Cassie's Cowboy. Diane Pershing

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      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 for a while,” he went on. “Until I finish helping you out, of course.”

      She opened her eyes again, but she was struck speechless, so all she could do was stare at him and shake her head in wonder.

      “And I sure don’t mean to be rude,” he went on, “but I had to travel quite a far piece, and I have a powerful thirst. May I trouble you for a glass of water?”

      He waited for her answer, but Cassie was unable to say anything at the moment.

      Deterred not in the least, he went on. “Are you sure I can’t come in? I’m plum tuckered out. I can bunk down on your davenport, if you’d like.” He spread his hands and grinned the Cowboy Charlie grin she’d invented for him, based on the way Brad Pitt looked when he was feeling cocky. It was a smile that invited you to be in on the joke with him, the one that always brought sunshine to a dreary outlook.

      She shook her head until she was sure her brains were back in place. Then she stood ramrod straight.

      Enough!

      Either he was insane or she was. Either way, it was time to end this.

      “Listen to me, Cowboy Charlie, or whoever you are,” she said with newfound strength and purpose. “If you’re fictional, you don’t get tired and you don’t need any water.”

      “But—”

      She refused to let him continue. “And no, you cannot stay here,” she added indignantly, positive that someone had slipped her a hallucinogenic drug or that she was in a deep dream state and would wake in the morning, back to her old self again. “In fact,” she added for emphasis, “good night!”

      Ignoring the confused look on the stranger’s face, she closed the door and double locked it, clicked off the porch light and stomped up the stairs.

      There! she thought. That was telling him!

      She was probably sleepwalking—it was the only explanation that made sense—but it was time to seek the safety of her bed.

      In the morning he’d be gone for sure.

      Chapter Two

      The phone rang, followed by Trish complaining, followed by a knock at the front door. All she needed, Cassie thought, on the verge of screaming, was for a bomb to go off. Then her life would be complete.

      Setting the bowl of cereal down in front of her daughter with a bang, she picked up the phone and barked into it, “Hold on.” She glared resolutely at Trish. “You know I can’t hear you when you whine.”

      “But I don’t like oatmeal, Mommy,” her daughter whined, and pushed the cereal away.

      “It’s all we have this morning, so get over it. Yes?” she said into the phone, then pushed the bowl of cereal back before her daughter. “Not interested,” she said to the telemarketer.

      “That’s a shame,” an overly bright young voice replied, “because—”

      Cassie hung up before she got to hear about the shame. “Where is it written,” she said to no one in particular, “that just because I have a telephone I’m fair game?”

      “Do I have to eat this, Mommy?” Trish asked again.

      “You betcha.”

      Cassie was aware that she was acting and sounding cranky. But it had been a rough night, she had a headache that took up all available space behind her eye sockets—including her brain, she was sure—and the bright sunlight pouring in through the missing slats of the kitchen window blinds was directed straight at her eyes, as though she’d been purposely targeted by the sun gods.

      She poured herself another cup of coffee and took a slug. “I overslept and need to get dressed for work, honey,” she went on, forcing her voice to be more gentle, “so eat up before the car pool gets here.”

      “But—”

      “No buts. Do it.”

      Insistent knocking at the door made Cassie jump. Oops. She’d managed to forget that someone had already knocked once, just seconds ago. She glanced at the wall clock. It was ten minutes early for the car pool, but Helen Wasserman, whose turn it was today, was one of those chirpy, “better early than late” type-A personalities that Cassie positively loathed.

      “Eat,” she ordered her pouting daughter. “I’ll tell Helen she’ll just have to wait a couple of minutes.”

      Determined to check her testiness before she got to the door—after all, it wouldn’t do to unload on the poor woman whose only sin was a terror of being tardy—Cassie hurried to the front door. Before she opened it, she made sure her robe was tied. Then, forcing a broad smile onto unwilling cheek muscles, she pulled open the door.

      The smile left her face right away. In fact, her mouth dropped open, СКАЧАТЬ