Best of Cowboys Bundle

by Vicki Lewis Thompson, Barbara White Daille, Judy Christenberry, Christine Wenger, Shirley Rogers, Crystal Green, Nina Bruhns, Candance Schuler, Carole Mortimer

  A curse word bucked against Jackson’s teeth, dying to get out. This girl was naive enough to break stone into pieces.

  And, somehow, that got to him.

  “Stay out of the man’s business.” The words ground out of him. Too gruff. Too harsh.

  Her lips parted as she blinked. “I only want to help.”

  “I know you do.”

  And those words had come out too quietly, an opening he couldn’t close back up. A half-healed wound stretched apart—raw and unprotected once again.

  Abruptly, he shoved back his chair, stood, grabbed a plate and headed toward that convenient sink. Couldn’t she just go home and leave them alone? Who needed a do-gooder around?

  He could feel her sitting there, watching his back. Every move he made ached, felt cold and unnatural.

  “Jack?”

  Her voice sounded unsure. He fought the urge to turn around and lay a hand against her jaw, allowing his thumb to linger against her cheek in apology.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  “Can you just look at me for once?”

  He didn’t owe her anything. Not like he owed Jenna or their boys.

  There was only so much of himself he could give, whether it was in charitable glances or penance.

  Still, he turned his face, almost catching her in his sights, showing her he was listening to whatever it was she wanted to say.

  “I believe in honesty, so I’m going to…” Her sentence wobbled a little, like an infant taking her first steps. She exhaled, as if culling strength from the gesture. “What Rip said about women chasing after you with their food and visits?”

  Silence.

  She continued. “I suppose I’m one of those hopefuls.”

  Now, why had she gone and said something like that?

  A thrust of emotion forced him back from the sink, head down, hands grasping the steel rim to steady himself. He wished he had his hat to hide behind.

  “I—” she said.

  “Don’t say any more.”

  She didn’t.

  He tried to gather his confusion into one place inside of himself, to stuff it where no one could find it again.

  Finally, he stiffened his spine, took advantage of the roar of Rip’s pickup engine as it revved outside the door.

  “I’m not the sort of man who revels in the attention,” he managed to say.

  “Why not?”

  When he chanced a look at her, his gut tightened into a fist of heat. She was a sweet one, all right. But he didn’t have the energy for living through more heartbreak. Six years of drifting from ranch to ranch was the only thing that had sustained him, kept him alive.

  He wouldn’t ever settle anywhere because that’s when the pain would catch up.

  “Why not?” he repeated. “Because you probably have a line of guys waiting for you to crook your finger at them. Because I’m too wrung out to keep up with you. There’re a million becauses, but don’t think I’m not flattered.”

  “I didn’t come here to flatter you, Jack North.”

  “You’ll get over me. Real quick. Believe it.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Her smile returned full force, as if she was remembering something. His knees about buckled.

  What did she mean? They’d known each other one day, and already she was crazy about him? Damn, she was inexperienced, forward…

  …and foolish.

  The clunk of Rip’s boots as he climbed the outside steps put a cap on the conversation, thank heavens. The old man cracked open the door.

  “Your ride just needs a jump. You ready?” he asked Felicia.

  She angled her head toward Jackson, that smile stretching over her lips, bathing her face in growing confidence.

  “I think I’m ready,” she answered, getting out of her seat. “Ready for anything.”

  At that moment, Jackson knew he was in some deep trouble. Wheels were turning behind that sparkling blue gaze. She’d decided on something and he hated to guess just what it was.

  As she left, she flittered her fingers in a small wave, forcing Jackson to grasp the counter for balance again.

  Long after she’d left, he was still watching the door.

  Chapter Four

  F elicia had gotten to Jack, no doubt about that.

  When she’d told him that she wanted to come around and see him again—hadn’t that taken some guts?—the stubborn guy had softened toward her, had tried to let her down easy.

  But seeing him again had only recharged her, convincing her that Carlota’s prediction could indeed come true with a little extra nudge here and there.

