A Cowboy and a Promise

by Pam Crooks

  The Greasy Bull was none of those things.

  After they’d eaten their supper, like most of the customers who wanted to make a night of it, she and Beau moved outside to the patio in the back. Bare bulbs strung wherever they could reach glowed under a black, star-sprinkled sky. A small bar was manned by restaurant employees who took turns selling bottled drinks pulled from ice-filled coolers, setting them on a bare slab of two-by-ten lumber for the customers’ convenience.

  Simple. Casual. Fun.

  A local band belted out country music, which drew a whole slew of cowboys and their cowgirls onto a makeshift dance floor, resulting in a small sea of denim and Stetsons. At first, Ava was content to simply watch them do the popular line dance over and over again, until Beau decided it was high time she learn how, too. It took some convincing for her to agree, and well, an extra beer loosened her inhibitions. She kicked her flip-flops off and followed him onto the dance floor.

  Her lashes drifted closed, and she immersed herself in the delicious memory of his big hands on her body—her waist, her shoulders, her back—until every nerve ending and every inch of her skin was tuned into his touch. A patient teacher, Beau Paxton. A skilled, fun-loving one, too, and he made it easy for her to catch on. Every song the band played encouraged a dance meant for both of them—slow or fast, it didn’t matter.

  Her eyes opened from the sensation of the pickup slowing. Beau pulled up in front of her cabin and put the Ford in park. He shut off the ignition and unbuckled his seat belt.

  Ava unbuckled hers, too.

  Neither made a move to get out.

  The porch light shed a muted glow into the truck’s interior, just enough to cast them in silvery shadow. The intimacy of being together in this small space felt too precious, too newfound, to break. Like a priceless treasure they’d only now unearthed, one they were bound to respect. And savor.

  Ava wanted to savor forever.

  Beau reached out and gently unfolded her leg, taking it toward him. She shifted a little, allowing him the other leg, too. He took both her feet into his lap and slid his palm along one sole in a sensuous rub that left her melting like wax in fire.

  “These feet were busy tonight,” he said in his low voice.

  “Busy feet had fun.”

  “Maybe busy feet should wear shoes next time.”

  “Hmm.” Only supreme effort kept her from moaning her pleasure from his masterful, bone-dissolving, seductive foot massaging. “Was I the only one who was bootless?”

  “Think so.”

  “The city girl who wasn’t wearing boots and jeans.”

  “And who had every cowboy there wishing she was with him instead of me.” His massaging halted, and he seared her with a hot look. “I was proud you were mine tonight, Ava.”

  Maybe another woman would have bristled at the possessiveness in his tone, but not her. Not when he made her feel as if she was his queen, his sparkling diamond, his New York City prize.

  At least for tonight.

  His rubbing resumed with supple fingers exploring all five toes, skimming every pink toenail.

  “I’ll never remember all the people you introduced me to,” she said over the purr that wanted to roll out of her throat. If she were a cat, she’d rub her face all over him. “Is there no one in town you don’t know?”

  He lifted one broad shoulder. “Reckon I know most, yeah.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  “Just means I’ve never lived anywhere else, except when I was in the military.”

  “You’re part of the legacy around here.”

  He nodded, as if it were no big deal.

  “You know how lucky that makes you?”

  “Legacy as in land and cattle and a stake in this part of Texas?”

  “It’s history, Beau. It’s multiple generations of your family who have put down roots, and who intend to keep those roots grounded for the next generation. And the one after that.”

  He swapped her foot for the other one. “You’re talking pretty heavy right now, you know that?”

  An exquisite, one-beer-too-many lethargy stole over her with more of his exquisite, knows-just-what-he’s-doing massaging.

  “You even have your own ghost town,” she murmured. “Who has their own ghost town?”

  She succumbed to a bubble of laughter from how ridiculous that sounded.

