The Texan Tries Again

by Stella Bagwell

  Holding the baby in one arm, Isabelle started to gather up the trash on the table with her free hand, but Emily-Ann quickly brushed her aside.

  “Forget that,” she told her. “I’ll clean up here.”

  “Thanks.”

  Isabelle shouldered her purse and Emily-Ann plucked up Carter’s diaper bag and accompanied her friend to the truck she was driving.

  After Isabelle and the baby were safely strapped in for the trip back to Blue Stallion Ranch, she stuck her head out the open window of the vehicle. “Call me in a few days and let know how supper with Tag goes.”

  Emily-Ann frowned at her. “I didn’t say I was going.”

  Isabelle let out a calculating laugh. “Who are you trying to fool? You and I both know that you’re going.”

  Her friend drove away and without giving it another thought, Emily-Ann pulled the phone from her pocket and tapped out a message to Taggart.

  I’ll be there by six thirty.

  Before she walked back to the table where she and Isabelle had been sitting, her phone dinged with his reply.

  Great. I’ll see you then.

  Chapter Eight

  After six days of riding through thorny chaparral, wrestling calves and spending his nights on the ground in a sleeping bag, Taggart should have felt too tired to do anything except collapse on the bed and stay there. But the idea of seeing Emily-Ann again was enough to energize him.

  For the past two hours, he’d been rushing around the house straightening the rooms as best as he could, showering and changing into a respectable pair of jeans and shirt, then cooking what he thought would be a halfway presentable meal for Emily-Ann.

  After chopping salad and baking potatoes, he was about to throw steaks into an iron skillet when he heard her knock on the front door.

  Setting the cuts of beef aside, he made his way through the house until he reached the front door. When he swung it wide, she was standing on the edge of the porch, petting one of Chandler’s cur dogs.

  “I see you’ve met King,” Taggart said, while he took in the sight of her smooth red hair hanging to her waist and the pink-and-white flowered dress clinging to her curves. She looked luscious and as pretty as sunshine on a Sunday morning.

  Smiling, she continued to stroke the dog’s head. “He’s beautiful. Is he yours?”

  He stepped out of the doorway and walked over to her. “No. He’s one of Doc’s many dogs. King likes me, so when I left the ranch yard this evening, he decided to follow. Halfway here, I felt sorry for the guy and stopped and let him ride in the truck the rest of the way.”

  She straightened away from the dog and Taggart leaned forward to press a kiss on her cheek. Her skin was soft and smelled like a gentle rain on a meadow of wildflowers. It was all he could do not to gather her into his arms and taste her lips.

  “Hello,” he murmured as he forced his head to lift away from hers.

  Her gaze darted shyly up to his and the warmth he saw in the green depths made everything about being with her feel good and right.

  “Hello, Tag.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

  The corners of her lips lifted ever so slightly. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

  She gestured to the dog. “I take it that Chandler doesn’t mind King having a second home.”

  “Not at all. Doc knows I’ll bring him back home in the morning.” He pushed the door wide and gestured for her to come in. “After I sent the invitation for supper, I worried you might not want to make the long drive out here at night.”

  They entered the living room where she paused to take a slow survey of the leather furniture, dark green drapes and a large braided rug. To Taggart the room looked fine, but from a woman’s perspective it probably looked stark.

  She said, “It doesn’t bother me to drive at night. I know the road well and there’s hardly ever any traffic out this way. Especially after you turn onto Three Rivers’ property.”

  “Hopefully, you’ll think my cooking is worth it,” he said with a smile. “But before we head to the kitchen, I should warn you not to expect much. With me being gone on roundup this past week, I’ve not had time to restock my cupboards.”

  “I can eat anything. Even soggy oatmeal.”

  “I promise it won’t taste that bad. And I do have a nice surprise.” He walked over and took her by the arm. “Come on and I’ll show you.”

  “Your house is nice,” she said as he guided her to the kitchen. “I like the arched doorways and the floors are real wood. Did you put the polished gleam on them?”

  He laughed. “Are you kidding? If I sweep once a week that would be a miracle. This house isn’t large by most standards, but it’s the biggest one I’ve ever lived in. I’m about to decide I’m going to have to hire a cleaning lady to keep it looking livable.”

  “Hmm. That would be a big help. I suppose Jazelle doesn’t have time to do it for you. She’s already stretched pretty thin helping Reeva in the kitchen and Roslyn and Katherine with the babies. And then she has Raine, her own little boy to take care of whenever she goes home. He’s about five now, I think.”

  “I saw Raine a few days ago. Nick, Blake’s teenaged son, brought the boy down to the ranch yard to see the cows and horses. He’s a cute little fellow. By the way, I’ve never asked anyone, but does Jazelle have a husband?”

  “No. She’s never been married.” She cast him a sly look. “Jazelle is very pretty—you’ve obviously noticed.”

  He slanted her an impish grin. “She’s pretty, but she’s not you. And I was wondering because of the little boy. That day I saw him at the cattle barn I got the feeling he didn’t have a daddy.”

  “That’s very perceptive of you.”

