The Cowboy and the Kid Read online

  He supposed he was lucky Felicity wasn't having her gate welded, too. It was bad enough that she was right there, putting her clothes in the dryer, when they walked in the Laundromat door. Taggart stopped and stared.

  "Gosh, Dad, look who's here!" Becky said.

  Taggart didn't move. Or at least not all of him did. He cleared his throat. "Almost forgot. I gotta see a man about a … a cow." He gave Felicity a quick nod, thrust a handful of quarters at Becky and took off for the barber shop hoping to find some male reinforcements.

  But Nick the barber only wanted to talk about that good-looking new schoolteacher. Didn't Taggart think she was somethin'? Taggart's mumbled response caused Nick to lean into him with the clippers. He felt lucky to escape with any hair on his head.

  At least when he reappeared in the Laundromat, Felicity was no longer there. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  Still, seeing her so many places was eerie. It was uncanny.

  It was planned.

  A guy only had to look at the sphinx like smile on his daughter's face every time they'd run into the gorgeous Ms. Albright to know he'd been had.

  The last straw came on Sunday morning.

  "You want to go to church?" Taggart looked at his daughter, astonished. Becky was no more a fan of long-winded sermons than he was. He figured he and God were on a pretty friendly footing—any guy who faced meeting his Maker as often as a bull rider did, kept his priorities straight—but never once had he gone at the urging of his daughter.

  Still, maybe this was part of growing up—taking on a new interest in religion. At least that's what he told himself until he came in from parking the truck to find Becky planted in the pew right behind Felicity Albright!

  He stopped right where he was. Then Becky turned around and saw him. She waved enthusiastically. "Dad!" she said in a loud whisper.

  He glared. But once she'd got his attention, Becky turned around and sat, head bowed, eyes closed in presumably pious contemplation. Her devoted pose was only ruined by the fact that he could see her biting her lip to keep from grinning.

  Taggart wanted to bite her head off. He wanted to take off and never look back. But there were people coming up behind him, waiting for him to move, and so finally he walked down the aisle and slid into the pew next to her. His fists clenched on top of his thighs as he stared straight ahead. He ended up staring directly at the back of Felicity's beautiful blond head.

  He could, of course, have closed his eyes. He tried. That was worse.

  It gave his imagination full rein. It hauled up every fantasy he'd spent the last couple of weeks trying to keep at bay. It spread all the lovely golden hair out on a pillow—his pillow—and encouraged him to run his hands through the curly, silken tresses.

  He had told himself he didn't like blondes—not after Julie. But Felicity's hair wasn't the cool silvery platinum that Julie's had been. It was a deeper, warmer, burnished golden color. Julie's hair had always made him want to reach out and stroke its almost shiny smoothness. Felicity's, on the other hand, made him want to tangle his hands in it, to tug its gentle waves, to thread his fingers through it, to explore its softness. He wanted to explore the softness of her—all of her. In his dreams he had.

  And in his mind he was going to right now—in the middle of church—unless…

  He jerked open his eyes and sucked in a desperate breath.

  Big mistake. Unless that soft lilac scent was some newfangled incense the minister was using, it was Felicity's scent he was breathing in.

  He tried holding his breath. Also unwise. He couldn't hold it for an hour. And when he finally did have to breathe he took such a desperate gulp of air that Becky whispered loudly, "'S matter? You sick?"

  Taggart jerked back and shot his daughter a hard glare. She knew damned well what the matter was! And if she didn't understand the specifics at her age, she could guess.

  Felicity turned her head. He could see her face in profile now, the soft curve of her cheek, the slight tilt of her nose. If she turned much farther, she'd see him sitting right behind her. He could well imagine the look she'd give him then.

  He'd seen it often enough in the past week—that startled, slightly bemused glance, that softly knowing smile. She didn't really know, did she? The very thought made his blood heat.

  Did she think he was trying to follow her the same way Becky had been? God help him.

  "Let us pray," the minister intoned.