  But it wasn’t long before her amusement faded, and she leaned her head back against the passenger door window. The barest ache stirred inside her, the old, familiar haunting she’d had most of her life. Even when her mother and Granny Mae were still alive, she had no history. Not really. Nothing like the Paxtons.

  “Well,” Beau said slowly, with what sounded like disagreement coming. “Since you think it’s so funny, I’ll remind you the ghost town is fast becoming a vacation resort. But that’s a discussion for another day, isn’t it?” The massaging ended, much to her disappointment, and he eased her legs away from him. “C’mon. You need to call it a night.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to. I wish I could stay right here tonight and forever.”

  He stilled at her unabashed—if not slightly inebriated—honesty, and if she could have turned on every light in the truck’s cab to see his expression, she would have.

  But she could feel it, a hot-like-lava lingering look that made her worry she’d revealed too much.

  “Honey, if I were going to stay the rest of the night with you, it sure as hell wouldn’t be in the front seat of my truck.” He opened the door; the Stetson’s brim darkened his eyes, but his jaw had hardened. “When it happens, we’ll do it up right, and you’ll agree.”

  Ava’s mouth suddenly went dry as dirt.

  When it happens?

  He was out with a firm slamming of his door before she could react to what she could only interpret as a promise, or a longing, or even a lusting, none of which she could allow to happen.

  Ever.

  She righted herself on the seat and pushed her feet back into her flip-flops, where they should have been this whole time to avoid his massaging and all the wonderfulness that came with it, just as he opened her door, took her elbow, and helped her out without even reminding her to use the grab bar.

  She took a single step sideways so he could shut her door. The last thing she noticed was the june bugs flying around her porch light before Beau stepped in front of her, and she couldn’t see anything else.

  But him. And his broad shoulders and his strong neck because he wasn’t wearing a bandanna. And his face with all of its manly angles, that handsome cowboy face he slanted a little as it came closer, but especially his mouth since it was coming right down over hers…

  Any thought of protest or ending what shouldn’t be happening died as soon as his lips found hers. It was as if she’d fallen into quicksand, got sucked right in and pulled under, rendering her totally boneless and unable to get herself out.

  She sank against the truck, and he propped his arm on the window, above her head. His body pressed against her, keeping her in place. Her hips lifted and fit themselves to his, all on their own, without her telling them to…

  Beau took advantage of that tiny freed-up space and slid his arm around the small of her back, keeping her snug against him, as if he had no intention of letting her go if she tried to wiggle her way out from beneath him.

  Which she didn’t.

  She wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

  It’d been building up all night, she knew in a swirling, lust-induced part of her mind. This primitive need that consumed them. Her hands slid up his chest, feeling his heat through the shirt’s black-and-white checkered fabric that hugged his body so well, exploring the hard, contoured bands of muscle that made up so much of him. She circled her arms around his neck and hung on for dear life, for her knees had gone soft, and she would likely swoon into a heap if she didn’t.

  His mouth rolled over hers with a hunger she couldn’t have expected. Or imagined. Nor could she have known how i
t would fuel her own, like twisting, leaping flames rearing up from a pit. The taste of him—an intoxicating mix of a little bit of beer and a whole lot of hot-blooded man—would be indelibly imprinted in her memory. This primal seduction between a man and a woman.

  Between Beau and Ava.

  Suddenly, she froze. There could be none of this. No more seduction. No more them. It had to stop. He had to stop, and her palms pressed against his chest to push him away.

  “No,” she said, her voice ragged. Devastated. “Stop, please. We can’t do this anymore.”

  His eye narrowed; his jaw went hard.

  “Ava.” He growled her name deep in his throat.

  “I’m sorry. Really, I am.” She scooted around his big body, planted in front of her like a giant oak. “I never should have let us take it this far.”

  “None of it was one-sided, Ava,” he said roughly, finally taking a step back. His gaze remained tight on her, like a nail in a two-by-four. “You didn’t kiss alone. If anyone should apologize, it’s me.”

