He’d followed Paige to the house after ending the phone call from Betty. He’d been relieved to detect a hint of ‘Betty spirit’ back in her voice, but he’d cut the call short because he didn’t like the idea of Paige running around the property in the pitch dark.
He recalled their conversation…er, argument when he got to the house.
“I know you said you want to sleep in the barn, but you really don’t. Believe me. It’s gonna be cold and uncomfortable.”
She’d been chopping carrots at the time and turned, butcher knife in hand, to glare at him. “Do I look helpless? I’m not. Am I way outside my comfort zone? Yes, but I’m not sleeping in a cozy bed while you’re camped out in the barn, doing my job. Not happening.”
He’d backed up, hands out. Same way he’d handle a pissed-off bull. “Okay, then. I’ll grab a couple of pillows and sleeping bags, which Betty keeps in the hall closet so critters don’t take up residence. The roll-up mats should be in the storage room with the other camping gear. Can you think of anything else you need?”
“Vodka?” She may have murmured.
He checked Betty’s liquor cabinet just in case, but the cupboard was bare.
Just as well. He was having a hard enough time keeping his mind on the business at hand without liquor lowering his inhibitions.
Yes, she’s pretty.
Yes, I like her spunk. And grit. And curves.
But that’s as far as it goes. Period.
He wasn’t a masochist. He couldn’t make things work with a woman from his own world, how the hell did he think letting nature play out with a city girl would be a smart move? Paige was here to help the person he cared most about in the world. He wasn’t going to let a going-nowhere attraction screw things up for Betty.
Too bad Paige popped up in his dreams the minute he closed his damn eyes. Images flashed to mind. Her hug. The set of her jaw when she eyed him from the sink. The tenderness in her expression when she rubbed Miss Valentine’s ear.
Suddenly too warm, he reached for his sleeping bag zipper, but the whole damn thing had twisted under him. His subtle—but apparently loud—thrashing made Paige roll to her back. In profile, he watched her blink until the moment what she was seeing made sense, then she turned her head his way, her expression one of concern.
“Is she okay?”
He sat up and squinted in the dim light. The donkey’s chest rose and fell smoothly. “Fine. I, on the other hand”—he twisted about to find the opening of his bag—“am sleeping on a stash of walnuts—or golf balls.”
She rubbed her eyes. “Sorry.” A mischievous smirk formed on her lips. “I told you to sleep in the house.”
He rolled to one hip to readjust his sleeping pad before gracelessly flopping back to a prone position.
She stuck out one hand and stretched to hold it above the donkey’s nose.
He read her relief when she looked up at him. “Her breathing seems better, I think.”
He knew it was a wait-and-see game. Privately, Doc only gave Miss Valentine a fifty-fifty chance of pulling through. But he’d kept that to himself.
“You could move over here. There’s nothing but straw under me.”
Her offer disarmed him. “I’m just grousing because I thought my days of bunking in barns were behind me.”
“I can’t remember the last time I was camping. Mom, Dad, and I went a lot when I was kid, but Mom sold all our gear when we moved.”
He patted down the length flattened down hay where he’d been lying. No walnuts, but he did pull out a dog ball. “Titus, you dog,” he muttered. He unzipped and got up. “I am going to move to the other side of you, but first I’m going to find Betty’s space heater. It’s colder out here than I thought it was going to be.”
She sat up, too. They’d both gotten into their sleeping bags fully dressed—less jackets and boots. “Good idea. I can see my breath.”
He grabbed the flashlight he’d left on the floor between them and took off. He was pretty sure he remembered seeing it in Betty’s master bathroom.
The dogs whined to go out when he started to leave, but he gave them each a hug and sent them back to their beds, although both had been curled up on Betty’s bed when he came in.
When he returned to the barn—after gargling a swig of Betty’s mouthwash—he found Paige had repositioned both bags, parallel to their patient, who hadn’t moved.
Smart girl.
“You found the heater.” Paige, who’d already crawled into her sleeping bag, eased back on her elbows to watch him.
