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

  Damn. Again with the growing dependency on her.

  He could face Bobby on his own, couldn’t he? He could be one of those cowboys he’d talked about—a man who stood up to his fears and problems. One of those ghosts of history he’d defined for Felicia as she’d sat next to him in the pickup, hanging on his every word.

  Watching him with that beautiful tenderness in her gaze.

  Felicia had turned to Mrs. Krauss, laying a hand on the older woman’s arm.

  “You need anything more from me?” she asked.

  Was she leaving already? Before Bobby got here?

  Jackson flinched, ashamed to want her around so badly.

  Mrs. Krauss shook her head. “Believe it or not, Ms. Markowski, I have run a household before. Go.” She waved her fingers toward the wild blue yonder. “I have dinner in hand.”

  “Great.” On her way down the stairs, Felicia shot Jackson a mock-scared look, relaying her feelings about Mrs. Krauss.

  She gestured toward the horse corrals and beyond. “Want to take a short walk before all the excitement breaks loose?”

  “Sure.” He tried to downplay his enthusiasm at the thought of being alone with her.

  Heat dissipated in the still air, leaving the promise of a cooling twilight laced with the smell of hay, dust and animal. Their steps were fluid, matching each other. She was so close that he could almost feel the hum of her skin against his own.

  “You look about ready to combust,” she said, “and I needed a break from Empress Domestic. A walk seemed like the perfect solution.”

  He wasn’t complaining. “She seems real strict, that Mrs. Krauss.”

  “A regular den mother. Thankfully, you’ll only have to see her at mealtimes since she’s taking over Rip’s room and won’t be around the bunkhouse to bark orders.”

  True enough. The living arrangements had been altered slightly this week: Rip would be staying in the bunkhouse permanently, allowing Mrs. Krauss to take night watch over Bobby. The boy would be living in the study, which had been converted into a pterodactyl-and-moon decorated boy’s room.

  The new cook had been lured here by Rip’s guarantee of free rent, something Mrs. Krauss had snatched up right away. She’d been living with her daughter’s family and hadn’t been very happy about the lack of freedom. And with some money that came with Bobby, Rip could now afford the low salary Mrs. Krauss asked for.

  It was a good, proper arrangement for everyone, Jackson thought. A spread of strays come together.

  Unfortunately, Felicia was leaving, and that was a considerable drawback.

  He laughed to himself, surprised to admit that he’d taken a shine to her. A shine that wouldn’t ever come to anything, but a shine nonetheless.

  “So,” he said as they passed the corrals and headed toward the barn, “back to the grindstone for you.”

  “You mean Oakvale?”

  They rounded the beaten gray planking of the barn’s walls and she stopped, kicking at dirt with the toe of her shoe.

  “It’s not so much drudgery,” she said. “I actually don’t mind my job. Sure, there’re parts of it that don’t appeal, but…I don’t know. I’ve got a good life there.”

  Felicia stared at the ground, picturing what she had going for her: friends, family, a tidy savings account that grew each month from the paychecks she didn’t spend.

  The Rhodeses provided housing for their servants—a real boon that kept the workers loyal and a part of the Oakvale community—so she didn’t have to pay rent or spring for many meals. In fact, she’d spent more money this week than usual, quietly using her own credit card to buy Bobby the things Rip’s cash hadn’t covered. Items like the X-Wing Fighter models just waiting for the young boy to put together, or the Astros sheets that were waiting, crisp and clean, on his bed.

  Jack had folded his lean frame against the barn wall, one leg bent to anchor him, a thumb hooked into his jeans pocket. In his other hand he held his hat, leaving his dark, silver-threaded hair ruffled, boyish. It didn’t go at all with the sun-kissed skin or the crinkles around his eyes.

  Merely glancing at him made her blood chug up and down her body.

  So stoic. So mysterious.

  He shot her a hesitant glance, then fixed his gaze on the horizon. “It’ll sure be different without you around here.”

  “Different? In what way, exactly?”

