Hard Loving Cowboy

by A. J. Pine

  He assured himself she only wanted the man he pretended to be, not the man he truly was. Still, he could offer up a small slice of honesty without rocking the boat too much. Couldn’t he?

  “Think you should know that as much as I love those sexy heels you wear with your skirts—when they aren’t causing injury, of course—this is a pretty good look on you, too.”

  She gave him a pointed look. “And I think you should know that as much as I love that you find me attractive, it doesn’t help me set aside this—this want.”

  He was still picturing her naked—her warm bronze skin, her brown nipples hard and peaked.

  He stiffened inside his jeans. Yeah, he wasn’t doing too well at setting his own want aside, either.

  “You’re right,” he said. “That’s probably my cue to leave.”

  She glanced up the stairs and then wrapped her hand around his wrist, heading instead for the door.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  His brows drew together. He was leaving. Not they.

  “What? Where?” he asked.

  “I spent my day shopping, in the emergency room, and then in this lovely but indoor B and B. It looks like a beautiful night. If I’m going to be working for your family, for the B and B, for the sheriff even, we should learn how to be around each other in a more friend-like manner. Don’t you think?”

  He huffed out a breath. “So we’re going to be friends now?”

  She nodded. “I don’t have any rules about friends. Do you?”

  He shook his head, waiting for his brain to form some sort of argument. But nothing came.

  “Then show me Oak Bluff, friend.” She slid her fingers through his and gave his hand a squeeze. “I want a tour from someone who was born and raised here, someone who can point out to me why this place is special enough that some people have never truly left.”

  Chapter Ten

  Violet’s new friend and employer led her to a storefront with a sign painted on the window that said BAKER’S BLUFF. If he hadn’t already endeared himself to her at dinner with his wonderful family, he had now. A good friend always knew that the way to her heart was with food. “If you get here right before they open, at about five a.m., you can smell the bread baking. Nothing compares to their coffee, either. And the doughnuts—Jesus, the doughnuts.”

  Violet pressed her nose to the glass, remembering how she used to wander into her father’s restaurant after school, entering through the kitchen door. She’d smell the same thing—fresh bread baking—but also savory sauces bubbling on the stove or the hint of sweetness in the air from whatever that evening’s dessert specials would be. Every time she ate a molten chocolate cake—and there were many times because…molten chocolate cake—she felt like she was home. Food was an amazing trigger of sense memory. She guessed that was exactly what fresh pastries at this particular bakery were for Walker.

  “Will you bring me here tomorrow morning?” she asked, then spun to look at him.

  He was backlit by the streetlamp, his face cast in shadow, making him unreadable once more. So she stepped closer and peered up at him. His blue eyes were dark and brooding, but he pressed his lips into a grin, masking whatever memory had possibly been triggered.

  “Best time to get here is right when they open, when everything’s fresh. Means getting up at the crack of dawn. You sure you can handle it?”

  She nodded, a smile spreading across her face. “I grew up in the restaurant business,” she reminded him. “Daily produce and meat orders would have to arrive before lunchtime prep. Sometimes I’d help my father get everything packed in the cooler before I headed off to school. This is just to say that I am so your morning girl.” Wait, that came out wrong. “I mean a morning girl—er…morning person.” She couldn’t stop the double entendres from spilling out of her mouth.

  He scrubbed a hand across his beard and laughed. She liked the sound of it—the ease of being around him in this new light.

  “Meet me here at five a.m. tomorrow. You won’t be disappointed—morning person.”

  She laughed, too. Other than playing the part of responsible adult for both of them, Violet couldn’t imagine anything this man could do to disappoint her, especially if it involved fresh homemade pastry and a cup of the town’s best coffee.

  Walker led her to the next building, which was a combination art and gift shop called Knicks and Knacks. He tapped softly on the glass toward the right of the picture window display.

  “See that painting of the man playing catch with the boy, the dog in the background?”

  It was hard to miss as it was one of only three pieces prominently displayed in the lighted window. She squinted at the artist’s name on the corner of the canvas.

  “Wow,” she said. “Ava painted that? It’s beautiful. That’s Jack and their son?”

  Walker nodded. “It’s a long story, but Jack didn’t know his son existed until Owen was nine. None of us did. Now they’re getting married.”

  “Oh,” Violet said. “Everyone at dinner seemed so happy. I kind of assumed it had always been that way.”

  He blew out a breath. “Not even close. Take a look in every window here, and you’ll find a story. I live in the apartment above the antiques shop next to the B and B. Sheriff’s mother, Lucinda, owns it. Before that, it was where Olivia’s grandma grew up—and where she hid love letters from Olivia’s grandfather while he was at war. It’s why Olivia ended up in Oak Bluff in the first place.”

  Violet’s hand flew to her heart. “This might be the most romantic little town on the map.”

  Walker shrugged. “No one’s married yet. Anything can happen between now and Jack, Luke, or Cash putting a ring on it.”

  Violet scoffed. “That’s a pretty bleak outlook.”

