Into the Arms of a Cowboy

by Isabella Ashe

  “Around back. Come see!”

  Jess followed her around the side of the cabin, then paused to stare at his garden. His mouth dropped open in disbelief. “What exactly did you do here, Cassie?”

  “I weeded it for you.” Her eyes sparkled as she pointed to a pile of wilting green shoots. “See, I pulled up all the boring weeds and left behind the plants with pretty flowers.”

  Jess rubbed his jaw. How to break the news? “Cassie,” he said, in measured tones, “this is a vegetable garden.” With one crutch, he gestured toward the “pretty flowers” bordering the plot of rich, dark earth. “Those flowers are dandelions. They are weeds. These--” and he indicated the uprooted greenery, “--these are the vegetables. At least, they were.”

  The color drained from Cassie’s face. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Nope.”

  She clapped gloved fingers over her mouth. “Oh, Jess, I’m so sorry. I was only trying to help. Are you--are you very angry?”

  How could he stay mad at her, when her lips trembled and that tiny, endearing wrinkle line appeared between her blond brows? Slowly, Jess shook his head. “I’m not angry. But, Cassie, next time you want to do some gardening around here--ask me first, okay?”

  “Okay. I promise.” She sounded truly chastened as she bent to pick up a wilting tomato plant. “Is there some way I can fix this? Can I plant them again?”

  “We can try. If they’re not too badly damaged, they might take root. I’ll help.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned as he glanced down at the dirt-crusted, jumbled pile of spades and gardening forks at his feet. “I’m afraid to leave you alone out here. There’s no telling what you’ll do next.”

  “Oooh. . . .” She tossed a clod of loose earth at him, missing by a mile. “Okay, maybe I haven’t got a green thumb--”

  “I’d call it a black thumb.”

  “-- but believe it or not, there are some things I do well.”

  He knelt beside her and began to sort the uprooted plants into two piles, salvageable and not salvageable. “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Like making pictures.”

  He caught the soft pleasure in her voice and glanced over at her. “Why to you say ‘making’ instead of ‘taking’?”

  “Because that’s what I do. It’s not just about capturing an image. I use light and angles and shutter speed and all the other settings to make something completely new. A work of art.”

  As she spoke, she watched him replant one of the tender lettuce shoots, then moved to help. His fingers covered hers as she patted the dirt into place. Her shoulder nudged his as they worked side by side, a definite distraction. “How did you learn to take--make--pictures?” Jess asked, to take his mind off the curves evident even under Cassie’s loose-fitting clothes. “Did you study photography in school, or what?”

  “I learned mostly by experimenting, and by reading books. I would’ve liked to take classes as a teenager, but we. . . I changed schools a lot.” She broke off, and Jess held his breath, wondering whether she would go on.

  She did. “The scholarship to art school was the best thing that ever happened to me. I sent in my work, but I never really dreamed I’d win.” Her hands moved automatically to pack the dirt around a zucchini vine, but her mind was obviously far away. “It was like my eyes were closed for my whole life, and finally I got to open them. I studied Edward Weston’s abstract forms, the incredible depth of field in Ansel Adams’ nature photography, the compassion in Dorthea Lange’s Depression portraits.”

  She sighed deeply, rapturously. “Oh, Jess, it wasn’t just photographs, either. I learned about paintings, too--Rembrandt’s use of light, the radiant whites of John Singer Sargent, the Impressionists’ attempts to capture the fleeting moment. It’s like that with photography, too. You’re looking for that moment ‘in which everything is in balance’. Steiglitz said that. He once stood in the snow for three hours to find just the right picture of Fifth Avenue.”

  Cassie broke off, and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to lecture. Guess I got carried away there.” She gave a self-depreciating little laugh. “You should have stopped me.”

  “No, I like hearing about something you love,” Jess said. This was the first time Cassie had opened up to him, really spilled her guts about something in her past. Was she ready to let him into her life? He couldn’t push too hard, but he did venture a question.

  “What kind of photography do you do?”

