The Cowboy and the Lady

by Marie Ferrarella

  It was clear that the idea of being seen as acting less than manly really worried Ryan.

  “You finished?” Garrett asked after patiently allowing the fifteen-year-old to vent and get all his questions as well as all his insecurities out of his system.

  Ryan paused for a moment and thought. After reflecting, he quietly answered, “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “You ‘guess so’?” Garrett repeated.

  Ryan blew out a breath. He had to remember to think before he talked. Jackson had drilled that into him. “I’m finished,” he confirmed quietly.

  “Good, because you’re not a maid of honor or a bridesmaid, or anything that remotely has to do with the word maid.” Garrett paused to survey his efforts in the mirror that had been brought into the room for this exact purpose. With a nod, he accepted what he saw. “You’re a co–best man.”

  “Does that mean that we’re supposed to be joined together somehow, like those twins that need to be separated with operations ’cause they couldn’t go anyplace without each other?”

  Rather than acting surprised or taken aback at the question—or worse, laughing—Garrett just took it in stride. “No, in this case it means ‘jointly,’ like you and I have the same position in this wedding. Jackson wanted both of us to be his best man because he couldn’t choose between us.”

  There was a little more to it than that, Garrett added silently. His brother wanted to make sure that he didn’t hurt the teen’s feelings, but he hadn’t wanted to just sell out and leave Garrett in the cold, either. So this awkward setup was the solution—so far.

  “Oh.” Dressed, ready, the teen paused again, reviewing the situation—and his options, as well as his sister’s. This was her second marriage and he wanted it to go right. “But Debi doesn’t have anyone to walk alongside her—or to give her away,” Ryan realized.

  Garrett looked at the teen. This would be a perfect way to even things out. “Would you rather do that than be a co–best man?”

  It was obvious from the expression on his face that he would. “You think Jackson would be okay with that?” he asked, concerned.

  Garrett smiled. It was amazing, the effect his older brother had on these boys.

  “I think that Jackson would be just fine with that. Your sister comes first with him and I think she’d like you walking her down the aisle,” he told Ryan.

  Ryan bobbed his head up and down in agreement, then suddenly stopped. “I’m not really going to be giving her away, am I?” Ryan asked hesitantly. “I mean, she’s still going to be my sister, right?”

  “Until the end of time,” Garrett poetically affirmed. He paused to straighten Ryan’s bow tie again just a fraction of an inch. “You look great, kid,” he said, patting the teen on the shoulder. “I’m just going to go check on Jackson. Wedding’s starting in about ten minutes,” he told Ryan, glancing at his watch. “Look alive,” was his parting comment.

  Garrett made his way to his brother’s downstairs office. Everything had been temporarily cleared away so that Jackson could use the office to get ready for his wedding. Debi told him that she didn’t care what he wore, that she would marry him in his jeans and work shirt, but he had opted to make it formal for her.

  Surprising them, Miss Joan had come through with tuxedos brought in from Dallas for Jackson, him and Ryan, as well. The tuxedos were rentals—Miss Joan knew someone who knew someone—but Debi’s wedding gown, it turned out, was a gift.

  “I never had a daughter to fuss over,” Miss Joan told a stunned Debi when the latter began to protest that she couldn’t allow the woman to do that. “This at least allows me to get a peek at what it might have been like. You can’t deny an old woman that.” This statement had been her way of sealing the deal.

  Debi couldn’t argue with that.

  “Hey, you look almost handsome,” Garrett noted as he opened the door and looked in on his brother.

  The truth of it was, he’d never seen Jackson look so regal. He would have even said “noble” if it hadn’t struck him that it might sound stereotypical to say as much.

  Jackson turned to face his brother. “Is it normal to feel like I’m about to throw up?” he asked. He wasn’t supposed to be feeling sick, he was supposed to be feeling elated, he admonished himself.

  “Very normal, I hear. You look good,” Garrett told him.

  “I feel like hell,” Jackson confided.

  “It’ll pass,” Garrett assured him.

  “You’re awfully insightful for a single guy,” Jackson accused his brother.

  “I know,” Garrett replied, his face completely unexpressive. “By the way, you’re down to one best man.”

  “How did you manage that?” Jackson asked, impressed.

  “Debi needed someone to give her away.”

  Jackson smiled. He knew he could count on his brother to make things come around. “Good thinking.”

  “Actually, Ryan was the one to bring it up, but I might have been the one to set the stage,” Garrett added with a conspiratorial smile.

  The sound of twin guitars playing the opening strains of the “Wedding March” could be heard through the open windows, coming from the rear garden.

  “Better hustle, Jackson,” Garrett prodded. “It sounds like we’re good to go.”

  Jackson pressed a hand to his abdomen as he walked out of the room. “I think I really am going to be sick.”

  Garrett took his elbow and steered his brother through the hall toward the gathering beneath a flowered trellis outside. “I guarantee you’ll forget all about that the second you see Debi coming toward you in that wedding gown.”