  Taggart did. Fervently. But if God heard anything he said about wanting to be cool, calm and disinterested, He certainly didn't give any indication. Maybe God didn't listen to liars, Taggart thought grimly, for as devoutly as he seemed to be asking for deliverance from the temptation of Felicity Albright, so equally determinedly did his eyes seek her out and his mind come up with scenarios better played out anywhere other than in church.

  He squirmed, wondering if there was any way to get out of here without Felicity Albright seeing him. There wasn't.

  Worse, at that very moment, the Reverend Mr. Wilson decided that loving one's neighbors began with getting to know them.

  "Look around you! Greet your Sunday morning neighbors," he exhorted them, waving his arm to encompass them all.

  And the next thing Taggart knew he was staring into Felicity Albright's startled eyes. Would she look at him like that gazing up from a pillow?

  Oh, jeez. He grabbed her outstretched hand and shook it.

  It was even softer than he remembered. Or maybe he was simply more aware of the callused roughness of his. Jerking his hand back, he stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.

  "Morning," he muttered.

  Felicity smiled. "Good morning, Mr. Jones. Taggart," she corrected herself. Hearing his name on her lips sent a shiver down his spine. God, it was worse than being fifteen again. What had Becky done to him?

  "Lovely day, isn't it?" Felicity went on.

  "Lovely," he managed, strangled. He didn't usually have trouble talking to women. Usually he could charm the socks right off them—and other things, too, if he so desired. And there he was again, with his thoughts winging off in a definitely nonspiritual direction.

  Felicity held out a hand to Becky. "And good morning to you, Miss Jones," she said with a smile. "Have you had a good weekend?"

  Becky nodded eagerly. "We got a new bull! Sunfish! He's really mean. Fer-ocious! You wanta come see him?"

  Felicity blinked. "Well, thank you. I—"

  Taggart considered stuffing a hymnal in his daughter's mouth and was grateful that, before Felicity could answer, Reverend Wilson had moved on to the sermon.

  Becky tugged on his hand. "Sit down, Daddy! Everybody else is sittin' down."

  So they were. Mortified, Taggart sat.

  Reverend Wilson embarked on a rambling discourse about loving your enemies and being kind to the people who tried to do you ill. "It isn't easy," he told them. "Not easy at all."

  Taggart figured that it was a damn sight easier than loving your daughter when she was trying to manage your love life. He glowered. Becky sat in pious justification, ignoring him.

  The minute the service was over, he didn't give her a chance to renew her invitation. He grabbed her hand and bolted for the door—only to be trapped by Reverend Wilson, who wanted to inquire about his parents.

  "Haven't seen you in a while, Taggart," he said easily, grabbing Taggart by the hand and shaking it heartily. "We've missed you. Missed your parents, too. How are Will and Gaye?"

  "They're fine." Taggart tried to free his hand. The Reverend hung on.

  "Good, good. How do they like it down in Bozeman?"

  "A lot," Taggart assured him, trying still to ease out of the minister's surprisingly strong grip. "They'll be back for a visit one of these weekends. I'm sure they'll come by to see you."

  "I'll look forward to it. You tell them we miss them," Reverend Wilson commanded him. "We don't get such a lot of new people moving in that we can spare them. Except of course, Fred's lovely niece—" He reached around T
aggart to snag someone else's hand and draw her over. "Have you met our new parishioner, Miss Albright?"

  Only thirty or forty thousand times, Taggart thought desperately. In person and in his dreams. His gaze met Felicity's, and he saw that she was laughing.

  "I teach his daughter," she explained to the minister, still smiling. "And we've run into each other quite often in town, haven't we, Mr. Jones." Her eyes sparkled with amusement, inviting him to share the humor.

  But Taggart was beyond thinking anything was funny. Between her reality and his fantasies he had reached the end of his rope.

  "I don't know what you think, but I wasn't following you," he said abruptly. "In fact, I don't want anything to do with you!"

  And leaving an openmouthed minister and an astonished Felicity Albright staring after him, he grabbed Becky's hand and took off for the truck.

  * * *

  "You were rude," Becky said.

  Taggart didn't reply. He turned onto the gravel road that led to the ranch house, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The truck kicked up gravel as he drove.