  And that’s why she’d talked to Emmy and Deston when she’d gotten home from the Hanging R.

  As expected, they’d agreed to arrange it so Felicia could be “loaned out” to Rip for the time being, taking care of his household until a permanent cook could be found.

  It was the neighborly thing to do. Heh heh.

  But, strangely enough, Carlota hadn’t been quite as sold on the idea.

  “You’ve decided you’re going to cook for Rip?” she’d asked, making what Felicia and Emmy called the you’ve-got-to-be-messin’-with-me face. “I mean, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but…cooking?”

  “He needs help.”

  “You’re cooking. You.”

  “I can cook.”

  “You want to cook, Felicia. You collect recipes and fantasize about throwing dinner parties, but you never actually do it.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t.”

  “I know, it’s just…” Carlota had tossed up her hands. “I was thinking that since Jackson North is your destiny, maybe he could just come to you.”

  And they called Felicia an optimist.

  She’d ignored Carlota’s doubts and forged ahead, making arrangements with Rip, who could barely contain his excitement at having “a woman’s touch” in the cabin. Further preparing herself, she pumped Emmy for hints about fixing more than microwave dinners or her favorite dinnertime meal—cheese and tomato sandwiches.

  Cooking. She could pull this off. No problem.

  Her plan was simple and would therefore work: take care of Rip while getting to Jack North the best way a woman could.

  Through his stomach.

  She didn’t see how it could go wrong.

  The next day, in the Hanging R’s kitchen, Felicia found herself choking on smoke from a hank of burned pan-fried steak.

  She wasn’t going to call Emmy again. Nope. Wouldn’t happen.

  A flare of warm, char-tinged wind from the opened window over the sink belled the gingham curtains and whooshed into her face. Coughing, she tried to wave the stench away.

  It’d all gone so well at first. Rip and the hands had been checking the fences today, so she’d made herself at home in the cabin. Rip had insisted that she stay here while he moved to the bunkhouse with the other men. After resisting—she hated putting people out of their beds—she’d realized this was a matter of pride for the rancher. He wanted to treat her like a “lady,” giving her separate, superior quarters. After all, he’d reminded her, he wouldn’t be able to pay her right away and he wanted to make up for the trouble.

  Felicia didn’t actually intend to accept any wages from Rip McCain, but she hadn’t argued. Instead, she’d set about starting dinner. This morning, before she’d arrived, the men had packed themselves lunch and a canteen to keep them satisfied on the go, but it was up to her to have a decent meal ready when they returned tonight.

  Decent meal. She’d be lucky if the cabin was still standing by the time they got back.

  When she finally gave in and dialed Emmy for the fourth time that day, her friend couldn’t hide her worry.

  “You’re in over your head.”

  “Don’t sound like Carlota.” Felicia coughed a little, but then the wind changed direction, and the smoke veered away. See? Everything would be fine. Even the weather had decided to help. “I’ve got something that resembles sourdough biscui
ts ready and waiting, but the stove could be cooperating more, and I’m nervous about burning all the steaks.”

  “If I weren’t overseeing the restaurant tonight, I’d be there helping you.”

  Emmy owned a chic eatery in San Antonio featuring Tuscan cuisine. Even though she was wealthy now that she’d married Deston, she still insisted on working the kitchens every so often, when she wasn’t taking care of Nigel.

  “Em, don’t you dare fret about me. I’ve got beef, beans, potatoes, biscuits, coffee and your apple crisp to keep these boys full. And thanks for dessert, by the way. I couldn’t help sampling.”

  “Anything for you, darlin’.”

  Distracted by the burbling beans on the stovetop, Felicia initiated their goodbyes. Then she turned off the cell phone and set it on the faded windowsill, thinking no more about it.

  The day was waning and Rip’s instructions said the men would be back around sundown. So, knowing this, Felicia went step-by-step through the notes she’d taken for Emmy’s steak preparation, making sure she would fry them well-done in a cast-iron skillet and sprinkle flour into the beef grease to brown up a thick gravy for the biscuits.