  He chuckled. “Darlin’, I’m six feet four inches of bleak outlook, so I understand if you want to rethink this whole friend thing and keep it at employer/employee. Still no kissing, of course.”

  He raised his brows, and Violet backhanded him on the shoulder. “Well, what I lack in height I make up for in gobs of optimism, so I think we make the perfect pair—of friends, that is.”

  He laughed softly, then pulled her down the street, past the B and B so they were standing right in front of Lucinda’s place.

  She didn’t care what he said. Oak Bluff on its own had charm enough to spare, but Violet was realizing it was likely generations of personal histories that kept everyone so connected to a place most couldn’t find on a map. The only history she knew was her family’s little apartment in Santa Barbara. Their restaurant. Maman’s disease. But nothing that defined her like Oak Bluff defined its own people.

  “What about you?” she asked hesitantly. He seemed willing enough to share about everyone else, but what was Walker Everett’s story? What kept him tethered to this place that seemed to draw her in the moment she’d set foot onto the Crossroads property?

  He shrugged.

  “How about I show you the part that matters?”

  He gave her hand—still resting in his like it was the most natural thing for them to do—a slight tug, and she let him lead her to where his truck was parked in front of the antiques shop he’d just told her about. He grabbed a couple of blankets from the cab, then led her off the town’s main street and onto a sandy path toward the sound of waves lapping at the shore.

  She breathed in the cool night air, the scent of it sprinkled with the salt of the sea. And there went her senses, triggering memories she wasn’t expecting—her father packing food from the restaurant for them to eat at the beach. When she was little and multiple sclerosis not yet part of anyone’s vocabulary, he and Maman would each hold one of her hands and swing her over the cool water lapping at the shore. She’d giggle and squeal when her toes hit the surf. If she closed her eyes, she could make herself believe she was there. Despite the miles and years between her beach and this one, she felt the undeniable comfort of being home.

  Minutes later she was sitting
atop a wool blanket on the sand, another one over her shoulders as she watched Walker build a small fire in a pit that looked like it had been dug in the sand years ago. She imagined all the things he did with his hands—working the ranch, the vineyard, building furniture. His quiet confidence drew her in further and puzzled her all at the same time.

  He talked about Oak Bluff like it belonged to everyone else but him. When he was with his family at dinner tonight, he hung back and let the other conversations fill the room—like an outsider looking in. Yet when her father showed up without warning, he made sure the entire group played along with their pretend romance. So what was it about the ocean—a sight so common to the entire state of California—that made Oak Bluff his?

  He sat down beside her, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “So,” he said. “France, huh? You want to tell me more about that? Or do I only get the abbreviated version my family got?”

  Ah, yes, the elephant on the beach. She’d been waiting for this, but she wasn’t getting into her issues when she was so close to learning something important about him.

  “Oh no,” she said. “You said you were showing me the part that matters. You tell me about this beach, and I’ll tell you about France. Deal?”

  “I don’t believe I promised telling, but I guess if those are your terms I better adhere to ’em.”

  The glow of the fire let her see that he was grinning, but the smile faded as he leaned back on his elbows and stared out at the darkened waves.

  “This was our mama’s favorite place,” he said. “She loved the ranch, but she loved the ocean more. Said she’d missed it her whole life growing up in Texas but didn’t know it ’til she came to California.”

  Violet smiled. “Can’t argue with the truth. I can’t imagine living without a beach nearby.”

  He was quiet for a beat but then continued. “She wanted to die here, but by the time she was in hospice, it was too risky to move her. So I came here on my own a few days before she passed, took a bunch of pictures on this crap digital camera, but it was the only thing I had.”

  Violet’s voice caught in her throat. “So you brought the ocean to her.”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, Walker. I’m so sorry. Here I’ve been going on about my mom and what I’ve given up to try to help her, not even knowing that I was throwing in your face that I still had what you lost.”

  She lowered herself onto her side and, friend or no, placed her cold palm on his cheek.

  “How old were you?” she asked.

  “Not quite eleven.”

  Her eyes filled with tears for a woman she never knew and the little boy who wanted to give her one last gift before she died. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’m so sorry, Walker.”

  “You know, sometimes I forget how much she loved this town. It’s good to be reminded of that.” He blinked, his eyes focusing on hers. “Your turn. Tell me more about France.”

  His voice was strained. She wasn’t sure if he really cared about France or if he needed the diversion. Either way, she’d repay his honesty with some of her own.

  She nodded. “There’s this experimental stem cell treatment that can slow the effects of multiple sclerosis. In some people it might even reverse them—not completely, but enough to make life more livable, less painful. I read a recent study about it where a group of patients even went into remission. But it’s expensive. And my mother’s local physician doesn’t offer the treatment. But a doctor in France does…” She trailed off.

  “Okay,” Walker said slowly. “That’s pretty much what you said at dinner. Why the hesitation when you get to the France part?”

  Violet pulled her phone from her pocket, opened her e-mail app, and showed him the unopened response from the French address.

  “You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that, Teach. All I see is an overcrowded inbox. Seriously. Who in the hell has over three hundred unopened messages?”