  "I bet you hurt her feelings," Becky persisted.

  Taggart stomped on the accelerator. The truck hit a pothole, bouncing him so high he smacked his head. He cursed under his breath and saw Becky grip the edge of the seat in silent desperation. Sighing, he slowed down.

  "You could say you're sorry."

  "So could you," he bit out. Who had goaded him into it, after all?

  His daughter chewed her lower lip. "I only wanted to go to church."

  "You only wanted to throw me at Ms. Albright!"

  "I wasn't sure she was gonna be there."

  "Just like you weren't sure she was going to be at the Laundromat or the grocery store or the library."

  "I wasn't," she said stubbornly.

  "A trial lawyer might get you off on a technicality like that. Your father isn't buying."

  Becky scrunched lower in her seat and gave him a put-upon look which he met with a hard glare. She sighed and looked out the window. The truck bumped along the road. Neither of them spoke again until he pulled up in front of the house and shut off the engine. The utter stillness between them seemed to magnify the mere sound of their breathing.

  Finally Becky slanted a quick glance his way. "Sorry." Then she unhooked her seat belt, opened the door of the truck, slid down to the ground and started toward the house. Her small shoulders were hunched, as if she were carrying the world—or her father—on her back.

  Taggart sat staring after her until she reached the house. Only then did he get out. He didn't head for the house, but for the stock pens and the "fer-ocious" Sunfish he'd bought the day before.

  Pitting his desperation against a ton of bovine irritability seemed a good idea right about now.

  * * *

  "He said what?" Susannah was clearly horrified when Becky called her on the phone and reported what had happened at church.

  Becky repeated it word for word. She tried to tell herself it wasn't as rude as it had sounded, but even she knew better than that. But he was right, it wasn't only his fault. She had pushed him too far.

  "Maybe if I hadn't put the wrench in the washing machine and got my stuff all muddy," she murmured.

  "Too late. Besides, it might be the best thing that ever happened." Susannah was ever the optimist.

  "I don't see how," Becky said.

  "Easy," Susannah said cheerfully. "Now he'll have to apologize to her."

  * * *

  Every Sunday night after supper since Felicity had arrived in Elmer, two retired schoolteachers, Cloris Stedman and Alice Benn, had spirited her off to the Busy Bee for pie and coffee.

  "Think of it as 'girls' night out,'" Cloris told her cheerfully. "Besides, what else do you have to do?"

  Other than grade papers, miss Dirk and, for the past two weeks, daydream about Taggart Jones, nothing at all. So every Sunday night, Felicity had gone.

  Until tonight.

  Tonight when Cloris and Alice appeared on her doorstep promptly at seven-fifteen, she declined.

  "Hot date?" Alice asked, bobbing her spectacles up and down on her nose and looking about expectantly.

  "No date," Felicity assured her.

  "No man." Alice made a tsking sound. "You need a man in your life, my dear." Both she and Cloris were widows, too, but they'd had long and apparently happy marriages. They thought Felicity should start looking around again.

  Maybe Felicity would have—if Taggart Jones hadn't said what he'd said this morning in church. She knew she was foolish to have spent the day dwelling on it. But she couldn't believe how much those few harsh words had hurt.

  Used to feeling virtually no interest around any man who wasn't Dirk, she had spent the past two weeks speculating about her hormones' revival where Taggart was concerned. When she'd happened to see him all over town, it had somehow seemed to confirm the rightness of those feelings, as well as being uncanny, but really sort of funny—like their own private joke.

  Obviously it wasn't funny to Taggart Jones. I wasn't following you. I don't want anything to do with you!

  His words had echoed in her head all afternoon. At the time, they'd made her feel like crawling under a rock. Fortunately, she didn't think anyone else had heard except Reverend Wilson and, of course, Becky. She'd managed to laugh it off with Reverend Wilson after Taggart had stormed off, dragging Becky behind him.

  It wasn't so easy to laugh when she was alone.

  I don't want anything to do with you!

  Well, fine. She wasn't exactly keen on having anything to do with him, either—not now.

