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

  But…what was he thinking? Had he been goaded by the easy way Felicia related to Bobby? Was he envious in some warped way?

  Yup. Real jealous, as a matter of fact. He kind of wanted to be liked by Bobby, he supposed. The sentiment was mixed up with admiration for Felicia and a gut-warming realization that this woman would make a damned fine mother someday.

  When she found the right man to have children with.

  Jackson tried to swallow past the tight dryness in his throat. The right man. A good man.

  The best, because that’s what she deserved.

  “Do you like broccoli?” Bobby ventured to ask Jackson. His voice was soft, cautious.

  Felicia was fighting a smile. “I’m going to check in with Rip and I’ll be right back, okay?”

  She took off, and even though Jackson knew she was only going inside the cabin to fawn over Rip and make him feel better, he wanted to yell at her to come back. She’d deserted him, left him alone with his very own version of wolf bane.

  Bobby was waiting for him to respond to his broccoli question, looking as serious as ever.

  Jackson didn’t have a mean enough bone in his body to refuse the boy. He would live through this stilted interaction.

  “I despise any kind of food that sprouts from the ground.” There. Good enough?

  His hands were aching to busy themselves, but he didn’t want to flash his knife with Bobby standing right here. That was part of the reason he’d chosen to whittle privately in the first place.

  “Sometimes bad food makes you strong though,” the boy said. “That’s what my mom told me.”

  Suddenly the crickets seemed too loud. The hoot of an owl screeched instead of lulled. A sheen of moisture dulled Bobby’s gaze and his bottom lip trembled.

  What a tough guy, Jackson thought. Bobby was trying to hold it all in.

  His mom. Parents. Dead. Plucked out of this little boy’s life by some vicious twist of fate.

  Jackson knew exactly how Bobby was feeling. “Did you know,” he said, trying to lift the boy’s suddenly dampened spirits, “that sugar can be healthy, taken in small doses, of course?”

  Bobby’s shake of the head was almost violent. A tear rolled down his face.

  “Oh. Hey, now.”

  Jackson didn’t know what to do. The idea of patting the boy on the shoulder as he’d seen Felicia do sent terror scurrying down his spine. But, dammit, he couldn’t leave Bobby like this.

  Drawing on all his strength, Jackson reached out, took the boy’s wrist. He still had a layer of baby fat and the feel of it stabbed Jackson right in his chest.

  “Crying’s all right,” Jackson added, barely getting the words past the pain swollen in his throat.

  And Bobby did cry, soundlessly, cheeks reddened with his tears.

  Aw, damn. Jackson made a defeated sound, then reluctantly drew Bobby into something resembling a hug. It was desperate, stiff, too tight—almost as if he were holding on to something he’d just lose again—but it was the right thing to do. Something that would bring a shine to Felicia’s eyes.

  As he suffered through the boy’s anguish with Bobby slumping against him, the toughened wrangler patted the boy’s back and looked up at the star-pocked sky, vowing not to break down himself.

  Somewhere up there, his boys and Bobby’s parents were together, wishing their loved ones wouldn’t be so sad.

  He pictured Leroy and Lucas, just as proud as Felicia would be to see him sacrificing his protective fear for this little boy who needed some comfort.

  That’s good, Daddy, the kids would’ve said. We needed someone to hold us, too, after we left you.

  Suddenly, Jackson realized how important his next reaction would be to Bobby—how damned much he wanted the child to feel as safe as he would’ve wanted his sons to be for the rest of their lives.

  When Bobby calmed down, Jackson lowered his voice. “Want to know a secret?”

  The boy pulled back, keeping hold of Jackson’s hands, hitching in his breath with three quick gasps, seemingly glad to concentrate on another subject.

  “I lost people I loved, too, so I know what you’re going through. And any time you want to tell me how awful it is, you do that. Got it, Bobby?”

  He sniffed, rubbed at his eye with the hand that was still holding the comic. With the other, he twisted Jackson’s fingers in his own. “I got it.”