  Soon, Felicia heard the men guiding their horses toward the barn, J-Wayne the cow dog nipping at the animals’ heels.

  Felicia tried to concentrate on the cooking, but she found herself seeking Jack through the window, anticipating the easy sway of his body as he rode his quarter horse.

  It’d been too long since she’d last seen him—not since the night she’d visited the Hanging R. And…okay, it’d only been the night before last. She wasn’t proud to admit she craved being around him so much.

  But even though she wanted to spend as much time as possible with Jack, she knew knocking him over the head with her presence would do no good. He’d made that more than clear. But at least she had an excuse to be here. Contributing. Working for a good cause.

  She looked down at another slab of blackened meat—a victim of her daydreaming.

  So what exactly was she contributing? Ashes?

  The bungled steak disappeared amid aluminum foil and assorted trash that she stored in a bag underneath the sink. She would do a better job of hiding her mistakes later.

  In the meantime, she turned on Rip’s old-fashioned, turbine-looking, dust-furred, high-power fan. After wiping it down, of course. Boy, she sure had her cleaning work cut out for her.

  Mood lifted by the return of Jack, she set about cooking the next steak, which ended up—yes, thank you!—perfect.

  Or close enough.

  After the men had cleaned up in the bunkhouse, they gathered at a long oak table near the porch outside, and Felicia welcomed them by delivering the food. Once she set the dishes down, they greedily shoveled “grub” onto their plates, then waited for Rip and Jack to arrive. Soon, the old man limped out of the bunkhouse, his mouth tight with the pain he was no doubt trying to cover.

  While Felicia just about jumped out of her skin wondering where Jack was, she watched Rip settle. What could she do to make him feel better? She put her mind to it.

  She also kept an eye on the men’s faces, hoping she’d done a good job with the hash slinging.

  Shoot, where was Jack?

  Rip took a bite of the beans, to which she’d added brown sugar, bacon and onions. Too bad there was an extra element of burned matter in the mix, but all in all, she was happy with how they’d turned out.

  “Music to my innards,” Rip said, shaking his fork in the air with emphasis.

  One of the hands, Dutch, bunched up his withered face as he tried to bite into a biscuit. Then he glanced at her apologetically. “I like a lot of gravy anyway,” he said, enthusiastically dipping it so the bread would loosen up.

  They weren’t saying much, just chowing down, so Felicia took that as a good sign. She crept toward the cabin, intending to make a secret phone call to Emmy and tell her all was well.

  Once inside, she checked the windowsill for her phone. Not finding it, she riffled through a shoulder bag that she’d plopped on the kitchen table, but the cell wasn’t there. Well. Had she been so busy that she’d lost it?

  “Looking for this?” a low, rusted voice said from the direction of the back door.

  Felicia jumped, startled to find Jack, who was shadowed by the door’s screen. He doffed his hat and pushed the screen open, the hinges whining.

  He hadn’t grabbed his meal yet, so there wasn’t much excuse for the frown lining his face.

  Welcome to the Hanging R, Felicia.

  His black eyes dug into her as he tossed his hat on a kitchen chair and held out her cell phone. Whoops. It’d dropped off the windowsill and onto the ground, hadn’t it?

  And why was he looking at her like that? Because he suspected she couldn’t work an oven without dialing help? Heck, she’d cooked dinner on her own. Almost.

  As a matter of fact, she could accomplish any piece of so-called feminine work. She could be all woman, no matter what anyone else said.

  Sticking out her palm, she walked toward him and tacitly asked for the phone.

  Surprisingly, he smiled—if you could call this rough approximation such a thing. The sight of it melted her heart. And when she got even closer, she just about sighed in appreciation.

  His tanned skin. The strong line of his bristled jaw.

  Wow.

  Her fingers brushed his as she reached out and grasped the phone.

  A lick of breath-stealing flame singed her and he jerked away, stuffing both hands in his jeans pockets.