  He cleared his throat and started looking uncomfortable again.

  Great. Just when she thought he’d taken a step forward, it always turned out to be a step back. But…

  No, doggonit. She wasn’t going to give up.

  Maybe it was because night was falling and the sky was so hushed and gorgeous. Maybe it was because he seemed so lonely holding his hat in his hand. Or maybe it was because this was her last day on the Hanging R and she didn’t know what sort of excuses she could invent to be around him again.

  Whatever it was, she moved closer, slowly, almost as if he were a creature who would bolt if he saw her coming.

  He did peek up from under those dark brows, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance away.

  Progress.

  She stopped, hardly daring to go farther.

  A vein pulsed in his neck and her heart began to echo the rhythm.

  “How’s it going to be different around here, Jack?” she whispered.

  His voice lowered, too. “I don’t…” He thumped his hat against his thigh, tightened his jaw and swallowed. “Hell. I guess you brightened up the place. Kind of.”

  “That’s…” Her smile made it hard to talk. “That’s real nice.”

  He made a noncommittal sound, almost killing the moment. But she’d be darned if she let it die.

  She took another step, blood slamming against her skin. It’d been an awfully long time since she’d found herself in this situation—dancing around expectation and when-will-he-make-a-move doubts. Nervous, terrible anticipation borne from previous experience.

  Felicia knew what it was like to be with a man. Years ago, when she was much too young, she’d let one talk her into “going all the way.” And it’d hurt, not just because she’d let down her family and her own morals, but physically, too. Later, she’d found out from a doctor that endometriosis could make intercourse painful, so she’d gone on some medication that could help if she wanted to try in the future.

  However, the experience had been uncomfortable enough to make her gun-shy, persuading her to decide right there and then that the only man who’d ever make love to her again would be “the one.”

  With Jack, her body was telling her that he was it—not only the father of a someday child, but the man she’d be so in love with that she’d endure anything to be with him.

  Gaining courage, she crept even nearer, a soft wind howling through the space between them.

  “I think I’m going to miss you,” she said.

  Oh, God, please make it so that I haven’t been misreading him the last few days. Please have it so that he’s been thinking of kissing me, too.

  His eyes got a tad wider, the irises bleeding into the dark centers, inviting her to solve the secrets they hid. He looked at her lips, caressing them with a gaze.

  “I—” he finally glanced up into her eyes again “—guess I’ll miss you, also.”

  Closer…

  “Yeah?” she asked.

  She slightly tilted her head, made Bambi eyes at him by glancing up. Holding her breath, she softly pressed her palms to his chest, feeling the bang of his heart pulsing into her.

  “Yeah,” he said, voice ragged.

  His gaze went back to her lips, and she knew it was now or never.

  Easing forward, she closed her eyes, brushed her mouth over his, breathing over him, reveling in the softness of the moist contact.

  As she paused, savoring the moment, shock flowed through her, warmth skimming over her lips as he groaned, the sound barely discernable over the adrenaline pumping in her ears.

  Was he going to avert hi
s head and reject her? Push her away and retreat back into that cave of his?

  As she kept her eyes shut and drew a mere whisper away from him, she readied herself for more of his apologies, for the end of her dream.

  Her last cowboy, a myth. A lie she’d told herself so she could keep on hoping.

  She licked her lips, still poised before him, then allowed her hands to slide down his chest in resignation. Just one touch before she admitted defeat.

  She opened her eyes to find him staring at her, expression a blank.

  “I’m sor—” she started to say.

  His gaze expanded, exploding like a new world had been created inside him. With a burst of passion, he dropped his hat, surged forward, buried his hands in her hair and captured her mouth with his.

  For a split second, she didn’t process what was happening. Jack, dragging her against him, desperately kissing her as if she’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

  But then it all flooded over her—his lips sucking at hers, his hands moving down, running over her back, searching upward, exploring her in a flare of undeniable heat.

  Yes…Yes!

