Christmas Cowboy: Will of Steel / Winter Roses. Diana Palmer
if he and his wife, Sassy, would let her live with them.”
“On their ranch where they raise purebred cattle.”
“Sammy has purebred bloodlines on both sides,” she muttered. “Her mother was a purebred Hereford cow and her father was a purebred Angus bull.”
“And Sammy is a ‘black baldy,’” he agreed, giving it the hybrid name. “But that doesn’t make her a purebred cow.”
“Semantics!” she shot back.
He grinned. “There you go, throwing those one-dollar words at me again.”
“Don’t pretend to be dumb, if you please. I happen to know that you got a degree in physics during your stint with the army.”
He raised both thick black eyebrows. “Should I be flattered?”
“Why?”
“That you take an interest in my background.”
“Everybody knows. It isn’t just me.”
He shrugged.
“Why are you a small-town police chief, with that sort of education?” she asked suddenly.
“Because I don’t have the temperament for scientific research,” he said simply. “Besides, you don’t get to play with guns in a laboratory.”
“I hate guns.”
“You said.”
“I really mean it.” She shivered dramatically. “You could shoot somebody by accident. Didn’t one of your patrolmen drop his pistol in a grocery store and it went off?”
He looked grim. “Yes, he did. He was off duty and carrying his little .32 wheel gun in his pants pocket. He reached for change and it fell out and discharged.”
He pursed his lips. “A mistake I can guarantee he will never make again.”
“So his wife said. You are one mean man when you lose your temper, do you know that?”
“The pistol discharged into a display of cans, fortunately for him, and we only had to pay damages to the store. But it could have discharged into a child, or a grown-up, with tragic results. There are reasons why they make holsters for guns.”
She looked at his pointedly. “That one sure is fancy,” she noted, indicating the scrollwork on the soft tan leather. It also sported silver conchos and fringe.
“My cousin made it for me.”
“Tanika?” she asked, because she knew his cousin, a full-blooded Cheyenne who lived down near Hardin.
“Yes.” He smiled. “She thinks practical gear should have beauty.”
“She’s very gifted.” She smiled. “She makes some gorgeous parfleche bags. I’ve seen them at the trading post in Hardin, near the Little Bighorn Battlefield.” They were rawhide bags with beaded trim and fringe, incredibly beautiful and useful for transporting items in the old days for native people.
“Thank you,” he said abruptly.
She lifted her eyebrows. “For what?”
“For not calling it the Custer Battlefield.”
A lot of people did. He had nothing against Custer, but his ancestry was Cheyenne. He had relatives who had died in the Little Bighorn Battle and, later, at Wounded Knee. Custer was a sore spot with him. Some tourists didn’t seem to realize that Native Americans considered that people other than Custer’s troops were killed in the battle.
She smiled. “I think I had a Sioux ancestor.”
“You look like it,” he drawled, noting her fair coloring.
“My cousin Rabby is half and half, and he has blond hair and gray eyes,” she reminded him.
“I guess so.” He checked the big watch on his wrist. “I’ve got to be in court for a preliminary hearing. Better go.”
“I’m baking a pound cake.”
He hesitated. “Is that an invitation?”
“You did say you were starving.”
“Yes, but you can’t live on cake.”
“So I’ll fry a steak and some potatoes to go with it.”
His lips pulled up into a smile. “Sounds nice. What time?”
“About six? Barring bank robberies and insurgent attacks, of course.”
“I’m sure we won’t have one today.” He considered her invitation. “The Callisters brought me a flute back from Cancún when they went on their honeymoon. I could bring it and serenade you.”
She flushed a little. The flute and its connection with courting in the Native American world was quite well-known. “That would be nice.”
“It would?”
“I thought you were leaving.” She didn’t quite trust that smile.
“I guess I am. About six?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you then.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Should I wear my tuxedo?”
“It’s just steak.”
“No dancing afterward?” he asked, disappointed.
“Not unless you want to build a bonfire outside and dance around it.” She frowned. “I think I know one or two steps from the women’s dances.”
He glared at her. “Ballroom dancing isn’t done around campfires.”
“You can do ballroom dances?” she asked, impressed.
“Of course I can.”
“Waltz, polka …?”
“Tango,” he said stiffly.
Her eyes twinkled. “Tango? Really?”
“Really. One of my friends in the service learned it down in Argentina. He taught me.”
“What an image that brings to mind—” she began, tongue-in-cheek.
“He didn’t teach me by dancing with me!” he shot back. “He danced with a girl.”
“Well, I should hope so,” she agreed.
“I’m leaving.”
“You already said.”
“This time, I mean it.” He walked out.
“Six!” she called after him.
He threw up a hand. He didn’t look back.
Jillian closed the door and leaned back against it. She was a little apprehensive, but after all, she had to marry somebody. She knew Theodore Graves better than she knew any other men. And, despite their quarreling, they got along fairly well.
The alternative was to let some corporation build a holiday resort here in Hollister, and it would be a disaster for local ranching. Resorts brought in all sorts of amusement, plus hotels and gas stations and businesses. It would be a boon for the economy, but Hollister would lose its rural, small-town appeal. It wasn’t something Jillian would enjoy and she was certain that other people would feel the same. She loved the forests with their tall lodgepole pines, and the shallow, diamond-bright trout streams where she loved to fish when she had free time. Occasionally Theodore would bring over his spinning reel and join her. Then they’d work side by side, scaling and filleting fish and frying them, along with hush puppies, in a vat of hot oil. Her mouth watered, just thinking about it.
She wandered into the kitchen. She’d learned to cook from one of her uncle’s rare girlfriends. It had delighted her. She might be a tomboy, but she had a natural