  Her skin tingled, wavered like heat patterns inside a burning piece of wood. She pressed a finger against the vibration of his touch on her hand, feeling the spread of desire soaking through the rest of her body.

  Being this close to Jack North did crazy things to her. Nice, crazy things.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I thought we hashed out matters the other night,” he said, watching her from beneath a lowered brow. “I didn’t expect to see you around here again.”

  “What exactly did we hash out?” she asked with a perky grin. “Remind me.”

  Jackson was almost sorry to sound so accusatory, but how else could he act with his body betraying his better instincts? One little slide of her finger against his had thrown him into a dither, and the loss of control spooked him.

  His ribs squeezed together, protecting whatever was sleeping inside.

  “I thought I told you that I don’t need the company.”

  “Oh.” She stared at him as if trying to decipher what he’d just said. Then she smiled in understanding, threw her head back in a laugh.

  Was he wrong? Based on what she’d confessed the other night, wasn’t she here pretty much to court him or…whatever you wanted to call it?

  Jackson’s face got hot with embarrassment.

  “Jack,” she said, propping her hands on her curvy, jeans-encased hips, “first and foremost, I’m here for Rip.”

  Her smile told him that she wanted to say more, that she was here to be around him, too, but he stopped her.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re out to save him from destitution.”

  “Then I won’t.” She accompanied her shrug with a cute purse of the lips.

  “Listen, Ms. Markowski—”

  “Felicia. There are seven of us in the area, named after—”

  “I know, I was listening the first time. You’re named after your grandma.”

  She raised her eyebrows, probably because he’d recalled this personal detail. Hell, he was just as stunned, too.

  He found himself fighting a grin. Why? Who knew. It’s just that Felicia Markowski brought out something in him—made him want to peek out of his self-imposed shell and make plenty of excuses about why he should be doing it.

  It scared him to death, kind of.

  He glanced down at the floor, forcing himself to get serious again.

  “I like the fired-up version of you, Jack,” she said. “You’ve got some spunk when
you put your mind to it.”

  “As I was saying,” he enunciated slowly, trying not to give in to that tiny speck of amusement in him that was growing by the second, “this kitchen reeks of smoke, and don’t tell me you’re cooking Cajun. These men need to eat healthy to stay fit for work. Food’s not something to trifle with after a long, hard day.”

  He glanced up in time to see her making a dismissive motion with her hand.

  “Look outside, they’re stuffing themselves. I think I did pretty okay. And wait until you see dessert.”

  Jackson’s guard slipped. He’d caught a whiff of something sweet in the air. Something that hung over the sting of burned meat.

  He had a goody fixation like no other. Any mention of junk food broke him down.

  “What kind of dessert?” he asked.

  “Apple crisp with just a hint of orange in it. So good your taste buds will do the cancan.”

  He sniffed the air, this time almost tasting the fruit and sugar. His mouth started to water.

  “It’ll do,” he said, a mammoth growl building in his belly.

  “Wonderful. There’ll be no more complaints from you tonight, I suppose.”

  She flashed him an expression that was half smug, half teasing, and Jackson felt like more of a heel than ever. Two minutes ago he’d been on her case about not taking her new duties seriously, and now he was her apple crisp slave.

  What was it about her that convinced him he needed to lighten up?

  At any rate, maybe an apology was in order. “Listen—”

  He reached out and brushed her upper arm, hardly realizing what he was doing. The gesture was left over from the days when conversation had been more a part of his life: a hand on the shoulder of his wife while they discussed the boys’ futures. A pat on the back when Leroy or Lucas experienced a down day.

  But recently, reaching out was so damned unlike him that he couldn’t help correcting himself, barring both arms over his chest to prevent another accidental touch.

  Still, as Felicia tilted her head and encouraged him with a gentle gaze, he could feel the memory of the soft shape of her arm on the tips of his fingers. Unable to help himself, his imagination took over from there, conjuring guesses as to how her skin would look while bathed outside in this darkening light, how her mouth would curve if he ran his hands all over her body—traveling it, worshipping it.