  “Please don’t.”

  She stepped quickly to her doorstep, only to remember she didn’t have her key. She’d given it to him for safekeeping, so she wouldn’t have to carry a purse…

  She turned helplessly toward him. He grabbed her hatbox from the back of the truck and snatched her key from his hip pocket. A couple of long strides brought him to her door; a flick of his wrist unlocked the knob.

  He angled toward her.

  “Ava,” he said again, less roughly.

  Reaching out, he speared his fingers through her hair, gently pushing the strands off the side of her face. She refused to look at him. She couldn’t bear it.

  “Please try to understand,” she whispered. “Thank you for a wonderful evening. It was…really wonderful.”

  She accepted the hatbox from him. The key, too. Then, she slipped into the cool darkness of her cabin, locking the door again. Her tiny window air conditioner hummed like a trooper, providing an unstuffy, gallant welcome.

  Taking a ragged breath, she squeezed her eyes shut and rested her forehead on the door; she waited long moments for the sound she needed to hear.

  Finally, it came. The low drone of the pickup’s engine, the crunch of tires over her dirt road.

  And then Beau was gone.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, Ava awakened as cross as a cab driver.

  She’d spent a restless night wavering between tears over what she’d done to a pat-on-the-back conviction it’d been the right thing to do. Sleep finally tiptoed in sometime before dawn, and now, here it was, later than she ever slept, which meant her day had gotten off to a totally wrong start.

  She tossed back the bedsheet, sat up, and swept a crabby glance over the mess she’d left last night before she crawled into bed.

  She never left a mess.

  Her floral dress lay in a heap, right where it dropped from her body. After kicking off one flip-flop, then the other, she’d left them where they landed an arm’s length apart. Her toothbrush and toothpaste were scattered on the bathroom sink instead of put away neatly in the cute western mason-jar holder Ginny had provided. And, likely the worst of all, she’d neglected to hang up her wet towel and washcloth.

  Her gaze, in its sweeping perusal of her disheveled little cabin, landed on the hatbox. It was still sitting on the kitchen table, and just looking at the thing unleashed a new torrent of angst and memories.

  She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes in an effort to shut off the rush, and after giving herself a few more minutes of wallowing in her own pity party, she stood, squared her shoulders and vowed to get over it.

  Get. Over. It.

  Beau Paxton was a cowboy who lived in a faraway land called Texas, and neither noun fit into her city life or her job in New York. She absolutely could not get involved with him. To fall in love would be the most irresponsible, most ridiculous thing she could ever do. Completely pointless. From now on, she would keep their relationship business only. No more foot rubs. No more hot, wet kisses. No more of his strong cowboy arms holding her tight against his big cowboy body.

  None. Whatsoever.

  But she didn’t know what she was going to do about the straw Stetson he’d given her. She circled the table, eying it, as if the hat would spring up out of its container like a jack-in-the-box.

  To return it to Mary’s Mercantile was not an option. Doing so would likely embarrass Beau or hurt his feelings, and well, it was a gift, and it’d be really tacky to ask Mary to refund his credit card.

  To wear it was equally unthinkable. She wasn’t a cowgirl and never would be, nor would she even pretend to be. It didn’t matter that the Stetson would shade her face and protect her from the wind. So what if Beau claimed she needed one? The old adage “when in Rome, do as the Romans do” didn’t apply to her.

  Which meant the only option left was to ignore it.

  She carried the box into the tiny living room, and for lack of a better place, set it on the floor next to her couch. Out of sight. Sort of.

  That one little accomplishment motivated her to tidy up the rest of the cabin, get dressed, and eat a quick breakfast of yogurt and the last of her blueberries. Her refrigerator shelves looked pathetically empty, and if she were to have enough food to get through the coming week, she’d have to forego her morning run and make a trip to the grocery store.

  An errand that suited her need to get off Paxton land for a while. A road trip would do her good. In fact, since it was her day off, it’d be fun to explore a bit, too, and taking her purse and some cash from her cupboard stash, she headed toward the door.

