on as if she hadn’t heard Bridget. “Being independent women and all, we tend to think we don’t need a man about the place. Somehow, we always do.”

  “The ranch may need a man, but, personally, I’m doing fine on my own.”

  Molly abruptly changed the subject. “You’re not upset about Gianna’s engagement, are you?”

  Did everyone think Bridget was emotionally fragile and needed protecting?

  “I’m not upset.” She enunciated each word. “I’m happy for them.”

  “She was kidding when she said Owen and I are next. Rest assured, we’re content with the status quo.”

  “For goodness’ sake. Promise me you’re not postponing getting engaged on my account.”

  “No.”

  Molly’s monosyllabic answer didn’t convince Bridget. “Let me set the record straight. I don’t compare myself to you or anyone else. Nor do I have feelings of jealousy or inadequacy. I happen to be very satisfied with my life. I work at the job of my dreams, I live in a beautiful home with my family close by and I have a whole slew of friends.”

  “If you’re so satisfied, why are you talking through clenched teeth?”

  Was she? Bridget forced herself to relax.

  “Look,” Molly said, “I didn’t mean to imply your life is lacking.”

  “Just because I’m not in a relationship at the moment is no reason to pity or coddle me.”

  “I don’t pity you. I may coddle a little,” Molly admitted. “You are my big sister, and I love you.” She gave Bridget’s shoulder a fond squeeze. “The right guy’s going to come along. Probably when you least expect him.”

  Why did people always think empty platitudes were the right thing to say? Bridget felt worse than ever.

  “Just look at me and Owen,” Molly continued, unaware of Bridget’s inner turmoil. “I didn’t think he was the one at first and required a fair amount of convincing. But the difference between you and me is I remained open to possibilities.”

  Possibilities like Ryan. Molly might as well have said his name out loud, she wasn’t fooling Bridget.

  “I am open. Always.”

  “Ha-ha-ha.” Molly pretended to laugh. “If you were, you wouldn’t have that stupid dating list.”

  It was true. Bridget had never been one to fall fast and hard. Too careful. Too independent. Too picky. The list kept her grounded and helped her make smart choices. A less careful woman would leap at the chance to go out with Ryan, long-term potential or not, and end up hurt. Not Bridget.

  She promptly shoved thoughts of him to the recesses of her mind—where they belonged as long as he wasn’t husband and father material.

  The next moment, Owen appeared and asked Molly for a dance. Thank goodness! Bridget was fast becoming tired of painful and difficult conversations with her family...and herself.

  Molly and Owen took their positions on the dance floor as Grandma Em changed the music on the karaoke player. Bridget supposed she could leave; it wasn’t as if the people there needed any more demonstrations.

  Waving to her grandmother, she pointed toward the door, conveying her intentions. Grandma Em made a sad face. Bridget pressed her stacked hands to her cheek and tilted her head, indicating she was tired and going to bed, and then started for the door.

  She didn’t make it as far as the clubhouse gate when she heard someone approachin
g from behind.

  “Wait up,” Ryan said. “I’ll walk you home.”

  She had to laugh. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, though.”

  “It’s late. Almost ten. And dark.” Not taking no for an answer, he fell into step beside her.

  “The house is a quarter mile away. What could possibly happen to me?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  There was a quality to the timbre of his voice that caused her nerve endings to shoot tiny sparks.

  She should thank him for his concern and hurry to the house before she made a giant mistake. But no, she didn’t.

  Ignoring every warning she’d issued herself earlier, she matched her steps to his, which, while long in stride, were slow. He was obviously taking his time, perhaps prolonging the moment when they’d say good-night. That was her guess. Or was it her hope?

  At the kitchen door, they paused beneath the small overhang. She debated inviting him inside for coffee.

  “Will I see you at breakfast?” he asked.

  Where else would she be at 7:00 a.m.? Even on a Sunday, guests needed to be fed.

  “I’ll be there,” she answered. “The newlyweds in cabin four have requested red velvet pancakes with whipped cream-cheese icing. That’s a little too much sugar first thing in the morning for me, but to each their own.”

  “Is there such a thing as too much sugar?”

  She laughed softly. “Not on your first morning as husband and wife, apparently.”

  “What would you order on your first morning with your new husband?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”

  “Healthy or decadent?” He moved deliberately closer, and his proximity bombarded her senses.

  Wasn’t this what she’d secretly wanted all along? Ryan moving closer, and her not resisting? Yes. It was. And Bridget took full advantage.

  She inhaled slowly, enjoying his scent, masculine with a trace of tea tree oil that might be from his shampoo. She listened to the sound of his breathing, which increased fraction by fraction along with her heartbeat. She gazed into his handsome face, with its strong lines and penetrating eyes, letting it fill her vision until she saw only him and nothing else.