  She frowned thoughtfully, still a million miles away. “Well, I’ll make pictures of anything that catches my attention, but when it comes to a career I really like doing portraits. Not the generic kind, but portraits that show who a person really is inside. Something unique, something that will hang on a family’s wall for generations. I also like family celebrations. Weddings, anniversaries, birthday parties. . . . Oh, I know lots of photographers hate that kind of thing, but not me. If you really care, you can always find the things that makes a family special, and then try to capture it on film.” She rolled her eyes and colored again. “There I go, babbling on and on.”

  “If you are babbling, I wish you’d never stop.” He grinned at her and gently touched her arm. “Usually you’re the one asking all the questions. So is that how you earn a living, then? Taking pictures of people and their celebrations?”

  “It used to be,” she said, a little wistful. “I always thought I’d have my own studio one day, but I got sidetracked by magazine work, and then. . . .”

  She trailed off, a bleak expression transforming her sweetly rounded face. If only he knew what she’d just remembered. That memory, whatever it was, was the key to the puzzle named Cassie.

  “What?” he asked softly. “What is it, darlin’?”

  “I--I can’t--”

  Still kneeling in the soft, freshly turned earth, Jess reached over and cradled Cassie’s face in his hands. His thumbs traced the line of her jaw. His fingertips lay lightly against her cheekbones.

  Her bruise had faded to the color of antique ivory. The cut above her eyebrow was healing, too. Cassie’s skin felt softer than the fur of the raccoon kits, softer than the grass under Jess’s apple trees. Her eyes were luminous as she stared up at him. “Please, Cassie. Trust me,” he murmured.

  Her emotions played across her face, first fear, then uncertainty, then slowly dawning hope. He watched her internal debate and he knew he was close to winning the day. “I do trust you,” she said, “but it’s--it’s not that simple.”

  “Whatever it is, however bad it is, we’ll deal with it together.” He smiled down at her, an attempt to lighten the too-serious mood. “Anything short of murder, and I promise I won’t think less of you.”

  He felt her stiffen, caught the alarm in her eyes and the tension in her body. Damn. He’d gone too far. “That was a stupid joke. I know you’d never hurt anyone. So, how about it, Cassie? Will you let me help you?”

  She let out a small, strangled cry of despair and wrenched her face from his grass, then scrambled to her feet and ran off around the side of the cabin.

  Jess whispered a string of curses. She’d seemed so close to telling him what she was afraid of. Why had she changed her mind?

  He wouldn’t throw in the towel yet, though. One way or another, he meant to find who or what had Cassie scared to death. He had to know. Otherwise, how could he keep her from leaving?

  CHAPTER SIX

  After her disastrous attempt to weed the garden, Cassie threw herself back into tidying the cabin. After all, she needed something to take her mind off her own idiocy. How could she even think of telling Jess about Andrew? But there in the garden, with the sun heavy against her shoulders and Jess’s gorgeous brown eyes just inches away, she’d almost given herself up.

  Smart, Cassie. Real smart.

  At worst, Jess would’ve gone and turned her in. At best, she would have made him into an accomplice. It was a crime to shelt
er a fugitive, wasn’t it?

  “Anything short of murder,” he’d said. Well, she hadn’t murdered anybody, but even dear, trusting Jess wouldn’t believe that. Not after he heard all the damning evidence.

  Cassie glanced appraisingly around the cabin. She would rather not sit around with nothing to do. Jess didn’t need any nursing, and she couldn’t just mooch off of him. So she’d make herself useful.

  She decided to attack the bookshelves first. Jess’s book collection looked like it could use a good dusting, and then she would arrange the paperbacks by author. The task ought to keep her busy all afternoon. Hopefully, he’d stay outside and leave her alone. She didn’t want to face him for a while.

  First she pulled all the books from the shelves and stacked them in the living area. They covered half the cabin’s floor. Jess was definitely a reader. Besides his many novels, she found a whole row of hardback books on woodworking, carpentry, plumbing, and many more similar titles. As her fingers trailed over the spines, her curiosity grew. Did he plan to build something?