  Ecstatic, she let herself fall against him, crashing them both back against the barn wall. Their breaths were choppy, cut off by more kisses, brands of moist affection stamping her neck, her face, her mouth.

  “Felicia….” he said, almost as if in reverence.

  He tasted of masculine spice: a tang of sweat on skin, a hint of mild soap and rawhide. She couldn’t get enough of him, wanting to drink him in, own him, tell him about Carlota’s prediction so he could see how right it was to be with her.

  But even in the midst of this mindless desire, she knew that keeping mum about the last cowboy was a good idea. Jack needed to be persuaded, bit by bit. Knowing that he was her fate would probably scare him off.

  Right? Of course she was right.

  As he hitched her up, pulling her flush against the hard length of him—every growing, jeans-encased inch—she gave herself over, promising forever with her kisses.

  That was when she heard the commotion. A horn blaring. Voices raised in welcome and laughter.

  Jack must have caught it, too, because suddenly he was framing her face in his hands, his eyes unfocused, like a drunk man who’d overindulged.

  Her pulse seemed to suspend itself, hovering, not knowing how to react.

  “Jack?” she said, voice tiny, so unsure of itself.

  His gaze cleared and for a second, she thought he was going to smile again, tell her everything would be all right now that their feelings were out in the open.

  But she should have known better.

  Instead, he stepped back from her, hands sliding down her arms until he’d grabbed her fingers.

  “He’s here,” Jack said, sounding shell-shocked.

  She wanted to believe that her adoration had dizzied him to this point, but she had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t true.

  Why was it that every time the subject of Bobby came up, he got a haunted look about him?

  “It’s time to leave.” He let go of her hands, then bent to pick up his hat.

  Why was he acting like that kiss hadn’t mattered? Was he sorry about doing it? Sorry that it’d ended?

  What? What?

  As he sent her an apologetic glance, Felicia told herself not to take it to heart. Nope. Instead, she’d keep smiling. Stay optimistic.

  That’s right, she thought as he started to walk away, keeping his pace slow so she’d catch up, she supposed.

  Even if he’d just ended things, Jackson North had kissed her right back when she’d invited him to.

  And that was a sure sign from destiny if there ever was one.

  He was still burning up from that kiss, even two hours later as they all sat at the outside table eating dinner.

  In fact, Jackson thought, using a slab of bread to stir Mrs. Krauss’s beef stew in its bowl, he could still catch the scent of Felicia on him. It lightened him up, somehow, even if he had every reason to be in the gray.

  Speaking of which…He took a gander at six-year-old Bobby, the new kid on the block.

  Dark brown curls in need of a good cut. Blue eyes. A pug nose and chubby cheeks. The child hadn’t smiled yet, but from careful yet discreet observation, Jackson knew he was missing one upper tooth near the right side of his mouth.

  That got to Jackson. Neither Leroy nor Lucas had grown old enough to lose their baby fat, much less their teeth.

  Poor boy. Everyone was going full steam ahead, trying to engage the kid in conversation, attempting to make him feel welcome at a table of adults who were getting more concerned by the second.

  Just look at him sitting there, he thought. All shrugged up into himself, watching his bowl of stew as if it would suck him in and take him back to a mother and father who’d died young—victims of a helicopter accident while on a second honeymoon in Maui.

  Jackson could imagine Bobby’s shock, how it would last a long time, become something like a hard, second skin.

  Across the table, Felicia finally stopped serving everyone—much to Mrs. Krauss’s territorial pleasure—sat down and watched Jackson watch Bobby.

  He was telegraphing too much information with all this perusing, wasn’t he?

  Jackson went back to playing with his food, trying not to dwell on outside stimuli that had wormed way too far inside him.

  Kisses, petal-soft skin under his fingertips, lust flaming his brain to a crisp.

  “Bobby?” he heard her ask. “Would you like more stew? Or are you ready for some dessert?”

  Jackson glanced up at the boy. He must be a masochist, visually touching base with this child every minute, almost as if he couldn’t get his fill of the youth, the lost opportunities of his own sons.

