Shoulda Been A Cowboy. Charlotte Douglas

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СКАЧАТЬ the outlaws who terrorized them, the lawman lifted his steely gaze toward the edge of town, where riders approached in a thunder of hooves and a swirl of dust. Without taking his eyes from the oncoming desperadoes, he called to the people cowering behind closed doors.

      “Hello?” the deep voice said.

      Caroline’s eyes flew open, but she had to be dreaming still. The tall man with broad shoulders and narrow hips stood between her and the sun, so that all she could see was his silhouette. The town was safe. At well over six feet with an imposing build, he was a bulwark against all outlaws. His hands rested on the butts of his six-guns, ready for action.

      “I knocked on the front door.” His voice, while rich and pleasing, held no distinctive Western twang. “When no one answered, I came around back. I need a room for the next few nights. Do you have a vacancy?”

      His words finally registered in her sleep-numbed brain, and Caroline came fully awake and leaped to her feet.

      The man’s hands weren’t resting on six-guns, but tucked in the back pockets of his jeans. She shifted to see his face in the sunlight, and his resemblance to the perfectly handsome Western hero of her dreams faded, although the stranger’s chiseled features would have looked terrific beneath a broad-brimmed cowboy hat. Dressed in jeans, work boots and a faded navy T-shirt that sculpted the well-developed muscles of his chest and arms, he wasn’t handsome in the classic sense, but his rugged looks were very easy on the eyes. His hazel irises, deep brown flecked with grass-green, reflected both tranquility and an underlying pain, and his tanned face crinkled in an engaging smile that exposed perfect white teeth. She guessed he was in his early thirties, close to her age.

      “Sorry if I woke you,” he said.

      “I was only daydreaming.” Caroline, suddenly conscious of her tousled hair, grass-stained shorts and rumpled shirt, combed her fingers through her hair and tugged at her blouse in a futile attempt to straighten it. “You said you need a room?”

      He nodded, hands still tucked in his pockets as if he were hiding them. “If you have one.”

      His warm grin was contagious, and she returned it with a smile of her own. “I have six. You can take your pick. Follow me.”

      Rather than take a guest through the back door, she circled the house, navigating the brick walkway through the wisteria arbor, draped with fragrant lavender blooms. The stranger’s gaze burned between her shoulder blades, and she chided herself for noticing. Even though he was the best-looking man to hit the valley since attorney Randall Benedict’s arrival from New York last year, he remained a stranger, merely passing through. With plans for her move west still buzzing in her brain, she needed a man like a fish needed a bicycle, no matter how appealing he appeared, so his good looks were a moot point.

      She entered the foyer, its coolness a welcome contrast to the summer heat. In a corner beneath the massive staircase with its polished newel post, a small writing desk held the guest registration book. She handed the stranger a pen. “I’ll need your name, home address, and car license tag number.”

      When he reached for the pen, she stifled a sympathetic cry. Scar tissue, raised welts of pale skin, covered the backs of his large, powerful hands that looked as if they’d been horribly burned. She turned quickly to the board behind her to grab a room key and hoped he hadn’t noticed her reaction.

      “Headed for the mountains?” she asked in a neutral voice.

      Most of the visitors at Tuttle’s B and B considered Pleasant Valley a way station on their trips to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in western North Carolina and eastern Tennessee. A few, however, came to fly-fish in the rapids of the Piedmont River that bisected the valley. And, occasionally, business travelers stayed overnight. But this man didn’t seem to fit any of those categories.

      He signed the guest book in bold, flowing strokes with only a slight hesitation in the movements of his damaged hand. “I’m moving to a new home.”

      She lifted her eyebrows. “Here in town?”

      Still concentrating on his registration, he shook his head. “I’m stopping off here so I don’t arrive at my new place ahead of my furniture.”

      He finished his entry, and she swiveled the book to read what he’d written.

      Ethan Garrison. Baltimore, Maryland.

      So he was headed to Maryland, a full day of driving from Pleasant Valley. Headed east, not west. Too bad. He had the build and, from what little she’d observed, the quiet, stoic temperament of a cowboy. But instead of wrangling cattle, he’d probably be working in some stuffy office in the city of Baltimore, where his deep tan would soon fade. Even a boring business suit, however, wouldn’t hide his magnificent physique or dim his killer smile.

      With a mental shake, she reminded herself that the man might be married, although his scarred left hand bore no gold band. She handed him a key.

      “Your room’s at the top of the stairs on the left. Our best view. Overlooks the valley and the mountains in the distance. It has an adjoining bath. And if it’s not to your liking, I can show you others.”

      “I’m sure it will be fine.” His expression was friendly, but a residual sadness flickered in his eyes. “Okay if I leave my truck out front?”

      “Sure. Or you can park it in the lot on the east side of the house. Your choice.”

      “Thanks.” His gaze held hers for a beat, as if he wanted to say more but didn’t. He pivoted and headed for the entrance.

      The screen door slammed behind him, and Caroline took the stairs two at a time to the third floor and raced to her room at the back of the house to change clothes and comb her hair. With an unexpected guest, she had more shopping to do and hoped that Jodie was still open.

      ETHAN SAUNTERED down the front walk of the B and B toward his pickup, parked at the curb. He paused, inhaled a deep breath of the summer air and with it the faint aroma of smoke. At the scent, his chest constricted, and in a rush of panic, he struggled to breathe. Sweat beaded his brow, and he clenched his hands to stop their trembling.

      Just someone burning brush nearby, he assured himself, but only several minutes of deep breathing and regimented self-control enabled him to slow his galloping pulse and relax the all-too-familiar tightness in his chest. The scars on the back of his hands itched with an intensity almost as painful as his initial injuries.

      Concentrate on something else, anything else.

      He refused to experience an emotional melt-down, especially not on the quiet street of a strange town. He focused on the giant maples, thick with summer foliage, whose arched branches shaded the broad avenue from the summer heat. The neighborhood, with its century-old homes on oversize lots and surrounded by colorful beds of flowers, was a throwback to a different time, a perfect setting for The Andy Griffith Show. Ethan half expected to see a barefooted Opie come whistling down the street with a fishing pole slung over his shoulder.

      The image, conjured from television reruns he’d watched during his recuperation, calmed him. With his panic conquered, at least for the moment, he recalled another pleasant image. The pretty woman he’d found sprawled asleep in the grass behind the bed-and-breakfast had been a delightful surprise. He should have awakened her immediately. Instead, he’d taken a moment to appreciate the gracefulness of her bare arms and legs, her short, thick hair the color of sunshine, and her cheeks flushed as pink as the roses that rambled along the split СКАЧАТЬ