“It’s not new. And I don’t think setting it on flammable material is a good idea, so…” He found the metal stool Betty used when shoeing her horse, set it between the outlet and them, and plugged it in. “This will have to do.”
A few seconds later, a low hum filled the air.
“Ooh, white noise. I keep a fan on at home. This might help me sleep. Thank you so much, TJ.”
Was that the first time she said my name?
He dimmed the light, then sat on his sleeping bag to pull off his boots and remove his jacket. She’d eased flat but was watching him. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “You sure this works for you?”
She nodded, barely. He didn’t have any siblings by birth, but he’d grown up around kids of all ages in the foster system. He took a deep breath and let it out before climbing into his bag. Level. No walnuts. Or dog balls.
A deep breath brought him the smell of fresh hay and Paige. Her perfume—expensive, he was sure—blended with the scent of her shampoo, soap, and mint toothpaste. “Will you tell me your long story now? The one about why you aren’t a fan of equine anything?”
She made a resigned sound. “It’s not all that deep. My dad was a vet and I used to go on calls with him.” She closed her eyes. “I loved being in barns and watched dozens of births, from calves to colts. His last call was a young mare worth a boatload of money. The owner waited too long to call Dad, and then argued about how to treat her. Even as a kid I could feel Dad’s frustration. The animal’s welfare always came first. He apparently missed the warning signs where is own health was concerned. He had a massive heart attack and died. So did the mare and her colt.”
“Whoa. And you were there.”
“The cop who came said I was in shock. The owner stomped around threatening to sue everyone. A few months later, he filed a wrongful death suit against Dad’s estate. It all came down to my testimony in court. I was eleven.”
Her voice didn’t display any of the emotions she had to be feeling. Hell, he was choked up and it wasn’t his story.
He put out his hand in the space between them. An offering. “And after all that, you’re here. On a farm. In a barn. Doing everything you can to help a pregnant donkey. That takes guts, Paige Jackson. I’m impressed.”
Her hand slid into his. Their fingers wrapped together as if in prayer. Her sigh was part thank you and part I can sleep now.
He sensed the second she drifted off. He let go, and she rolled over, her back to their patient. He smiled, realizing the magnitude of her gift. She trusted him to take first watch and, she trusted him to protect her, too.
He hadn’t felt that level of responsibility in a long, long time. It felt good.
Her Cowboy Valentine: Chapter 6
The kiss was butterfly soft. Tentative. Timid.
Still half asleep, Paige’s conscious mind argued the pros and cons of kissing TJ Huey back. When she’d move his sleeping bag, she’d expected more of an exchange than she remembered—the kinds of questions and answers you’d never think of sharing in the harsh light of day, but in the dim, cozy intimacy of a stall in a barn in the middle of nowhere… However, that conversation never came. She’d closed her eyes for a moment and the next thing she heard from TJ Huey was a soft, muffled snore.
And, strangely, that combined with the heater’s hum, made for the best night’s sleep in too long to remember.
But it was morning now. She could sense the light even i
f she was loath to open her eyes and ruin this perfect fantasy. Being kissed by the sexiest man she’d ever met, let alone slept beside. A cowboy. A classic figure that appeared on the covers of romance novels—even a few she’d picked up over the years.
His lips brushed hers again and a tingle passed through her body, winding up exactly where it was supposed to be. Her glutes tightened. Her hips moved on their own accord. She licked her lips as she opened her eyes.
“Erp.”
The face touching hers wasn’t human. The lips on the face pulled back to reveal domino-shaped, mostly yellow teeth and a tongue about a mile long.
“Oh. Oh. No. Not. Wait. Oh. TJ.” The last came out as a panicked cry as Paige launched herself—still completely wrapped in the mummy coffin sleeping bag—on top of his somnambulant body. Luckily, his arms were free, and apparently acting on instinct, he rolled them over so he was on top of her—heroic rescuer that he was.