  Even the mention of sweets didn’t get to Bobby. He only kept staring at his food.

  “How about ice cream?” she asked, leaning her elbows on the table and lowering herself so she could catch the boy’s eye. “We’ve got an old-fashioned maker that your uncle Rip pulled out of storage just for you.”

  Bobby shot a quick peek at her.

  “You can even be in charge of turning the crank,” Felicia continued. “It’s really an important job. Not everyone can do it, especially me. I’m awful at working that crank. You have to be mechanically inclined—like someone who can build or fly spaceships.”

  At the mention of his hobby, Bobby sat straighter, suddenly interested.

  It was easier for the child to think about spaceships than his parents, Jackson imagined.

  “So,” Felicia added, “can you be in charge of that? Cranking? I’d be grateful because I love ice cream. We can have a lot of it after we both finish dinner. All right?”

  Bobby offered a silent nod.

  Yes! Yeah. Well…Good.

  Just why the hell was Jackson celebrating? Was it because of the pleased grin Felicia wore as she grabbed her water glass? Or was it because Bobby had picked up his spoon to fill it with stew and take a bite?

  Much to Jackson’s astonishment, she proceeded to draw Bobby out, causing him to look up from his food for more than ten seconds at a time.

  “What kind of spaceship would you want to fly?” she asked.

  Bobby thought about it. “A rocket ship.” Okay, so the boy was mumbling, but it was a positive sign.

  “Ah.” There was a lilt in Felicia’s voice as she conversed with him, but she never talked down to Bobby. Never pretended she was above his interests. “Nice choice. Good old-fashioned rockets are like hot rods compared to the space shuttle, huh?”

  He nodded his head.

  “Rockets have some character, all right.” She made a half-goofy face that made Bobby smile. “When I was younger, I used to imagine the first astronauts circling the moon and trying to lasso them from those rockets.”

  “Like cowboys?”

  “Exactly.” Felicia cut a fresh piece of bread for the boy and handed it to him. He accepted without question
as her gaze snagged Jackson’s. “Just like cowboys.”

  Bobby dipped his bread in the stew, bit into it and ate while he talked more and more about a galaxy far, far away. His voice had even improved from its initial muttering. Even though Felicia had to kiddingly remind him to chew slower, he was responding to her, warming up to at least one of the Hanging R bunch.

  From the near-silence at the table, Jackson knew that everyone else was noticing, also. Especially Rip, whose eyes held a mixture of contentment and heartache.

  No doubt the old rancher was wondering if he would be able to connect with Bobby as Felicia had. But, judging from Rip’s past performances, Jackson knew he would succeed.

  Rip had more perseverance than anyone.

  Later, as Bobby took control of the ice-cream maker, Jackson took pride in how his boss made a heroic effort to befriend his great-nephew.

  Weighed down with all his troubles, Rip still had the heart to put Bobby first.

  “Hurray,” Felicia said, coming to stand next to Jackson in front of the campfire. “A good start.”

  He tried to make believe he hadn’t kissed her only hours ago, hadn’t mapped the curves of her back with his hands, hadn’t wanted to take her in his arms and lay her in the grass where her hair would spread out like a setting sun.

  “Bobby’s still going to be living in a world of hurt,” Jackson said. “It’ll be a while before he learns to cope without his parents.”

  She was quiet for a moment, deep in thought. Jackson knew she was connecting some of his dots, piecing together the words he left out of conversations.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Krauss brought Bobby and Rip some ice-cream bowls. The two adults exchanged a few barbs before the new cook went on her way.

  A little sexual tension between old friends? Jackson thought.

  But when Rip went right back to helping Bobby without another glance at “Empress Domestic,” Jackson dismissed the speculation.

  Maybe his own head was too caught up in clouds of lust and it was coloring everything around him.

  “Well.” Felicia nodded, turned to face him. “I suppose it’s time for me to leave.”

  A heaviness fell over him. “But…ice cream. Aren’t you staying for dessert?”