Cowboy Country: The Creed Legacy / Blame It on the Cowboy. Delores Fossen

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СКАЧАТЬ have mentioned it to her in the first place.”

      “Kim didn’t mean any harm, Carolyn,” Brody offered quietly. “Anyway, you’re a grown woman, sound of mind and...body—” He paused, and once more that special something sparked in his eyes. “And if you want to date potential con artists, that’s your business.”

      On one level, Carolyn knew full well that Brody was baiting her. On another, she couldn’t resist taking the hook. “Potential con artists? Well, that’s cynical,” she accused, and never mind the fact that she’d had similar thoughts herself, right along.

      “If you’re in the market for a man, Carolyn, it’s your call how you go about roping one in. All I’m saying is that you ought to be careful. There are some real head-cases out there.”

      “In the market for a man?” She leaned forward in her chair, incensed. “Roping one in?” Being incensed felt like an improvement over being embarrassed, at least.

      “Will you stop repeating everything I say?” Brody intoned. A tiny muscle bunched in his cheek, then smoothed out again.

      “Who else would want to date me, right?” Carolyn ranted, stifling her voice so she wouldn’t yell and scare Winston. Or the neighbors. “Only a head-case loser who couldn’t get a woman the normal way?”

      Brody laughed. Laughed. He didn’t lack for nerve, that was for sure.

      Or sex appeal, damn him.

      “There you go again, putting words in my mouth,” he said, all relaxed and affable. His gaze dropped ever so briefly to her breasts and then returned to her flushed face. “Take a breath, Carolyn. If you want to sign on with Funky Faces, or whatever that outfit calls itself, go for it.”

      “Friendly Faces,” Carolyn corrected, hating that she sounded so defensive. Why couldn’t she, just once, get the upper hand in one of these sparring matches?

      “Whatever,” Brody said dismissively, pushing back his chair—at long last—and rising. “You sure you’re all right?”

      “I’m sure,” Carolyn insisted, hugging herself and not looking at him.

      Funny, though. Even with her eyes averted, the man was an onslaught to her jangled senses. She was aware of Brody Creed in every part of her; he made everything pulse.

      She felt angry triumph at the prospect of his leaving and, underlying that, a certain quiet dejection.

      Go, she thought desperately. For God’s sake, Brody, just go.

      Instead of heading straight to the door, however, Brody stepped around the table, paused behind Carolyn’s chair and then leaned down to place the lightest of kisses on the top of her head.

      “See you around,” he said gruffly.

      Carolyn clamped her molars together, so she couldn’t ask him to stay.

      To cajole her about soup and hold her.

      She’d said and done enough stupid things for one day, met and exceeded the quota.

      A few seconds later, Brody was gone.

      The apartment, once her refuge, felt hollow without him.

      She sat still in her chair, listening to the sound of his boot heels on the outside stairs, waiting for the roar of his truck engine, the sounds of driving away.

      Only then, when she was sure he wasn’t coming back, did Carolyn push her teacup aside and bend forward to thump her forehead lightly against the table in frustration.

      Once, twice, a third time.

      Winston jumped down from the windowsill and padded over to wrap himself around her ankles, purring and offering general cat-comfort.

      She bent, scooped him onto her lap and petted his silky back.

      Since there was no one but the cat around to see, Carolyn finally gave in and allowed herself to cry.

      * * *

      “OKAY, SO I WAS a buttinski,” Kim allowed, with a sheepish glance at Brody.

      The two of them were standing in the ranch-house kitchen.

      “Ya think?” Brody retorted.

      In the time he’d been out, Tricia and Conner had gone back to their place—they were probably having slow, sleepy sex at that very moment—and Davis had retreated to his saddle shop, where he was working on a custom order.

      Little Bit and Smidgeon must have gone with him, because there was no sign of them.

      Except for the lingering scent of homemade tamales, all signs of supper were gone. Dishes washed, leftovers wrapped and put away, counters clear.

      Kim Creed ran a tight ship.

      Too bad she didn’t exercise the same control over her mouth.

      “I’m sorry,” Kim said, reaching into the laundry basket on the table and pulling out a towel to fold. “I just thought you should know that Carolyn is...well...looking.”

      “Why?” Brody asked. “In what universe is that my business, Kim? Or yours, for that matter? Carolyn was nervous in the first place—my guess is, that’s why she was swilling wine like she was. And then you had to make everything worse by blurting out something she probably told you in confidence.”

      Kim stopped folding, and tears brimmed in her eyes.

      Brody ached when any woman cried, but with Kim, it was the worst. She was, for all practical intents and purposes, his mom, and he loved her accordingly.

      “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she admitted with a sniffle. “I’ll apologize to Carolyn tomorrow.”

      Brody put his arms around Kim, gave her a brief squeeze. “Maybe you could lay off the matchmaking, too, for a while, anyway,” he suggested, taking a towel from the basket and folding it.

      “Trust me,” Kim said, “I’ve already had this entire lecture from Davis. If you and Carolyn are both too thickheaded and stubborn to see that you’re meant for each other, well, it’s out of my hands, that’s all. You’re on your own.”

      “Thank you,” Brody said, smiling. “I’ll take it from here.”

      Kim’s eyes widened, and her hands froze in mid towel-folding. “What do you mean, you’ll take it from here? Are you...?”

      Brody held up one index finger and shook his head, grinning as he turned to head for Davis’s shop to bid the man good-night before heading back to the cabin at River’s Bend.

      The spacious room smelled pleasantly of leather and saddle soap and the wood fire that crackled in the Franklin stove, the flames casting a dancing reflection on the worn planks in the floor. Davis stood at one of several worktables, tooling an intricate design into a strip of cowhide.

      At Brody’s entrance, he looked up and grinned. Set the rubber mallet and the awl aside and dusted СКАЧАТЬ