“Well, good morning, beautiful. This is a surprise.”
She blinked as his mouth touched hers.
Oh, yes. Much better. Definitely. Yes. No.
She managed to get her hands under his shoulders and bench-press his torso upward. His look of horny happiness turned to one of confusion, then sudden awareness. “What just happened?”
She glanced over his shoulder to find the donkey watching them curiously. “I was kissed by an ass.”
“I believe you tackled me first.”
“Yes. After she kissed me.” Paige nodded.
His head swung about. “Well, hullo, darlin’. Look at you.”
He somehow levitated off Paige—shedding his body bag as he rose. He held out a hand to help her up, apparently, his feelings not as bruised as she thought. “Look at our girl, Paige. I believe she’s going to make it.”
Paige was happy. Also sad. She didn’t have time to figure out why.
She wiped her eyes. “Eye boogers,” she mumbled under her breath, her throat tight with unshed tears.
Luckily, TJ was busy examining the donkey, who held still for him but never took her gaze off Paige. As he petted their patient, he hummed the melody of “My Funny Valentine” and shot her a look—a smile—that shattered the shell that had encased her heart since her baby girl took her final breath.
She gulped in a huge breath of air and held it, waiting to feel the pain she expected to engulf her. Instead, she felt a softening inside her chest and the first tingling of something novel. Something barely remembered. Joy.
“Wanna try giving her some more carrots while I call Doc? He said something about prenatal vitamins and a certain kind of feed to fatten her up.”
His hands caressed the donkey’s baby bump as a future dad might—as Brad had when Paige was pregnant. He’d loved Sophia, too. How had she forgotten that? The months of anguish they’d suffered alone because neither knew how to share their pain. Brad turned to others for comfort while Paige curled inward, carrying her grief like a shield to keep the world at bay. Until this cowboy brought her a sweet little Valentine.
“Sounds like a plan.” Was her voice as emotional and breathless as it sounded to her ears?
“Does that mean I’m forgiven for the kiss?” He grinned, a piece of straw sticking up in his messy hair like a single chopstick.
Her cheeks burned, but to prove she could take his teasing, she tapped her lips and said, “I’m still deciding which was better—yours or Miss Valentine’s.”
His loud hoot made the donkey skitter on still wobbly legs toward Paige. Paige reacted without thought, wrapping her arms around the nervous animal’s neck. She buried her face against Valentine’s thick winter coat, recalling a smell she’d forever associate with her father.
I miss you, Dad. I miss this.
When she lifted her head, she saw TJ staring at her, his brow furrowed. For a second she thought he might kiss her again, but instead, he stepped back. “We have a lot to do today. Are you ready?”
Her stomach made a growling sound. She pressed her palm to her belly. “Yes, but, first, pancakes. And coffee. Real coffee.”
♥ ♥ ♥
Forty minutes later, she set a platter of golden, steaming flapjacks in front of TJ at Betty’s table in the eat-in kitchen. If the house had a formal dining room, Paige had yet to see it. After leaving the barn, she’d dashed to the house to let the dogs outside before carrying out their feeding routine. Then she found her keys and opened the Jag’s trunk remotely.
She wasn’t sure how she’d forgotten about the medium-sized Yeti cooler she’d filled with goodies. The wonderful smell from her French press made her glad she’s stocked up on coffee—along with other necessities like butter, maple syrup, and fresh raspberries, which she’d set on the table. Her favorite smoked chicken and apple sausages simmered in a skillet beside the stove’s built-in griddle.
TJ stabbed four perfectly golden cakes. “These look fabulous. I just realized I’m starved. Do you mind if I dig in?” he asked when she delivered the sausages.
“Please. Eat while they’re hot. I’ll join you as soon as the last batch comes off the griddle.” She used a spatula to peek under one of the bubbly circles. Not quite ready to flip. “At first, I was afraid the stove was a wood-burner.”
He laughed and made a mumbling sound until he was done chewing. “It was, originally. But Betty found somebody to convert it to gas. The oven’s kinda small, but, somehow, Betty makes the best bread on the planet.”
