A Real Cowboy. Sarah M. Anderson
ever been. The Red Horse family was his family. That was all there was to it.
J.R. had said no. He’d claimed he wasn’t comfortable being a white man in an American Indian tribe, which was true. He knew that if word got out that James Robert Bradley had been adopted into a Lakota tribe, the storm of gossip would hurt everyone, not just him. And he couldn’t hurt Minnie or Hoss.
Any more than he had. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “It’s just …”
Minnie patted his arm. “It’s okay. You’re a little … spooked.”
“Yeah.” Not that he’d want Hoss to know that, but Minnie and all of her womanly, Indian-y intuition already understood, so denying it was pointless. The woman downstairs had spooked him.
“Despite that, I expect both of my boys to be nice and polite.” Her gaze flicked down over his frayed collar. “Respectable, even.”
That was how fights with Minnie went. J.R. was the boss, but she was the mother. Forgiveness was quick and easy, not the dance of death it had been with Norma Bradley.
“I’m not taking the part. Whatever she wants, I’m not doing it.”
“Did I say anything about that? No, I did not. All I said was that you were going to be a gentleman to our guest.”
“Not my guest.”
“Our visitor, then.” Minnie looked like she wanted to poke him again, but she didn’t. “Do it for me, J.R. Do you know how long it’s been since we had a visitor out here? Months, that’s how long. I want to talk to someone besides you two knuckleheads, and if it’s a woman who’s got the latest gossip? All the better.”
J.R. sighed. Minnie had a huge weak spot for gossip. She subscribed to all the tabloids, read TMZ every day and probably knew more about the goings-on in the entertainment industry than he did. “One meal. Humor me. And don’t worry, I wasn’t going to ask her to stay, despite the fact that it’s late and the winds are terrible.”
He ignored the unveiled attempt at guilt. She was right. He owed her, and if that meant pretending they were having a girls-night-in for dinner, well, he’d suck it up. “That’s good.”
“I got her a room at Lloyd’s.” With that semidefiant statement, Minnie turned on her heel and headed back to her kitchen domain. “Dinner’s in fifteen,” she called back, loud enough that Hoss could hear her in his room.
Great, just great, J.R. thought as he hung his favorite shirt back up and pulled the green flannel Minnie had gotten him for Christmas off the hanger. Somehow, he knew that forty miles wasn’t enough space between him and the woman from Hollywood.
A few minutes later, he headed down to the kitchen. Minnie was checking on something in the oven. “Tell her dinner’s ready,” she said without looking at him.
She was punishing him, pure and simple. Bad enough that he deserved it, but still.
J.R. headed down to his chair at the far end of the room. All he could see of the stranger was her golden hair peeking out from above the chair’s back. The color was the kind of blond that spoke of sun-swept days at the beach, but he’d put money on it being fake.
Aw, hell. She was asleep. Slouched way down in the chair, Minnie’s buffalo robe falling off her shoulders—her mouth open enough to make her look completely kissable. J.R. swallowed that observation back, but it wasn’t easy. Her now-bootless legs were stretched out before her, and the patterned tights seemed to go on forever. Lord. Despite a second attempt at swallowing, his mouth had gone bone-dry. “Miss?”
She didn’t move. Her head was resting on one hand; the other hand was wrapped around her waist. Minnie was right. The woman didn’t look like she was capable of destroying his life.
Looks weren’t everything, he reminded himself. He couldn’t let his guard down. That thought, however, didn’t stop him from sitting on his heels in front of her. Her hair had been slicked back into some fancy twist, but now parts of it had come loose, falling around her face in a way that was messy and beautiful at the same time. Some parts of him hadn’t gotten the message, it seemed, because he wanted to do nothing more than brush that hair away from her face.
He didn’t. Instead, he gave her shoulder a gentle shake before he jerked his hand back. As if a sleeping woman could bite him. “Miss, wake up.”
She jolted, her eyelids fluttering open. J.R. braced himself for the reaction when she realized he was close enough to trap. Would she immediately launch into her pitch or go for cloying flattery?
When her eyes focused on him, a small smile curved the corners of her mouth. Here it comes, J.R. thought.
“It’s you,” she breathed. The warm glow in her eyes didn’t seem connected to the fire behind him, and the soft adoration in her voice should have grated on his every nerve. But it didn’t.
“Yup. It’s me.” Which felt weirdly personal, because he knew she wasn’t here for him, but for the man he used to be.
Then time froze—absolutely froze—as he watched her stretch out a hand and trace the tips of her fingers down his cheek and over his ten-day-old beard. The touch was way more than weirdly personal—it was downright, damnably erotic. The sudden shift of blood from his brain to other parts made him almost dizzy. Hell, yeah, she’d look this good waking up in his bed, and if he had her there, he would be damn sure it wouldn’t stop with a little pat on the cheek.
What the hell was he thinking?
That was the problem. He wasn’t.
He must have pulled back without realizing it, because she dropped her hand and blinked a whole bunch more. “Oh. Oh,” she said, and he could see the consciousness dawning. “Um …”
Desperate to put a little more space between him and this woman who had spooked him in more ways than one, J.R. stood up and back. “Dinner’s ready,” he added, because that was the safest thing to say. Also, the most honest.
The woman dropped her eyes, warmth racing across her cheeks. Did she feel the same confusion he did? Don’t flatter yourself, he thought. Of course she was confused. He’d woken her up from a dead sleep. She had a good excuse to feel a little lost right now.
He didn’t.
She smoothed her hair back, but several of the locks refused to stay. “I had some boots,” she said. All the softness was gone from her voice now, and she sounded more like the woman who had barged into his life.
“Right here.” He picked up her boots from where Minnie had propped them by the fire and handed them to her.
She made sure not to touch him when she took them. And he should not have been disappointed by that. “Is there … I need to wash up …”
Women in general—and this woman in particular—should not look quite so innocent when they blushed. “Sure.” He pointed to the bathroom that was behind her.
She turned, but then stopped. “Should I leave this here?” She motioned to the robe.
The way she said this made it clear that she wasn’t sure she trusted it. “Minnie’s buffalo robe? Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Oh. A buffalo robe.” Some of her blush disappeared as she paled. What did she think it was? Maybe she was one of those strident vegetarians. Instead of launching into an animal-rights lecture, she put on a weak smile and said, “Okay, thanks,” before she went to the bathroom.
Well, if that didn’t beat all. Where was the full-court press? Where were the obnoxious compliments designed to sway his ego? Nowhere. All he got was someone who, for a sleepy second, looked happy to see him.
Dinner was a huge mistake. He debated hiding in his room until the woman—whose name he still did not know—left. Then he caught Minnie giving him a wallop of a glare from the other side of the room as she tapped a wooden