Claimed by a Cowboy. Tanya Michaels

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       “I’m supposed to pick photos for the funeral home,” she told him, her voice cracking only the slightest bit when she said funeral.

       “Would you like to know which ones were her favorites?” Sam offered.

       Her erstwhile relief at his company crisped and blackened to irritation. “I’m her daughter,” she said defensively. “You don’t think I can figure that out for myself?”

       He tipped his hat back with a finger, staring her down with those green eyes.

       “You think you knew her better than I did,” Lorelei said.

       He somehow shrugged without ever moving his shoulders. “Even when we suppose we know someone, we can be surprised. But I did spend some time with her.”

      And I didn’t spend nearly enough. Guilt clogged Lorelei’s windpipe, making it impossible to speak.

       “She dragged out her box of photos plenty,” he said. “Made me look at them so she could talk about her husband. Or brag about you.”

       Lorelei wanted so badly to ask what her mother had said. How had she described the brainy, estranged daughter who had so little in common with her?

       Sam straightened slowly, awkwardly, and it was only as he moved away from the wall that she realized he was unsteady. Come to think of it, was his drawl more pronounced than it had been that afternoon?

       “You’ve been drinking!”

       “Not uncommon in these parts to honor a person’s memory by hoisting a glass.” He paused. “Can’t say I recall the exact number of glasses, but that’s why I walked. Left my truck at the bar.”

       A strange shiver pulsed through her. She was alone in this large house with a broad-shouldered cowboy she barely knew and he might be inebriated. Should she be concerned for her welfare? Wanda had apparently believed in him, but then Wanda had believed a lot of things.

       Sam approached, and Lorelei felt the instinct to scoot back, except there wasn’t much room behind her. She was between the ring of pictures and the bottom edge of the sofa. When he crouched down, Lorelei breathed in a subtle blend of denim, soap, beer and the crisp March night. It was unexpected. Rick always smelled like designer cologne—appealing, in a manufactured way, but indistinct from dozens of other successful men.

       Sam Travis was distinct.

       Looking into his eyes, she couldn’t remember having ever seen a pair like them. “Wh-what are you doing?”

       “Helping.”

       “I didn’t ask for your help.” It felt invasive, having him loom over these snapshots of her life. The too-short era when her mother and father were both alive, the later pictures of a smiling Wanda and tense adolescent Lorelei.

       Sam’s jaw clenched. “Maybe I’m helping her. You’ll probably pick out the most formal portraits in the bunch, regardless of how Wanda would want to be remembered.”

       “That’s not true. I’m aware of how different my mother and I are. Were.”

       A fuzzy photo that predated the age of clear digital prints caught her eye, this one of a blurry Wanda laughing with tourists at a festival booth. She had thrived on the conversation and merriment around her. At the edge of the picture was a dark-haired smudge. Me. Though it was difficult to tell from the shot, Lorelei had been huddled in a lawn chair with her nose in a book. For all that Lorelei had excelled in school, she’d always had the feeling that her free-spirited mother, who held no degree of her own, would have been more proud if her daughter had put the books down and just enjoyed the sunshine and crowds more.

       Sam rocked back on his heels. “Sorry. You’re right, this isn’t my place.” He stood, exiting the room with efficient speed and purpose despite however many glasses he’d drunk in Wanda’s memory.

       Lorelei bit her bottom lip hard, staring at the mix of antiques and fanciful touches in this central Texas bed-and-breakfast, none of which spoke to Lorelei or resembled her life in Philly. An all too familiar bubble of alienation surrounded her. It’s not my place, either.

      THURSDAY NIGHT, SAM stepped into the kitchen as gingerly as a prowler trying to pass through the house unnoticed. He’d grabbed a burger in town a couple of hours ago, but judging by the angry meow that had greeted Sam as soon as he set foot inside, Oberon had not yet eaten dinner. At least he has his appetite back.

       Now that Sam was moving in the direction of the cat food, Oberon trilled his approval and wound figure eights between Sam’s cowboy boots, nearly tripping him. “You know,” he whispered, “you’ll get fed a lot faster if you don’t knock me on my ass.”

       The tiptoeing and whispering was embarrassing—but preferable to another charged encounter with Lorelei Keller. Last night, a number of folks in town had been commiserating over Wanda’s death; though Sam wasn’t usually much of a joiner, he’d ended up drinking with them before walking back to the inn. The sight of Lorelei in the middle of the living room had surprised him. She’d looked like a completely different woman with her arms and shoulders bared in a thin tank top, her long dark hair cascading over her skin.

       Or maybe it was the play of vulnerability across her face that had changed her appearance. At any rate, it hadn’t taken him long to realize he was intruding on her grief. He didn’t want to make the same mistake twice, especially on a night when he was bone sore and smelled like horse. He’d spent the day several towns over, helping a friend train an Arabian.

       Suddenly a woman’s agitated voice cut through the silence. “Yes, but I’m telling you, that’s not necessary!” After that brief outburst, her voice trailed off some—he could only make out the words information and tomorrow. Whatever Lorelei was feeling in the wake of her mom’s death, he’d been wrong to imagine she was fragile and weepy. Even through a closed door, Sam could hear the steel in her voice.

       “She’s about as warm and fuzzy as you are,” he told the cat, scooping canned food onto a small mound of kibble. Sam was just placing the plastic bowl in the floor when light flooded the kitchen. He blinked at the sudden illumination.

       Lorelei gasped in the doorway, one hand flattened over her chest. Along with a pair of jeans, she was wearing another sweater that seemed too thick for Texas. “Jeez. What are you doing skulking in the dark? You scared the hell out of me.”

       Sam glared. No way was he admitting he’d been sneaking around, trying to make himself as invisible as possible, out of respect to her. “I just came in to feed the cat. Someone should,” he said pointedly.

       Her lip curled. “I don’t think vamp-cat wants pet store food. He’s after fresh blood. After trying to take a chunk from my leg yesterday, he lacerated my arm this afternoon when I stopped him from running out the front door.”

       “Starving an animal does tend to make it mean.” He didn’t share that he himself had once suggested that Lucifer would be a more appropriate name for the animal.

       Lorelei sighed. “You’re probably right. Not that he wasn’t mean to begin with, but I was negligent, forgetting to feed him. I suppose there’s a litter box around here somewhere, too?” She made a face. “I’m not used to taking care of anything.”

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