  In fact, she wasn't going to the Busy Bee tonight because, wholly irrationally, she was afraid she might run into him if she did. And if he was there, what would he say this time? She didn't want to know. "It's just that I have lots and lots of papers to do," she said vaguely.

  Cloris and Alice muttered a little, but then took themselves off. Felicity watched them until they reached the end of the walk. Their heads were together, discussing her, no doubt. Too bad. She needed a little time alone tonight—a chance to lick her wounds.

  She went back and sat down at the kitchen table to face a stack of papers. What she'd told them about having papers to grade had been nothing but the truth. She sat down and forced herself to get on with them, but her mind kept wandering, kept remembering, kept hearing Taggart's hurtful words. She was almost relieved to hear a knock on the door an hour later.

  Cloris and Alice must be back, bringing her a piece of pie, unwilling to let her miss the fattening part of the evening, even if she declined to accompany them.

  "You didn't have to—" she began as she opened the door.

  It wasn't Cloris. Or Alice.

  It was—heaven help her—Taggart Jones.

  * * *

  Four

  « ^ »

  And he looked, for all the world, like he'd just come from a bar fight.

  "What on earth happened to your face?"

  He actually looked startled at her question. He lifted a hand and touched his raw cheek and partially closed right eye almost absently. "This? Nothin'. Just a little run-in with a bull."

  "A bull?"

  A tide of color crept above the collar of his blue chambray shirt. His mouth twisted wryly. "That mean ol' one Becky told you about, remember? He did what you should've done to me."

  "What's that?"

  "Kicked me in the ass. Knocked me on my head. I was rude to you this morning. I've come to say I'm sorry."

  Felicity stared at him, astonished. If seeing Taggart on her doorstep was unexpected, his apology was even more so. She became aware of her heart hammering just a bit too quickly and deliberately sucked in a slow, careful breath. All she could think was that a woman could get lost in the green depths of Taggart Jones's one good eye. He was looking at her steadily, waiting for a response, she guessed.

  She felt a little giddy. "Thank you. I … appreciate that."

  They stared at e
ach other. He swallowed. So did she. His swollen eye blinked shut.

  "Are you sure you're okay?"

  "Fine. It's an occupational hazard. Don't worry about it."

  But Felicity couldn't help but worry. She wasn't used to occupational hazards like his. Sitting on tacks and finding the odd frog in one's desk drawer didn't compare. "You ought to put ice on it. Come in here and I'll give you some." She opened the door wider, and, after a bare second's hesitation, he came in.

  "Sit down." She didn't stop to think that the room seemed suddenly smaller, closer, warmer. She nodded toward the chairs at the table. He dragged out a chair and sat. She went to the refrigerator and took out a tray of ice cubes, thumping it on the counter to crack them into smaller pieces. Then she put the cracked ice in a plastic bag, wrapped it in a thin dish towel, and handed it to him.

  He took off his hat and she noted his recent haircut. It made him look younger, more vulnerable. Or maybe that was the black eye and scraped face.

  "You seem to have a little experience with this sort of thing." He set his hat on the table and pressed the makeshift ice bag against his eye.

  Felicity wiped her palms on her jeans. "I had brothers. And once my husband broke his foot—"

  "Husband?" Taggart's gaze jerked up. He looked around as if he expected to see Dirk in the doorway.

  "He died two years ago," Felicity said quietly.

  "Oh." Taggart let out a slow breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

  "I don't advertise it. It's just … there. Like you … and your … wife." The shuttered look that came over Taggart's face the instant she said the words made her regret them.

  "Ex-wife," he corrected.

  "Ex-wife," Felicity repeated. "Sorry."

  "Not as sorry as I am." He said the words so softly she barely heard them. He didn't look at her, but kept his head down, the ice pack pressed to his eye.

  He must have loved her a lot, Felicity decided, and thought for the first time that there might be a harder way to lose a spouse than to a sudden, unexpected death. Wouldn't it be worse to feel rejected? Unloved?

  She wanted to go to him, to put a hand on his shoulder, to touch his hair, his cheek. To offer comfort. She wrapped her arms tightly across her breasts, squelching the notion.