  “All right, then.”

  The little boy pulled himself together, then asked, “Who are your dead people?”

  Jackson bit the inside of his lip so hard that he tasted blood.

  The fluid filled his mouth with a taste of bitter metal, as if he were biting down on something that was holding back a scream. Finally, he let go of Bobby’s hand.

  “My sons,” he choked out.

  Bobby apparently empathized because he bent down and patted Jackson on his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “It’s our secret.”

  Then, unaware of how much he’d just ripped Jackson down the middle, Bobby plunked down next to him and proceeded to read his book.

  Soon, Felicia returned, finding Bobby peaceful and Jackson still mired in his own heavy emotions. She herself had shadows in her gaze, and all Jackson wanted to do was erase them with more kisses.

  Wanted to take her into his arms and steady his imbalance with the feel of her.

  Instead, he merely kept his secret.

  Even though he didn’t know how much longer he wanted to hide it from her.

  Chapter Eight

  D ays later in Wycliffe, a weekend crowd filled the old Western streets, buying souvenirs and chambray shirts, hats and hand-tooled leather belts.

  Felicia herself was tending to her own business.

  Crocheting magazines, she thought, walking out of a crafts shop. Felicia had been so busy with Bobby, the Hanging R and her last cowboy that she hadn’t been keeping up with her newest hobby—something that kept her anxious hands busy and served to relax her.

  Doilies and delicate sweaters. Felicia sighed. They still wouldn’t take her mind off what Rip was enduring. While visiting Bobby these last few nights—spending time with the child had become a habit as ingrained as eating dinner or saying a bedtime prayer—she’d noticed smudges etching their way under the elderly rancher’s eyes.

  Though he pretended to be as lively as a new pup around her, she knew he was struggling more than ever. The realization concerned her enough to literally beg Rip to accept monetary help from his neighbors, but he always made light of her suggestions, repeating over and over, “Come hell or high water, McCains will always float to the top.”

  As Felicia sauntered down Main Street to her car, parked near Woodrow’s, a bustling bar that the locals favored, she thought that, at the very least, Bobby was doing well. Sure, he would wipe away silent tears every so often and Felicia would do her darnedest to comfort him, but he was adjusting as well as could be expected to life on the ranch.

  Life without his parents.

  Yet, like a true family, even Dutch, Carter and Stoverson had banded together to welcome the child, encouraging Bobby to sit by the campfire at night while Carter attempted to relay his questionable expertise on the harmonica. And Mrs. Krauss, bless her efficient heart, was hovering over him as a grandmother would, stuffing him with treats of strudel and baked apples, homemade jams and marzipan.

  Felicia was confident that things would even out at the Hanging R. They had to. If anyone could right the ranch’s troubles, it would be Rip McCain, who’d inherited the land from a long line of other McCains dating back to his horse-stealing great-great-granddad.

  Having come to her car, Felicia opened the passenger’s side and slid her magazines onto the seat. As she was closing the door, a familiar voice greeted her.

  “You find the most pleasant views through a bar window.”

  It was Stoverson, pushing open one of the bar’s swinging doors. He cuffed back his hat so it showed his leathered face, his scholar’s brow. T
wangy music from Hank Williams Jr. backed up the ranch hand as he grinned at her.

  “Hey, there,” she said.

  After Felicia closed her car door and wandered closer, she glanced at the bar’s stark, hazy front window. Through the thick glass, she could detect a high empty table, two deserted longnecks on either side. Though he’d obviously enjoyed company, Stoverson must have spotted her and come straightaway to the door.

  “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” she said, ready to tease him about hiding a girlfriend in town.

  But then Jack pushed open the other side of the swinging doors, nudging up his own hat in greeting.

  Chancing a smile at her, he said, “Afternoon, Felicia.”

  Her stomach did a thrill-ride flip-flop. Smiling. Jack. An oxymoron if there ever was one.

  “Hi,” she said, testing him, wondering how long that smile would last.