  He tried not to grimace. “I’m experienced with the subject of missing fathers.”

  “Well, so am I,” she said, then promptly changed the subject. “Now what is this surprise you have?”

  They entered the kitchen and he led her over to the cabinet counter where the pie Reeva had given him was wrapped in aluminum foil.

  “Bless her sweet heart, Reeva sent word for me to come to the big house—that she had something for me. She got the idea that I deserved a pie for wrapping up my first roundup here on Three Rivers. I told her I was going to share it with you.”

  “That was thoughtful.” She sneaked a peek under the edge of the foil. “Oh, it’s pecan!”

  “One of my favorites,” he said.

  She chuckled. “One?”

  “I have many.”

  She looked at him and in that moment, Taggart realized how much he’d missed her these past few days and how very much he wanted her now.

  Wrapping his hands around her upper arms, he looked into her eyes and suddenly without warning, a soft, mushy feeling spread throughout his chest.

  Damn. What was the matter with him? How could this woman make him feel happy and vulnerable at the same time? It didn’t make sense. But he’d heard there was no logic to being in love. Could that be what was happening to him? Whatever the reason for this strange upheaval inside him, he didn’t want to think it was love. That was for other people.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked. “You’re looking at me like I have a smudge on my nose or something.”

  He released the long breath he hadn’t realize he’d been holding until now. “Sorry. I guess I’ve been staring. It’s just that you look so beautiful tonight I—can’t help myself.”

  An impish smile wrinkled her nose. “Are you feeding me cheese as an appetizer?”

  “If I am it’s not the fake processed kind. It’s the real deal.”

  He tried to smile back at her and lighten the moment, but the emotions swirling through him wouldn’t allow him to do anything other than place a kiss on her forehead.

  When his lips continued to linger against her ski
n, both her hands reached out and anchored a hold on the front of his shirt.

  “I probably shouldn’t be so obvious, but I’ve missed you, Tag.”

  His insides began to quiver with longing and he drew in another deep breath and blew it out. “I’d like to kiss you and show you how much I’ve missed you. But I’m afraid if I did, we might never get to eat.”

  Laughing softly, she purposely stepped away from him and moved down the cabinets until she reached a large gas range with a built-in grill on top. “You’re cooking steaks,” she said, observing the two pieces of meat soaking in a bowl of dark-colored marinade.

  “I’m guessing you would probably prefer chicken, but steak was the only thing left in the freezer.”

  “I love steak. But I do have a question. Why cook them in a skillet when you have this great indoor grill that most people would give their eye teeth for?”

  Joining her at the stove, he switched on the blaze beneath the black skillet.

  “Because the iron gives it a flavor I like,” he explained. “But I can grill yours if you’d rather have it cooked that way.”

  “Oh, no. I’m anxious to taste the difference.”

  “Coming right up.” He tossed a chunk of butter into the skillet and gathered up the bowl containing the cuts of meat.

  Next to him, Emily-Ann asked, “Can I do something to help?”

  The best thing she could do to help him, Taggart thought, would be to tell him to forget about the supper and make love to her. But his mind was taking rapid leaps into uncertain territory. Emily-Ann might be thinking about food and nothing more.

  Jerking his thoughts back to the present, he gestured to a row of cabinets to the right of them. “You might start with setting the table and icing some glasses. Unless you want to drink wine or beer.”

  As she headed to the cabinets, she said, “I’ll skip the spirits tonight. You never know when an antelope or deer might walk onto the road. And I did promise I’d drive carefully for you. Remember?”

  Hell yes, he remembered. That night he’d come very, very close to telling her about Becca and the car crash that had taken her and the unborn baby, and ended the future he’d planned for their lives together. But just when he’d thought he could get the painful words out to Emily-Ann, a barrier of some sort had lodged in his throat and he’d done well to breathe, much less talk about the incident that continued to shadow the choices he made for himself.

  “I do remember,” he murmured. “And I’m glad you’re being cautious—for my sake and yours.”

  * * *

  More than an hour later, after Emily-Ann and Taggart had finished eating the meal and pieces of Reeva’s pecan pie, she insisted on helping him put the kitchen back in neat order.

  After the last dish was dried and put away, Taggart said, “There’s a bit of coffee left. Might be nice to have a cup out on the front porch. Unless you’d prefer to stay inside.”

  Throughout the meal, Emily-Ann had tried to keep her gaze from constantly straying to Taggart, but she’d mostly failed at the effort. The days they’d been apart had felt like ages to her and everything about him, from his dark wavy hair, to the warm light in his brown eyes and the stubble on his chin, was mesmerizing her. While they’d worked side by side doing the dishes, her fascination for him had only increased and several times she’d had to catch herself from reaching over and touching him.

  Sitting outside in the cool night air might be enough to put a brake on her runaway urges, she thought, but she doubted it.

  “The porch sounds great,” she agreed.

  Taggart poured their coffee and with cups in hand, they walked back through the house and onto the front porch. At one end a wide, wooden swing hung from the rafters, while on the opposite end, a group of wicker furniture with tropical-printed cushions invited a person to relax.

  “Where would you like to sit?” he asked.

