Cassie's Cowboy. Diane Pershing
back home, not iron ones like this one.
“Okay, now, where is that range?” he repeated, then lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Well, that’s a little complicated. See, there’s a kind of a…well, a place, a section…” He’d never had to put it into words before. “Not here, I mean not here, in your world…”
“So you’re from Heaven?” Now she was being downright sarcastic. With someone else, he might have bristled at her attitude, but he figured this was one part of some kind of test he was being put through, so he’d just have to go along as best he could.
Besides, darned if she wasn’t the cutest, sassiest gal he’d seen in a while. Then there was the way her blouse was open a ways, and how that piece of white lace that peeked out from the opening more than hinted at a sweet pair of—
Charlie coughed and brought himself back to her question. “Heaven? No, not really. But that’s as good a name as any. It’s this special world for what you call fictional characters. We got Oliver Twist back there and Batman, and Romeo and Juliet—poor things are always sighing at each other. And we all sort of…well, kinda live there. Until we’re sent for, I guess,” he finished with a grin. “Which, I figure, is what happened this time.”
Until we’re sent for.
The minute the stranger said those words, Cassie felt an icy shiver skitter up and down her spine, and its effect was terrifying. Mostly because she was starting to believe this guy. No! She shook her head. No. She must be in a dream. Or the butt of some bizarre joke.
But she’d meant what she’d said: the man was good. Really a pro. Exactly as she’d pictured Cowboy Charlie, exactly as she’d drawn him, down to the small dimple on one side of his mouth and the way his sun-streaked hair flapped attractively over his forehead.
Truth be told, she’d always been a little in love with her creation, fictional though he was. She’d invented him not just for Trish but for herself. A fantasy man, one with all the historically classic, manly characteristics. Strength. Trustworthiness. Protectiveness. A hard worker, honest and dependable.
And sexy, too. That part had definitely been for her, not Trish.
A sexy man for her dream life, which was a far cry from the difficult, complex, real world she inhabited day to day.
A fantasy man was the only kind she’d allow entrance into her life. After her late husband, Teddy—a sweet, well-intentioned-but-unreliable man—Cassie had been in no hurry for anyone new to love. Thus Cowboy Charlie: the perfect—not in real life but perfect nevertheless—classic hero.
Gazing at him now, she had to fight the sudden urge to invite him in, whoever he was. He was as appealing as anything she’d seen in a long, long time.
But good sense took over. One did not open one’s door to a strange man. Especially not at night. And not with her precious daughter sleeping upstairs.
Still, he wasn’t the least bit threatening, and Cassie had pretty good instincts that way. There was something comforting about his presence. He felt like…Cowboy Charlie, down to that scar at the edge of his right eyebrow, the one he’d gotten in the tussle with a knife-wielding bank robber down in Baja.
No! This time the icy shiver that zipped through her veins made her jump. Charlie hadn’t run into a knife-wielding bank robber in Baja, not in reality.
Charlie was fictional! She had made up that story, made up all the Cowboy Charlie stories. Had, in fact, made up the man who was standing here now, big as life on her porch and chatting away in his lazy, masculine drawl, easy and likable.
And achingly familiar.
Cassie found her body leaning forward, as though she were being drawn to him. With only the screen door separating them, she could swear she could smell him, and what she took in was a heady mixture of healthy sweat, old leather and pipe tobacco. It was an intoxicating blend.
Wait a minute. Pipe tobacco? Oh that’s right, in a couple of early stories, she’d had Charlie lighting up a pipe as he sat around the campfire with some of his buddies, so that made sense. But she’d cut out the pipe in the later tales, not wanting to send any kind of tobacco-as-soothing message to her daughter. Apparently, this Cowboy Charlie hadn’t gotten the word.
Help, she thought weakly, although she wasn’t sure who the plea was aimed toward. She had to stop this nonsense, pull back from the spell cast by the stranger.
Propping her hands on her hips, she glared at this man, this fake Cowboy Charlie. “Enough,” she said firmly. “The truth now. Who sent you?”
He frowned, then removed his elbow from the door frame and stood up straight. “You did, ma’am,” he said politely. “You’re Miz Nevins, right? Cassie Nevins?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded, so Charlie went on. “I’m not really sure, but those spectacles? The ones on the end of your nose? I think they mighta had something to do with it.” He shook his head. “See, this is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. Now, I’ve heard tales, about others who’ve left, you know, and it was because they were needed, real bad. They were sent for because that person who needed them? Well, that person did something to bring it about, to…make it happen. I’m not real clear on this, as I said, but in the back of my head, there’s this idea that it’s connected to your spectacles.”
When Cassie continued to stare at him with an expression of pure confusion, he went on talking, hoping he’d light on the words that would help her understand, so she could be more peaceful than she seemed.
“Maybe it’s something like Aladdin did—we got him back home, too. Like rubbing a magic bottle? Or when you wish on a star? You must have done something like that.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry. I wish I knew more. I’m kind of new at this myself.”
“I did something?”
He nodded. “I’m pretty sure that before I left, well, before I was lifted, I guess you’d call it, out of my world and into this one, I had a picture in my head of—” he pointed “—those spectacles.” He finished his explanation with an apologetic smile that made his eyebrows turn up at the bridge of his nose. He’d done the best he could; now he’d wait to see if she understood.
As the cowboy pointed, Cassie realized she was still wearing the unstylish turquoise reading glasses. She pulled them off, folded them up and stuck them in the pocket of her blouse. It was then she grasped the fact that when she’d been preparing for her bath, she’d unbuttoned her blouse halfway down her chest.
Which was how it had remained, for the entire conversation with this man. Dear God.
Feeling heat suffuse her cheeks, she quickly remedied the situation, but had some trouble meeting his gaze as she did.
“They sure are funny looking, aren’t they?” the cowboy said.
Her head snapped up. “What’s funny looking?”
“The spectacles.”
“Oh, yes. A true laugh riot,” Cassie muttered.
“Maybe they’re magic. You wished I was real, and I guess you really wished hard, because—” he spread his palms “—here I am.”
You wished I was real. His simple words stunned her once again. Her previous seminaked state forgotten, Cassie could only stare at the man on her porch. Surely this couldn’t be. He was spinning a yarn, yes that was it. That had to be it. He’d seen the ugly glasses perched on her nose and had come up with this whole, ludicrous explanation.
Except how did he know about the wish she’d made not five minutes ago, in jest of course. How could he know? Did he read minds? Was that it?
She closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath. She was dreaming, she told herself. She had to be. Even though the man on her porch, chatting easily like an old friend, seemed to be flesh and blood, down to the smell of pipe tobacco.
“So, I reckon I’ll be with you