She checked again. Done. After five smooth, scoop-and-flip motions, she stepped back and picked up the French press. “Can I top you off?”
TJ looked from her to his cup and back. Something in the slant of his lips told her he was remembering the way she woke him up. He licked his lips. “Sure.”
Just to prove she wasn’t flustered by the pheromones wafting between them, she leaned a little closer to pour. “My pleasure.”
His eyes went wide, but the smell of cooking pancakes made her spin around and pull the last batch off the pan. A bit crispy and darker around the edges than Brad would have liked, but still delicious. And she was starving, too.
They ate in silence, until TJ gave his last piece of pancake a slow swirl around his plate, sopping up every bit of leftover syrup, and popped it in his mouth. After washing it down with coffee, he dropped his elbows to the table and said, “Best breakfast in a very long time. Thank you.”
His praise tasted sweeter than the maple syrup. “You’re welcome. Thank you, too, for everything. I wouldn’t have slept a wink last night if I’d been out there alone.”
He frowned in a way that shouted, Like that was going to happen, then took another drink. “Good coffee, too. I started using pods. Just not the same as a good French press, you know?”
She glanced at the clock over the sink. Eight-ten. Still early, but there was a lot to do. “You’re making a shopping list, right? We should add coffee to it.”
“Have you been to Prospect Creek before?”
“Supposedly Mom and I stopped here when we moved from Utah. I don’t remember much from that trip. I wasn’t happy about moving.” She reached for her cup. “Not that I wanted to stay, either. Half the town felt sorry for us, the other half thought we screwed one of its leading citizens out of a prize horse and a settlement we didn’t deserve.”
His expression intensified. “They thought you lied on the stand?”
“Some, I think. The horse guy did business with a lot of locals.” She shrugged. “I knew we couldn’t stay there. But the settlement wasn’t as large as people thought once the lawyers took their chunk. Mom sold Dad’s equipment, but she actually lost money on his office because he’d put in upgrades—like his sterile operating room—that worked for his business but not necessarily for anyone else.”
“Did your mother work?”
“She was Dad’s office manager. And she had a small craft shop on the side. That meant she was out of a job, too.”
“Why California?”
“My uncle—Mom’s brother—live
d in Santa Barbara. He passed away a couple of years ago, but he helped a lot. Found us find a place to live and had connections at the UC, where Mom was able to get a job with benefits. Once school started, I made friends, and discovered starting over wasn’t as awful as I thought it would be.”
“And now you’re starting over again.”
“That’s a fact, Jack…son. As my dad used to say.” Why does everything about this trip remind me of Dad?
The amused cant of his smile acknowledged the clever connection to her last name. “So, if your family name is Jackson, is it safe to assume you kept your maiden name when you married?”
“I did. It became a point of contention in our divorce.” She frowned. “Brad argued that by not taking the Bryson name, I’d failed to commit to our marriage 100%. That I had an endgame in mind that didn’t include him.”
“Hmm. That seems a bit archaic since you were both professionals when you married. Most of the barrel racers I’ve known kept their pro names when they got hitched—at least, until they retired.”
Paige didn’t say anything. She honestly couldn’t remember even discussing the matter with Brad before their wedding. His accusation had blindsided her, as had a few other complaints he’d needed to share with the court—like Paige blaming him for their daughter’s death. Not true. Myself? Of course, but never Brad. How could she blame him when his main contribution had been a little sperm?
“Do you know where you want to go? What you want to do?”
“When I grow up?” She shook her head. “That’s what this hiatus is all about—figuring out Plan B. Southern California feels a little crowded with my ex, his new wife, and their baby. If I try to work in film again, there’d be overlap.” She shook her head.
“Too much history?”
“Too much everything. I’m ready for a fresh start.” She nodded toward the computer bag on the floor beside her suitcases. “I brought along my laptop. I need to finish tweaking my CV.”
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