  When it proved to have staying power, her insides did one more extra spin, just to make sure she was marking this moment, Felicia guessed.

  She had no idea why her body hadn’t gotten used to him by now. It was true she hadn’t seen him for a day or two—he wasn’t always around when she visited Bobby, and really, she’d begun to wonder if he was purposely avoiding her for some reason—so maybe she was just having to start from square one again?

  Doggonit, she would probably have to build up some kind of Jack-immunity bit by bit so, one day, she wouldn’t feel as goofy around him.

  At any rate, she couldn’t hold back her own smile. She never could.

  “And what are you two troublemakers doing at Woodrow’s on a Saturday afternoon?” she asked.

  “Looking at pretty girls through the window,” Stoverson said.

  Jack shot him the stink eye, as if warning his fellow wrangler away from Felicia. A carnal jolt caught her by surprise, surging just below her belly in a place that hadn’t been affected for a really long time.

  For a second, she could almost buy into the fantasy that she was his woman. All woman.

  Jack took a step forward, positioning himself inches ahead of Stoverson while putting his weight against the rough pine door frame. A territorial statement?

  “Rip gave us a few hours off,” he said, “so we’re here making the most of it.”

  Again, she peeked at the grubby window, the two beers.

  “But,” Jack said quickly, “we just got started with our relaxing. First drinks of the day, as a matter of fact, and there won’t be much more afterward.”

  “Is that the truth?” Stoverson shot his comrade a curious glance. “I lost the designated-driver coin toss so you could have one beer?”

  A laugh bubbled out of Felicia, capturing their attention. Both men stood up straighter, grinning at her.

  So many smiles. Was this her regular Jack or had someone replaced him with a newer model?

  Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe he was…Oh, she could barely think it….

  Maybe he was actually coming around?

  She stopped herself from giving a tiny squeal of excitement. “Glad you two are having a good time,” she said instead, so much more demurely than that nearly escaped whee!

  “Want to join us?” Jack asked, the words rushed. For a second, he reminded Felicia of a young man who’d made his way across a dance floor and sucked up enough courage to lure her away from the wall with an invitation to spend a song in his arms.

  At her pause, his face reddened and he immediately seemed to brace himself for a no.

  “I have a better idea.” Stoverson gave Jack a poke toward the street. “I’ll talk to that redhead who winked at me from her bar stool and you’ll grab some fresh air.”

  With that, the smooth-talking ranch hand disappeared into the festive darkness of Woodrow’s, the half door swinging in his absence.

  Leaving Jack to stand with Felicia.

  A beat passed before he gestured in the general direction of Wycliffe itself. “You on your way home?”

  “I was, but…” She allowed the subtle hint for him to get his rear end out here to linger.

  “Well…” He cast one last glance inside Woodrow’s, shrugged, stepped onto the planked sidewalk. “Want to take a turn around the area?”

  It was the first time he’d made the initial move. True, Stoverson had just about planted his boot in Jack’s jeans to get him outside, but here he was.

  “I’d like that,” she said, flashing a smile.

  He ambled outside. One step for Jack, one giant leap for progress.

  His boot heels echoed with every footfall. Once or twice, his checkered cotton shirt brushed against her bare arm and goose bumps sprang to life over her skin.

  This felt nice, just walking with him. No need for forced conversation, right?

  So then why were the words screaming to get out? Was she starting to feel nervous because he’d taken control this time?

  The turnabout jittered her pulse, gave this jaunt an air of expectant mystery.

  Soon, they’d left the shops behind, and an expanse of green grass and playground noises awaited them. Wycliffe Park, with its artistic yet functional amusements. There was a sombrero-shaped merry-go-round, a wheelbarrow-inspired slide, swings hanging from the arches of an upright cement rattlesnake and a Davy Crockett statue in the midst of a spraying fountain. Children and their parents laughed with each other in the sandbox, on the monkey bars. A little girl in pigtails chased two panting Maltese dogs around an ice-cream cart.

  Felicia broke the quiet between her and Jack, unable to hold back any longer. “This would be a great place to bring Bobby. Maybe I could do that on one of my days off.”

