One Hot Cowboy (8 page)

might have been white once upon a time,

now most of the paint had peeled off in

long, curling strips.

The last couple of years, she’d drawn

architectural plans for other people. These

plans had been for her and Auntie Dee, and

the two of them had talked them over for

hours on the phone. She’d taken too long,

though—waited

too

long.

Somehow,

someday, she’d have to come to terms with

that. She slid the long roll of drawings out

of the tube and spread them out on the

porch. There was the big open kitchen for

Auntie Dee, who loved to cook and who

had always had folks stopping by to chat.

After their last call, she’d added windows

upstairs for Auntie Dee to look out at the

ranch land where she’d grown up, and

even more downstairs because Rose had

had a sneaking suspicion that the stairs

were finally becoming too much for Auntie

Dee.

The heart attack had been quick.

Auntie Dee hadn’t had to leave the home

she loved for too long. By the time Rose

had got the message and understood there

weren’t going to be any more phone calls

ever again, Auntie Dee had been gone.

“So, are you going to tell me?” Beside

her, Cabe rested a booted foot on the

bottom rail of the porch. He’d picked the

sturdiest rail of the lot and probably the

only one not likely to break from his

weight. Most of the boards were rotted

clear through.

“Tell you what?”

“Why you’re so sure you want to hang

on to this place?” He nodded toward the

sagging porch step she sat on and the

drawings. “What your plans are?”

“It’s just about a tear-down, isn’t it?”

she asked, her voice rueful.

“Yeah,” he drawled. “It’s safe to say

that. We did what we could for Auntie

Dee, but she wouldn’t let us help much.

None of us realized the house was this bad,

or we would have done something, Rose. I

promise you that,” he said fiercely.

“I can fix it.” It wasn’t as if she didn’t

have the time. That was one advantage of

being laid off and jobless. Too bad all

those years of study and work hadn’t been

enough to save her job as an architect’s

assistant when the economy went south.

“Maybe.” He looked down at her, his

gaze guarded. “This place is going to take

a whole lot of work, Rose, and it’s going

to take even more money. Do you have

that?”

“I’ll find a way,” she said. All she had

to do was come up with it.

To her surprise, Cabe’s hand brushed

her shoulder. He’d been full of those

casual little touches today: threading his

fingers briefly through hers to tug her in a

particular direction, his hand cupping her

foot as he gave her a leg up to check on a

ceiling

fan.

Jumping

up,

suddenly

desperate to get away, she perched on the

porch swing, hoping to God it didn’t give

way beneath her. Cabe was driving her

crazy, and he didn’t even know it.

“You ever just known a place was the

right one?”

“Sure.”

He

shrugged,

powerful

shoulders moving beneath the faded cotton

of his T-shirt as he took a step toward her

and the swing. “The ranch.”

How close would he get? He was

already close enough now to feel the heat

coming off him. The V-neck of his shirt

exposed the powerful column of his throat

and had her thinking about something

besides home repairs.

“So how’d you feel if someone came

along, wanted to buy you out, Cabe?

Would you give up that land?”

“Hell, no. That ranch has been in my

family for generations. You don’t sell

something like that.”

There was no mistaking the fierceness

that filled his voice, stamped his face.

Cabe’s maternal ancestors had been the

Spanish aristocracy who’d come to

California to start a new life and then

mixed with the fierce, free-spirited Native

Americans. Those men had all been

warriors. Men who held on to what they

had taken and fought for every inch, every

arroyo. Cabe Dawson was a possessive

man.

“It’s like that for me. I don’t want to sell

this place.”

“It’s not the same.”

“How, Cabe? How is this any

different?”

“This isn’t a ranch. This land hasn’t

been part of your blood, part of your

family for more than a century.”

“This was my home.”

“Sure, Rose,” he said wearily. “And I

suppose the whole time you were gone,

when you were anywhere
but
here, you

just couldn’t wait to come back.”

He had the literal truth on his side.

She’d run, and she’d run hard. She’d made

one mistake after another, and now there

was no way to fix the past. Maybe she’d

fail at this, too. Maybe, she wouldn’t get

Auntie Dee’s house perfect, but she wanted

to try. Even if she couldn’t be perfect, she

wanted to try.

She wanted to come home.

Anger bubbled up inside her. He

shouldn’t be so calm always. Getting truly

angry at Cabe Dawson was unfamiliar

territory, but it felt right. She was done

letting other people tell her how to feel,

what to do. Where to go and where to be.

First in L.A. as a child and then here in

Lonesome, she’d always believed there

was some impossible standard she should

be living up to. She couldn’t be perfect, but

she was also done trying to be
imperfect
.

“Don’t be an ass,” she snapped.

His head came up, his stare incredulous.

Cabe Dawson could be an easy man until

you pushed him too far. Then, he got as

immobile as rock. The look in his eyes

warned that he was more than halfway

there now. Too bad she didn’t give a

damn.

“Don’t stand here on my porch and tell

me what I did or didn’t feel.”