  At random, she selected a volume on masonry and plucked it from the shelf. A roll of thick paper, shoved into the space behind the books, caught her eye. She reached for it, then unrolled the papers.

  Blueprints! But for what? It looked like a house, two stories. . .carefully drawn rooms. . .a balcony, breakfast nook, window seats. . . .

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  At the sound of Jess’s angry voice from the porch, Cassie started, almost dropping the blueprints. The screen door banged shut as Jess swung himself into the room. The rubber guards on his crutches thumping against the wooden floor.

  As she met Jess’s angry gaze, Cassie’s heart thudded painfully. Fury darkened his normally placid, thoughtful face. His eyes flashed dangerously. For the first time since she’d met him, Cassie grew intensely aware of his physical strength and size. Oh, she’d noticed his wide shoulders and the corded muscles of his arms, his masculine presence and obvious virility, but until now she’d never seen him as a potential threat.

  “I--I found these blueprints,” she said, her voice shaky, her lips trembling, “and I just wondered what they--”

  His jaw tensed. A muscle twitched in one tanned cheek. “They’re none of your damn business. Why should you know all the private details of my life, when you won’t even share the first thing about yours? Plus you had no right to snoop through my things!”

  Despite her nervousness, Cassie raised her chin and stared Jess down. “I wasn’t snooping. I’m just trying to earn my keep around here, even if I seem to do absolutely everything wrong.” Her voice wobbled again, but she refused to cry. Not again, and most definitely not in front of this new, menacing version of her Jess. “Maybe I should just leave,” she added.

  Remorse instantly replaced the anger in Jess’s expression. His eyes softened, and the old Jess was back, warm and sympathetic and not even vaguely threatening. Cassie breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Cassie, no,” he groaned. “Is that what you’ve been trying to do today? Earn your keep?”

  She nodded miserably.

  “Oh, darlin’, you don’t have to--your company is--” He paused, thoughtful again. “Look, if you want to help, how about driving me into town this afternoon? I need to run some errands.”

  Fear rushed through Cassie’s veins. Her knees weakened, and she grabbed for the bookcase to steady herself. “You’re not. . .you wouldn’t go back to work already, would you?”

  “Not for a while yet.” As he chuckled, she stifled a sigh of relief. “My deputies say they don’t need a captain on crutches getting in their way. I might eventually go in to catch up on paperwork, but not today.” He maneuvered his body around the stacks of books and sank down on his recliner. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you about those plans. It’s just--well, that house was a dream of mine.” His mouth tightened into a hard, thin line. “A dream I’ve given up on.”

  Cassie dragged over a wooden chair from the kitchen area and perched on the edge of the seat. She studied Jess’s face. “Can I ask why, or would I be intruding again?”

  Jess shrugged, a defeated gesture. “When I had the plans drawn up, things were different. I was married.”

  Lindsay, the girl at the rodeo, had mentioned Jess’s short-lived marriage. Why hadn’t it lasted? What Cassie knew of Jess didn’t jibe with Lindsay’s explanation. He didn’t strike her as the fickle type. But she didn’t dare ask, given Jess’s earlier explosion. She simply sat and waited him to go on.

  “I saved up the money,” he continued, “from my championships and all. I wanted to build a house with room for a passel of kids and animals and lots of windows to fill the place with sunshine. . . .”

  The wistful quality in his voice plucked at Cassie’s heartstrings. “But you never built it.”

  “No, I never did.” He grimaced and rubbed at the faint stubble on his chin. “Danielle took off before I could get started. She met me when I was a professional cowboy, and had some crazy idea about me taking her along to the rodeos. When I brought her back to Bitter Creek, she hated it. She’d expected money, glamour, romance--I guess she just couldn’t adjust to small-town life. I didn’t live up to her expectations, either.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cassie said softly.

  “Yeah, well, it’s water under the bridge now. It’s just that I thought I might finally get a family of my own, and it hurt to lose that dream.”

  Cassie’s throat constricted painfully. “I know. Believe me, I know what it’s like to want a real home, and a family around you.”