  “I’m sure wherever you take him, he’d like it just fine.”

  As a young boy with spiked hair and glasses ran past them, Felicia couldn’t help noticing that Jack’s gaze was suddenly troubled. Out of sorts.

  All too familiar around children.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said. “It’s nothing you have to answer, though.”

  With a touch to her elbow, he nodded, guided her toward a copse of oak trees, their leaves providing cool shade over quiet trails winding into more privacy.

  “Ask away,” he said.

  “All right.” The crystalline hustle of a stream welcomed them into the woods. “I’ve noticed you seem kind of removed with Bobby. You’ve gotten somewhat more comfortable since the day he showed up, but there’s still a distance about you.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, tentatively, he spoke.

  “I suppose I need warming up when it comes to people in general.”

  No kidding.

  They came to a tiny, sun-dappled wooden bridge that spanned the creek. Brown paint flaked off it and several boards had splintered away to reveal the sparkling water rushing by underneath.

  Felicia rested her hand on a rail. In a small way, it steadied her. “You took long enough to trust me to be alone with you. Remember that first day at the charity fair? You were like a scared rabbit, ready to bolt every time I made a comment.”

  There was that smile again, thank goodness. Hard to come by, but so worth the effort.

  “I remember,” he said.

  “So that’s what’s going on with Bobby?” she said, determined to get to the bottom of his cryptic behavior. “You’re just warming up to him?”

  His features became a battleground: emotion warred in his dark eyes, the lines around his mouth. He swallowed hard, then hitched his thumbs into his jeans pockets.

  “I’ve been working up to telling you a few things,” he said. “Not because they need telling, exactly, but because…Aw, hell. Sometimes a man needs to unburden himself.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  Still, Jack didn’t pursue the matter. He merely continued his personal fight as he stared at the dried leaves littering the dirt.

  All she could hear was the stream gushing over the rocks, the cry of a bird high up in the trees. She wasn’t going to force him to tell her a thing. God, she w
anted to hear him talk so badly, but if she’d learned anything, it was that Jack got ready on his own schedule.

  Pushing him didn’t seem right.

  “Bobby reminds me of someone,” he finally said, voice thick. “Two someones, actually.”

  His words skidded to a halt and he held up a finger.

  Felicia moved away from the bridge, tentatively reaching out to lay a hand on his opposite arm. Under her fingers, his muscles bunched.

  “Who?” she said, overwhelmed by curiosity and compassion at the ravaged look on his face.

  He exhaled, as if resigned. “My sons.”

  She barely heard the words, but they stung as surely as if he’d thrown them like stones.

  Sons? Automatically, her gaze went to his rough hands, but she already knew he wasn’t wearing a ring.

  “I didn’t know you were…taken,” she said, trying not to feel like the world’s biggest fool.

  Her fingers felt out of place on his arm. Even if he wasn’t showing outward signs of belonging to another woman, was he still chained to a ring around his heart? Was that why he’d been so cool to her all this time? Was that why he hadn’t pursued things when she’d kissed him?

  When she pulled back, his hand captured hers, enfolded her fingers in his. Felicia hitched in a breath, confused.

  “Don’t, please,” he said. “Jenna and I have been divorced for years. A lifetime. She got married again to a man who was there when I couldn’t be. They’re not a part of my existence anymore.”

  Her doubts came back to attack her. “You don’t see your sons? No visitation?”

  You don’t like children? Is that why Bobby makes you draw into yourself so much?

  “No visitation,” he said, going silent.

  Ah. Right. Naturally, her last cowboy wouldn’t want any more kids. Wasn’t that how Felicia’s life worked? A splash of hope followed by a flood of disappointment?

  She tried not to recognize her folly, but she’d invested so much finger-crossing in Jack, had really thought he’d be the answer to her problems.

  Yet, once again, she’d been wrong.

  So why was every cell of her body crying out for him? Why was her skin tingling against his as he held her hand?