The Cowboy and His Wayward Bride. Sherryl Woods

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      ‘Will you please sketch my wife? At that table over there.’ He pointed.

      ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ A bit bemused, she did as she was asked, and then another for someone else, and then another.

      Frau Keller, who owned the inn, and nobody’s fool, took Sarah to one side when she’d finished sketching and offered a proposition.

      ‘You draw, for one hour or two, a day, and I will pay you. More people come, I make more money. It’s good for business.’

      ‘Oh,’ Sarah said inadequately.

      Frau Keller grinned. ‘Yes?’

      ‘Am I allowed to take money?’ she asked dubiously. ‘Don’t I have to have a permit or something?’

      Frau Keller made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. ‘You stay here rent-free, then. Meals included. Now you be happy?’

      Relieved, Sarah smiled. ‘Yes. Thank you.’ If she didn’t actually take money, it was probably all right.

      ‘Good, all is settled. Go draw. More people are waiting.’

      And so she did. She also wondered if Jed had been behind the offer, and then dismissed the thought. Why would he bother? He didn’t even seem to like her. And she strongly doubted he spent any time thinking about her the way she continually thought about him. Every moment not taken up with something else, he was in her thoughts. Irritated and alarmed, she wanted to touch him, discover what it would be like to press her mouth to his, and she kept thinking she ought to go away, leave, before she made a fool of herself. Maybe she would have done if he hadn’t come to her room that day. That very hot day.

      She’d been out with a party of tourists who had been staying at the hotel. Returning to the inn, hot, sticky, she’d run up to her room in the eaves, longing only for a shower and a cold drink. She’d opened all the windows, left the door open to create a draft, and gone into the minuscule bathroom, the door of which was beside the main door. She emerged naked a few minutes later just as Jed walked in. They met; in fact they collided, and he automatically put out his hands to save her, or himself.

      Time slowed, almost to a stop, as they stared at each other, and then he kissed her. No obvious forethought, no plan, he just kissed her. With hunger, as though he had been wanting to do so for a very long time.

      The initial contact had jerked her into stiffness, but as his mouth continued to touch hers, gentle and persuasive, she shuddered and flung her arms round his neck and kissed him back as though her very life depended on it. She didn’t know how long they kissed; it seemed like an eternity. She was aware of his hands on her naked back, aware that he held something, and then a stray gust of wind blew the door shut, and they both jumped, jerked apart.

      He stared at her for what seemed a very long time, and then he apologised. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.’

      ‘Why?’ she asked thickly.

      He didn’t answer, merely gave a rather wry smile. ‘There was a letter for you…’ he began as he removed one hand from her back. ‘Frau Keller asked if I would deliver it.’ His eyes held hers, steady, unemotional, waiting, or so it seemed.

      She stared at the white envelope he held in blank confusion, then stared back at him, at his naked chest beneath his unbuttoned shirt, and could think of nothing else. Want nothing else. Ignoring the letter, she touched her mouth to his collar-bone, the base of his throat, and the breath he took was deep, ragged. Her damp breasts were against his flesh, her bare thighs against the edge of his shorts, and she wanted him naked, as she was.

      ‘No,’ he said softly as he put her away. Pressing the letter into her hands, he turned, opened the door, and walked out.

      Shaking, she stared at the closed door. She’d just propositioned him, hadn’t she? And been turned down. Embarrassed, mortified, she slumped down on the side of the bed. But he’d kissed her first, hadn’t he? Why? Because she was there? Naked? Available? She’d never thrown herself at a man in her life. Staring down at the letter she held in her hands, she shuddered.

      He hadn’t looked at her body, that was something. He’d kept his eyes on her face. Did that make it better? She had no idea. His wry smile had been a bit shaken, his muscles tense. But not as tense as hers. His girlfriends were probably sophisticated, elegant—experienced. They would have laughed at his kiss, said something witty. And what had she done? Nothing. And now he’d gone.

      How would she face him next time they met? Bravely? As though nothing had happened? Avoid him? Yes, that would be best. Except she didn’t need to. Over the next two days he was never anywhere in sight. His door remained closed, his table outside, empty. Perhaps he was avoiding her. And she couldn’t stop thinking about him, looking for him, going over and over in her mind the way he had kissed her. She could still feel it. Taste it. She’d been kissed a great many times in her life, but no one had ever made her feel like that. So special. So abandoned when he’d left.

      And then, on the third day, she saw that his door was open. With no real knowledge of what she was going to do, say, she walked slowly along the landing towards it. She stood outside it for ages, just waiting, breathing slowly, and then she tapped softly. No answer. Pushing the door gently wider, she peeked inside. His room was slightly larger than her own, his bed wider, and there was room for a small table beneath the window. There was a computer, a stack of papers, and, hesitating only momentarily, she walked quietly inside.

      ‘Jed?’ she called softly.

      Nothing.

      There were no sounds from the bathroom, just noises from outside filtering up through the open window. She didn’t really remember walking to the desk, or even picking up the top sheet from the stack of papers. She really didn’t think she had been going to read it; it was just that the words seemed to leap out at her.

      There has been talk of a bridge, but in this summer of 1827, if one wants to cross the river to Oberammergau, then one must brave the 250-foot gorge on a raft pulled by oxen. Courage, after all, I tell myself, is only the fear of looking foolish.

      ‘You wanted something?’ Jed asked quietly from behind her.

      With a little cry of alarm, she dropped the paper as though it were hot, and then bent to quickly retrieve it and put it back on the desk. Warily turning to face him, she began inarticulately, ‘I…You weren’t here…’

      ‘No,’ he agreed unhelpfully as he stood in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee in one hand.

      ‘Your door was open…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I’d better go.’

      He stepped to one side and she began edging towards the door. Halting on the threshold, her back to him, she blurted, ‘I can’t stop thinking about you.’ When he didn’t answer, she turned slowly to face him. ‘I keep thinking that maybe the kiss wasn’t so special, maybe it was just my imagination, maybe it didn’t make me feel as I thought I felt…Sorry,’ she apologised with a shaky smile. ‘I must sound like a teenager. I’m not usually so…I mean, I don’t…’

      ‘Don’t you?’ he asked softly.

      ‘No. Why did you kiss me, Jed?’

      ‘Because I couldn’t help myself?’

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