  But something compelled her to pause and take a long look around her before she left. Maybe it was her melancholy. Or maybe it was her decision to stay detached from Beau and everything he made her feel to focus on keeping a businesslike relationship between them.

  Her heart turned over in her chest. Like it or not, she’d become attached to her temporary home with all its adorable Texas charm. When the day came and her job at the resort was done, she would miss living here.

  So much.

  *

  The late afternoon sun spread its steamy heat onto Ava like jelly over peanut butter as soon as she emerged from her car after the day’s shopping. Her mind worked ahead to what she could fix for supper as she gathered a half dozen of her reusable grocery bags from the trunk; she managed to unlock the cabin door, get inside, and close up again before losing too much cool air.

  But four steps in, she halted.

  Her mind replayed the entire arrival scene, frame by frame from the beginning: getting out of the car, crossing the porch, walking into the cabin.

  She must have imagined what was out there.

  Or did she?

  The grocery bags slid from her fingers and spilled onto the floor. She strode toward the door again, flung it open, and stared in open-jawed surprise at the brand-new wooden glider crowding her porch.

  Ginny must have found another way to keep Ava comfortable and feeling appreciated. But a porch glider was unexpectedly generous, even for her, and she hadn’t given Ava a hint of a clue.

  Ava stepped outside and hurriedly closed the door to conserve the cabin’s coolness. She hunched down, braced her hands on her thighs, and gave that delightful piece of furniture a thorough once-over. Big enough to sit two people. Well made, too, with each cedar-stained slat varnished to a smooth gleam. She straightened, backed up, and sat on the bench seat carefully, giving a little push with her foot. The steel frame moved back and forth like a well-trained soldier, with just the slightest squeak to make it endearing. But her absolute favorites were the two side tables that would hold a glass of iced tea or a cold beer with her plate of supper, and she would totally use this glider every night after work.

  And it would be one more thing she loved about her cabin.

  One more thing she would have to leave behind when her job at the Blackstone Ranch was complete.

 
; Another funk threatened to descend and swallow her up in a repeat of last night’s agony, until several quick barks startled it away.

  Her head lifted toward the sound. A black Lab loped toward her, and as soon as she recognized the dog, her heart tripped over its own beating.

  Beau wouldn’t be far behind.

  And there he came, walking toward her with that cowboy stride of his, long jeans-clad legs that showed just a hint of bowleg and plenty of lean, saddle-friendly muscle. Sunglasses and blue bandanna and fawn-colored Stetson, and she would never forget the way he looked.

  Or the way he made her feel.

  The familiar volcanic attraction welled up, deep in her belly, and spilled like molten rock into her blood.

  She couldn’t let him know how much he affected her.

  She must remain distant.

  Business only, Beau Paxton. No kisses or cowboy charm allowed.

  The Lab rubbed against her, and she scratched behind his ears, which he seemed to like and appreciate since he kept bobbing against her for more.

  “Sit, Gunner,” Beau ordered.

  His boots scuffed the dirt as he drew closer. The Lab obeyed, tail wagging and tongue hanging; he kept close watch on her as if he hoped she’d keep scratching, but she stood, a little too quickly, and moved away from the glider, from both him and Beau, and closer to her door.

  Beau halted, one boot on her porch, one thumb hooked in his hip pocket. His silence seemed focused on deciphering her next move, as if he worried she’d take off and fly like a frightened sparrow. If she had the courage, she would march right over and yank off those aviators to see what his gray eyes would reveal.

  Was he remembering last night, too?

  Was he as mind-blowingly affected as she was?

  “Where did you come from?” she asked instead.

  “Over there.” His chin lifted in a lazy gesture toward his horse, grazing on overgrown grass across the road. A cottonwood tree kept the animal shaded, like it would’ve Beau and his dog. No wonder she hadn’t noticed them.