  She waved him off. “I get a lot of spam. But this one”—she pointed to her aunt Ines’s name—“this is my mom’s sister. The one she hasn’t spoken to in over thirty years. I’ve never even met her. After I found out about Maman’s doctor saying no to the treatment, I e-mailed Aunt Ines behind my mother’s back to ask for help. Her reply has been sitting here for two days, and I’ve been too damned scared to read it.”

  Walker tapped the screen, and Ines’s e-mail opened.

  Violet gasped.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay. Now you don’t have to read it alone.” He sat up and patted the spot between his legs. “Come on, Teach. You can do this.”

  Her heart raced as she maneuvered to a sitting position, scooting between his knees so her back rested against his chest.

  She could do this.

  “Breathe, Vi,” he said in her ear, and she let out a nervous laugh, then followed his direction and sucked in a gulp of air.

  And then she read the message aloud. It was in French of course, which meant Walker had no clue what she was saying. By the time she finished, however, she was shaking, and Walker was rubbing her shoulders, patient for whatever came next.

  Like the truest, most caring friend she could have imagined.

  “She wants to talk,” Violet said finally, her voice trembling. “She already spoke to the doctor and has health insurance information and said she’s thought about me and Maman every day for twenty-five years.”

  She was crying now, and she didn’t know if it was because of her renewed hope for Maman or because from nothing more than an e-mail she felt an immediate connection with a woman she’d never met but whose same blood pumped through her veins.

  Walker adjusted himself so he was facing her. She laughed and sobbed and swiped her arm under her running nose.

  “I thought I was doing this all for my mother,” she said. “But after spending the night with you and your family, I realize now how badly I want to go—for me. That’s horrible, right? I mean, how selfish is that?”

  Walker shook his head and tried to wipe away the tears, but they kept coming.

  “You put school and your future on hold. And you committed to three different jobs tonight, none of which have anything to do with what you love—music. I’d say you earned the right to want a little something just for you. So why don’t you let yourself off the hook, okay?”

  Instinct took over, and she rose onto her knees and wrapped him into a hug. For a second he simply sat there, but then his strong arms were around her, steadying the rapid beat of her heart.

  “You getting snot all over my shoulder?” he asked.

  Violet laughed. “Probably. But that’s what friends are for, right?”

  “I was not aware of that part of our agreement, but I suppose I’ll make the exception this one time.”

  They sat like that for a while longer, in the warmest, safest hug Violet had felt in a long time. Finally, she pulled away so she could look him in those deep blue eyes, and it all finally clicked into place.

  “I think we can actually do this friend thing,” she said.

  He nodded once. “I think we can. And if it makes things easier for you and your folks—for them being okay with you spending so much time so far away—then I’m okay to keep on pretending when they’re around. If that’s what you need. I get with the whole France thing ahead of you that it’s probably easier to let them think you’re happy with work and—personal stuff.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “It’s funny you say that. Because—well—despite my protests, my father wants to bring Maman to Oak Bluff for dinner. With us. Next week.”

  Walker’s eyes widened. Then he cleared his throat. “Okay, then. My kitchen is small, but I know how to use it.”

  She beamed. “A man who can cook? Better be careful. Gabriel Chastain may very well fall in love with you. When we actually do break up, I think he might take it the worst.” She laughed, but her heart felt ridiculously full. If their timing wasn’t off, she’d be well on her w
ay to falling for a guy like Walker Everett. Instead she’d settle for having him in her life however she could between now and whatever happened with France. She cupped his face in her hands, his beard tickling her palms. “Someday I’m gonna figure out how to repay you for being so wonderful to someone you barely know.”

  He shrugged. “How about you just keep on thinking I’m wonderful, and we’ll call it even.”

  She held out her hand, and he shook it. “Deal,” she said.

  Then she bit back a grin as she looked forward to the next time one or both of her parents dropped by Oak Bluff and she and her new friend might have the opportunity to pretend again.

  Somehow Walker had gone to bed without picturing Violet Chastain naked, without needing a cold shower, and without lamenting that she wasn’t lying beside him. Instead he’d drifted off with a strange fulfillment he couldn’t put his finger on. This morning, though, when his phone alarm went off at 4:50 a.m., he had the perfect finger to offer the early wake-up call—until he remembered he wasn’t heading straight to the ranch.

  He scrambled out of bed and threw on yesterday’s jeans that were still pooled on the floor. He grabbed a clean T-shirt from a dresser drawer, went through his quick morning routine that included splashing water over his face and brushing his teeth, and then he was out the door and down the street.

  He could see the front door of Baker’s Bluff. It was propped open like it always was each morning. He was still a half block away when the scent of the air changed from crisp and salty to rich, warm, and aromatic.

  He’d half assumed she would forget, but when he made it to the shop window, he could see Violet just inside the door.

  “Mornin’, Teach,” he said as he strode up next to her. She was wearing last night’s borrowed clothes, her thick, dark hair pulled into a ponytail. He liked this look on her—the one where she woke up in his town and rolled out of bed to see him.