To Kiss A Cowgirl. Jeannie Watt

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      Mike nodded and turned back to the closet. He pulled out a garment bag; the one that Dylan knew held his father’s wool WWII uniform. “Can’t let that go,” Dylan said.

      “Don’t have a lot of room in the smaller place.” Mike had been all for moving. Taking care of his menagerie had become too much for him when his hips had started to go, and a house with two stories had been difficult to navigate. Unfortunately, moving to a one-story house meant parting with some of the stuff he’d hung on to for most of his life.

      “We’ll find room.” Mike had been close to his own dad, just as Dylan had been close to his. He couldn’t imagine letting go of the few keepsakes he had and didn’t want Mike to have to do that, either.

      “You know,” Mike said, “I’ve had about enough of packing. Damned depressing business.”

      Dylan wasn’t going to argue. He’d packed everything he’d owned almost exactly a year ago and moved out of his house. His marriage was over, but he still owned half a house he didn’t live in—or he would until it sold. Every month he sent his payment to the bank and every month he contacted the real-estate agent to make certain she was doing her best to move the place. Not that he didn’t trust Lindsey...but he didn’t trust Lindsey. Not since she’d cheated on him, anyway.

      “I just poured a shot,” he said to his grandfather. “You want one?”

      “In the worst way.” Mike jerked his head toward the door. “Come on. I’ll beat you in a game of cribbage.”

      * * *

      ON HIS SECOND day of work Dylan arrived at the store just after 7:00 a.m., hoping he could figure out what the problem was with the forklift. He stopped inside the doorway and snapped on the lights.

      A bulb popped and went out, leaving the place even dimmer than before.

      He hated to admit it, but Jolie had a point about the store being dark and depressing.

      He traced a finger over the nearest surface, very much as she had done the day before. It was dusty, too. Mike had hired a cheap fly-by-night janitorial service that came in once a week according to Finn. He’d have a talk with the owner the next time he had a few minutes, which, given the volume of customers they’d had the day before, would probably be right after he got the forklift running.

      In the meantime...the light.

      He set down his lunch pail and went into the supply closet. There were plenty of replacement lightbulbs but no ladder. He could go out to the warehouse and grab the big ladder there, which was covered with grain dust, or he could stand on top of the sturdy wooden shelves his grandfather had built. An elephant could dance on those shelves and they wouldn’t budge, so that option seemed reasonable—and a lot easier than dragging the ladder in through the rain.

      Lightbulb in hand, he pulled a chair to the shelves and stood on it to push aside the boxes of horseshoe nails, raising a cloud of dust. Yes, he’d talk to the janitors. Today.

      He stepped from the chair onto the shelving, searching for a handhold on the top shelf. He took hold of the narrow metal electrical conduit running up the wall and eased himself up, getting a knee onto the second-to-the-top shelf. He could just reach the light fixture from—

      His knee slipped and he barely missed clipping his chin as his feet once again hit the chair, which toppled sideways. Wildly, he clutched for something, anything, and then hit the ground next to the chair as horseshoe nails rained down on him.

      Shit.

      For a moment Dylan sat staring up at the light fixture, the base of the broken bulb held in one hand. At least Jolie hadn’t been there to share the moment, although he wouldn’t have tried something that stupid if she’d been there to witness it. No, he’d have made the trip to the warehouse and hauled in the dirty ladder.

      He pushed himself to his feet, grimacing at the pain that shot through his hip. Gingerly he flexed his bad leg, glad that he hadn’t injured it further. He could only imagine the humiliation of having Jolie find him lying on the floor with a compound fracture or something. As it was, he was bruised but not broken, and he had time to clean up the evidence before anyone got there.

      Or in theory he should have had time. He’d just retrieved a broom and dustpan when he heard the very unwelcome sound of the key sliding into the front lock. A few seconds later the door opened, the bell jingled and Jolie stopped dead in her tracks just inside the doorway. Slowly her green eyes moved up from the sea of nails to his face.

      “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said gruffly, shoving aside an empty nail box with his boot.

      “Oh, but I do,” she said.

      She pointed from the broken bulb he’d set on the shelving unit to the burned-out light above him. “Did we break some safety rules?”

      “Enough,” Dylan said in a clipped tone as he started to sweep nails. Flat nails didn’t sweep well.

      “After all the grief you gave me about following rules? Enough?” She walked forward, stopping a few feet from him. “Wear your goggles, put on your apron, no elbows on the table.”

      “I didn’t want to lose points for stupid stuff,” he said, finally bending to brush the nails into the dustpan with his hand.

      “You were crazed.”

      “I had to do the work of two.”

      “No. You never gave me a chance.”

      “You were never serious enough to focus.”

      Her jaw shifted sideways. “Maybe I acted like that because of the way you treated me.”

      “Well, that was a crappy thing to do.”

      “So was treating me like I was stupid,” she said, turning and walking around the counter to start up her computer.

      “If it walks like a duck...”

      “This duck was never given a chance.”

      “The duck never stopped quacking. And, for the record, I never thought you were stupid.”

      He glanced over in time to see Jolie’s chin come up in an expression that he knew well—in fact, it surprised him how well he remembered.

      “I can barely see in here,” she said, surprising him by changing the subject instead of launching into an argument. “Do you think you can change that lightbulb without killing yourself?”

      He didn’t answer as he scooped nails out from under the shelving unit. A second later feet in metallic sandals that showcased intricately painted toenails came into view. He looked up as she dropped a box to the floor.

      “For your nails.” She cocked her head. “I hope you didn’t reinjure your leg.”

      “No.”

      “Thank goodness for small blessings, eh?” She turned and walked away.

      “Hey,” he said, stopping her. “Shouldn’t you be wearing shoes with toes?”

      “Really?” СКАЧАТЬ