  “The wicker looks comfy, but I love to swing. Is that okay with you?”

  “I’ve spent so many hours in the saddle this past week that a wooden swing will feel like I’m sitting on a cloud,” he assured her.

  With a hand resting against the small of her back, he guided her over to the swing. King, who’d been lying in the shadows, followed them across the porch and waited until they were seated before he flopped down on the floor near Taggart’s feet.

  “It’s a lovely evening,” Emily-Ann remarked.

  His arm came around the back of her shoulders and a soft sigh slipped past her lips.

  “If it’s too cool for you I can go in the house and find a jacket,” he offered.

  Even if she’d been freezing, she wouldn’t have wanted him to move. Snuggled next to his side, with the warmth of his thigh pressed against hers and the low, raspy sound of his voice in her ear, she wondered how something that felt so good could possibly last. It couldn’t. Not for her. But she wasn’t going to allow herself to worry about that tonight.

  “I’m fine,” she told him. “Besides, who can pay attention to the chill in the air with a view like this?”

  Situated at the foot of a ridge of rocky hills, the house was shrouded by several mesquite trees, but the gnarled limbs didn’t block the landscape directly in front of them. Beneath the starlit sky, she could see a shadowy vista of wide-open range peppered with tall century plants, Joshua trees and saguaro cactus. To the right, in the far distance, the lights illuminating the Three Rivers Ranch yard glowed like a beacon in the wilderness.

  Normally Emily-Ann would have been hypnotized by the beauty, along with the pleasant sounds of the breeze whispering through the mesquites and the call of the night birds. But all those things were just a lovely backdrop to Taggart’s presence.

  “Blake told me this house was built back in the late 1950s by his grandfather. Back then, the foreman of Three Rivers had a big family and needed a place to live,” Taggart explained. “All I can say is that the Hollisters didn’t hold back, this house would’ve been expensive to build even back then.”

  While he was talking, his fingers had begun to trace abstract designs against her arm. The light, feathery touch against her skin was creating far more goose bumps than the cool night breeze and it was all she could do to focus on his words.

  “When Camille and I were in elementary school, I remember the foreman who lived here was an older man with a wife and five kids. Then about the time we became teenagers, he retired and the family moved away. That’s when Matthew took over.” She glanced curiously over at him. “Did you have a house of your own when you worked on the Flying W?”

  He shook his head. “No. I didn’t live directly on the ranch. I had a place of my own not far from the nearest town, which was Canyon. The commute back and forth to the ranch wasn’t all that bad. But this—” He paused and gestured to his surroundings. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever dreamed. To be honest, when I sent my résumé to the Hollisters for this job, I didn’t think I had a chance in hell of getting it. But I didn’t see any harm in trying. Sometimes miracles do happen.”

  Like her sitting here with a man like him, she thought. She’d never dreamed a man of Taggart’s caliber would ever ask her out for dinner, much less cook for her. To be fair, the men she’d dated in her past hadn’t been losers. But most of them had still been floundering around, struggling to figure out what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of them hadn’t had a clue how to better themselves, while others were working on plans.

  Even so, they’d all had one thing in common, having a little fun with her, and then moving on. These past few weeks, she’d been telling herself that Taggart had to be different. He was responsible and settled. He was admired and successful. She just didn’t yet know if he’d want to be in her life for the long haul.

  She placed her cup on a small table situated close to the arm of the swing, then reached over and covered his hand with hers. “If you hadn’t sen
t in your résumé, I would’ve probably never met you. Or do you believe in fate and that our paths would’ve crossed somewhere at some point in our lives?”

  The gentle look on his face stirred her heart with feelings so tender they brought a rush of moisture to her eyes. Oh my, what was this man doing to her? She felt like a fallen leaf at the mercy of the desert wind. He was carrying her away, tumbling and swirling, and she could only hope she didn’t end up landing at the bottom of a steep arroyo with no way of climbing out.

  “I do believe in fate,” he answered, his voice pensive. “Sometimes it’s good, other times it’s bad.”

  “Yes,” she solemnly agreed. “And my mother’s fate was mostly bad.”

  He turned his head and for long moments he studied her face as though he was weighing whether he could trust her. With what, she didn’t know.

  Finally he said, “You’ve probably noticed that I don’t talk about my mother much. Not because I didn’t love her—I loved her very much. But talking about her hurts. A lot. And I’m beginning to think you understand how that feels.”

  “It’s never easy to talk about my mother,” she murmured. “And even when I think about her, it puts an ache in my chest. She had a rough life, but I try to put that out of my mind and remember the good times we shared as mother and daughter. That helps.”

  Nodding, he glanced down at the yellow cur sleeping at his feet. “When I was twenty-three my mother, Carolyn, died of a heart attack. She’d never been in perfect health, but her death was totally out of the blue. Or that’s the way it had felt at the time. But after I’d had time to think about everything, I realized it was a miracle she’d lived as long as she did.”

  This was the first time he’d ever really talked about his family and, as she studied his solemn profile, it was fairly obvious that his young life hadn’t been easy. “Your mother had a chronic health problem?”