He opened his mouth. Shut it. “Rose—”

“This was my home,” she stormed.

“Here, with Auntie Dee. She was the best

thing that ever happened to me, Cabe

Dawson, and don’t you think I ever forgot

that. Sure, I left. That was what I needed to

do, then. Now, I’m back.”

“Let me write you that check, Rose.” He

watched her, his face closed off and

unreachable.

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m fixing

this place up.”

He turned away from the porch railing,

watching her intently. She didn’t know

what he expected to find. “You want to

play house, come stay at the ranch house.

You can redesign and redecorate to your

heart’s content.”

“Consolation prize?”

“No.” Something she didn’t recognize

flashed across his face, and then he closed

the distance between them, his big, work-

roughened hands caging her in the swing as

they came down on either side of her.

“You know you always have a place on the

Blackhawk, Rose. You can come home

with us.”

“I’m not family,” she pointed out,

because it needed saying.

“No.” He watched her carefully. As if

he
had something that needed saying but no

idea how to start. “No, you’re not, Rose.

Whatever you were to my brothers, don’t

make the mistake of thinking I ever saw

you as a sister.”

There was that familiar hurt, followed

by a flicker of hot, liquid attraction.

She didn’t need him to swoop in here

and take care of her.

“This place, this house—it’s too much,

Rose, and some of the problems are just

plain beyond fixing. You’d need a new

roof on the house, new siding, a new

porch. And those are just the outside

pieces. You get inside, and I’ll lay money

the plumbing’s shot, right along with the

electrical system. You have to see that.”

She could. She wasn’t blind, and when

she stopped looking with her heart, she

could see the never-ending list of what had

gone wrong with the place.

“I know.” Her voice sounded small and

strained, even to her own ears. The knot in

her throat had her swallowing hard.

She was alone. The woman who’d

raised her was gone. Her home was gone,

too, she realized. Maybe the house itself

could be salvaged with paint, lumber, and

some serious contractor elbow grease, but

Auntie Dee wasn’t there anymore. There

was no fixing, replacing, or filling that

absence. Tears swam in her eyes before

she could remind herself she’d sworn she

was all done crying, because crying never

helped.

“Ah, Rose,” Cabe growled, hauling her

into his arms, “don’t cry, baby.”

Nothing had ever felt more right to Cabe

than pulling Rose Jordan into his arms.

He’d touched her last night, but that had

been accidental. This was deliberate. At

first, she stiffened, and then she melted,

and that unspoken gesture of feminine trust

should have warned him. Last night, she’d

pushed his buttons. Whether she’d realized

it or not, she’d made him see her as a

woman fully grown for the first time. And

right now, she needed him.

Needed what he could give her.

She’d lost a damned fine woman. They

all had. Auntie Dee had been part of

Lonesome for so many years that the town

seemed a little emptier without her. He

respected Rose for mourning the older

woman’s loss, but her tears woke some

primal strain in him he hadn’t known he

possessed.

He wanted to fix this.

Wanted to make Rose feel good. Her

unspoken trust as she fit her head into the

hard curve of his shoulder made him feel

important. And, yeah, it was sexy as hell.

When he stroked a hand down her back, his

fingers found the soft line of her bra straps

beneath the gauzy dress. The soft, warm

weight of her breasts pressed against his

chest had him thinking about other ways he

could make Rose Jordan feel.

Christ.
He was a bastard.

He wasn’t fixing anything for Rose.

He didn’t know what she had expected

to find here. The house wasn’t in good

shape, although it could have been worse.

He’d made sure Auntie Dee was taken care

of, but months of standing empty wreaked

havoc with an old house.

Rose was still crying. He wanted to

howl, to hit something, and those feelings

were unfamiliar.

“Where did you sleep last night?” he

growled against her skin.

“The car,” she said, confirming his

earlier, uneasy suspicion.

The image of that hit him hard. He could

just see her, sleepy and flushed, on the

backseat of that little car. So vulnerable.

Because a woman sleeping alone out here

with just the flimsy protection of a Honda

Civic door would be easy prey for a man

who didn’t care about right and wrong.

“That won’t do.” He looked down at

her.
Ask, don’t tell,
he reminded himself.

“Why don’t you come on back to the ranch

with me, Rose? We’ve got plenty of

bedrooms there.”

This time, when she stiffened up like a

poker in his arms, she didn’t relax again.

“Be reasonable, Rose.” He looked at the

house again, because staring at Rose

wasn’t going to help his cause any. He

could see daylight through the roof of the

porch, for Christ’s sake. “Staying here

would be only one step above camping.

Just this once, can’t you let me take care of

you? Giving in this one time doesn’t mean

you’re surrendering unconditionally.”

“Why?” she asked quietly. She stepped

away from him, leaving his arms empty.

“Because you need a place to stay.” He

forced his feet to get moving and headed

for the truck. When he opened the

passenger door for her, though, she was

still standing there on the porch step,

unconvinced. “There’s more than enough

room out at the ranch,” he reiterated.