  Her eyes met his. In the silence that followed, the pressure in Cassie’s chest grew nearly unbearable. Words piled up behind her tongue, words she didn’t have the courage to say. But why not share her life story with him? She couldn’t tell Jess about the attempted rape and Andrew’s death, but what harm could it do to describe her childhood? She trusted Jess as she had never trusted anyone before. No need to pretend with him. No need to become someone else.

  “I never had that,” she said, at last, almost choking on the words. “A family, I mean. They took me away from my mom for the first time when I was 7 years old.”

  Jess reached for her hand, his eyes still on her face. She let him wrap his fingers around hers, and drew comfort from the warmth of his skin. His touch gave her the courage to tell him about the father she’d never known, and the mother who seemed to love the bottle more than her only child.

  Cassie spoke quietly, in a surprisingly steady voice, about the succession of East Coast cities--New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, D.C.--and the series of apartments that were always the same: cramped and dingy, with spreading yellow stains on the ceiling and the smell of grease and sweat clinging to the carpets.

  She searched Jess’s eyes for traces of contempt or disgust, but found only sympathy. He listened patiently, asking no questions, just tightening his grip on her fingers whenever her voice wobbled.

  “Most of the foster families weren’t too bad,” she said, “but I wanted my mother, needed her--or, rather, thought she needed me. When things got really bad, I was the one who poured the liquor down the sink, made sure she ate, even took her to the ER a few times.”

  Cassie had run away from the foster homes again and again, always finding her mother and staying until the child welfare people came for her. The habit didn’t endear her to her foster parents, to say the least.

  Oh, sometimes they had good periods, months and even once a whole year when Margaret Carlisle turned over a new leaf. She checked herself into detox and emerged clean-scrubbed, hopeful, and full of extravagant promises. She fought for custody of Cassie, and sometimes got it. But the resolutions never lasted long.

  “I’d start finding the empties stashed under her bed, or smell beer on her breath when she came home from work and hour late. And I’d think, ‘Here we go again’. . . .”

  Once she started talking, Cassie found she couldn’t stop. She even told Jess about her shoplifti
ng arrest, when she was 16 and lived in a less-than-great neighborhood in D.C. “Mom was sick again, really sick this time, with cirrhosis--and we ran out of food and money. When the store owner caught me I had a can of Campbell’s soup in each pocket and a package of crackers stuffed down my shirt.

  “They sent me to stay with the Hatchers that time--nice people, but not my real family, you know? I ran away from them, too. Twice. The second time, I pounded and pounded on the door, but Mom never answered. She couldn’t.” Cassie bit her lip hard to keep the tears back. She’d been leaking like a rusty pipe all day. Enough was enough. “Mom died all alone. It’s hard to forgive myself for that.”

  Jess shot her a bewildered look. “But it wasn’t your fault. None it was. You were dealt a lousy hand and you did your best with it. Hell, in my book you’re a hero for surviving at all.”

  Cassie turned her face away, overcome by emotion. Of course she knew it wasn’t her fault. It was just such a relief to hear someone else say it. She suddenly felt lighter, cleaner, almost giddy. But she was also ready to change the subject while she digested these new feelings.

  She stood abruptly and crossed the room to peer into the raccoon cage. Time for their next meal. Scamp and Rascal were already scooting around on the towel, their pink mouths open and greedy.

  “I’ll heat the milk,” she said.

  “Cassie. . . .”

  She flashed Jess a smile, a genuine one for all its shakiness. “I’m okay, really. Thanks for listening.”

  “Any time. I mean it.”

  She nodded, and set her palm lightly on his shoulder as she passed by his recliner on the way to the kitchen. Even the brief contact made her pulse race. As she mixed and warmed the kitten formula, she watched Jess out of the corner of her eye. Confiding in him felt good.

  But touching him felt even better.

  Cassie wasn’t a poor little rich girl after all. So much for first impressions.

  On the way into Bitter Creek, Jess gazed out the passenger window at the passing pine trees and the deep, shadowy woods. He ought to have known. She wasn’t the least bit like Danielle, a daddy’s girl who expected the world on a silver platter.