  And he did.

  * * * * *

  Read on for an extract from RANSOM CANYON by Jodi Thomas.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Staten

  WHEN HER OLD hall clock chimed eleven times, Staten Kirkland left Quinn O’Grady’s bed. While she slept, he dressed in the shadows, watching her with only the light of the full moon. She’d given him what he needed tonight, and, as always, he felt as if he’d given her nothing.

  Walking out to her porch, he studied the newly washed earth, thinking of how empty his life was except for these few hours he shared with Quinn. He’d never love her or anyone, but he wished he could do something for her. Thanks to hard work and inherited land, he was a rich man. She was making a go of her farm, but barely. He could help her if she’d let him. But he knew she’d never let him.

  As he pulled on his boots, he thought of a dozen things he could do around the place. Like fixing that old tractor out in the mud or modernizing her irrigation system. The tractor had been sitting out by the road for months. If she’d accept his help, it wouldn’t take him an hour to pull the old John Deere out and get the engine running again.

  Only, she wouldn’t accept anything from him. He knew better than to ask.

  He wasn’t even sure they were friends some days. Maybe they were more. Maybe less. He looked down at his palm, remembering how she’d rubbed cream on it and worried that all they had in common was loss and the need, now and then, to touch another human being.

  The screen door creaked. He turned as Quinn, wrapped in an old quilt, moved out into the night.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said as she tiptoed across the snow-dusted porch. “I need to get back. Got eighty new yearlings coming in early.” He never apologized for leaving, and he wasn’t now. He was simply stating facts. With the cattle rustling going on and his plan to enlarge his herd, he might have to hire more men. As always, he felt as though he needed to be on his land and on alert.

  She nodded and moved to stand in front of him.

  Staten waited. They never touched after they made love. He usually left without a word, but tonight she obviously had something she wanted to say.

  Another thing
he probably did wrong, he thought. He never complimented her, never kissed her on the mouth, never said any words after he touched her. If she didn’t make little sounds of pleasure now and then, he wouldn’t have been sure he satisfied her.

  Now, standing so close to her, he felt more a stranger than a lover. He knew the smell of her skin, but he had no idea what she was thinking most of the time. She knew quilting and how to make soap from her lavender. She played the piano like an angel and didn’t even own a TV. He knew ranching and watched from his recliner every game the Dallas Cowboys played.

  If they ever spent over an hour talking they’d probably figure out they had nothing in common. He’d played every sport in high school, and she’d played in both the orchestra and the band. He’d collected most of his college hours online, and she’d gone all the way to New York to school. But they’d loved the same person. Amalah had been Quinn’s best friend and his one love. Only, they rarely talked about how they felt. Not anymore. Not ever really. It was too painful, he guessed, for both of them.

  Tonight the air was so still, moisture hung like invisible lace. She looked to be closer to her twenties than her forties. Quinn had her own quiet kind of beauty. She always had, and he guessed she still would even when she was old.

  To his surprise, she leaned in and kissed his mouth.

  He watched her. “You want more?” he finally asked, figuring it was probably the dumbest thing to say to a naked woman standing two inches away from him. He had no idea what more would be. They always had sex once, if they had it at all, when he knocked on her door. Sometimes neither made the first move, and they just cuddled on the couch and held each other. Quinn wasn’t a passionate woman. What they did was just satisfying a need that they both had now and then.

  She kissed him again without saying a word. When her cheek brushed against his stubbled chin, it was wet and tasted newborn like the rain.

  Slowly, Staten moved his hands under her blanket and circled her warm body, then he pulled her closer and kissed her fully like he hadn’t kissed a woman since his wife died.

  Her lips were soft and inviting. When he opened her mouth and invaded, it felt far more intimate than anything they had ever done, but he didn’t stop. She wanted this from him, and he had no intention of denying her. No one would ever know that she was the thread that kept him together some days.

  When he finally broke the kiss, Quinn was out of breath. She pressed her forehead against his jaw and he waited.

  “From now on,” she whispered so low he felt her words more than heard them, “when you come to see me, I need you to kiss me goodbye before you go. If I’m asleep, wake me. You don’t have to say a word, but you have to kiss me.”

  She’d never asked him for anything. He had no intention of saying no. His hand spread across the small of her back and pulled her hard against him. “I won’t forget if that’s what you want.” He could feel her heart pounding and knew her asking had not come easy.

  She nodded. “It’s what I want.”

  He brushed his lips over hers, loving the way she sighed as if wanting more before she pulled away.

  “Good night,” she said as though rationing pleasure. Stepping inside, she closed the screen door between them.

  Raking his hair back, he put on his hat as he watched her fade into the shadows. The need to return was already building in him. “I’ll be back Friday night if it’s all right. It’ll be late, I’ve got to visit with my grandmother and do her list of chores before I’ll be free. If you like, I could bring barbecue for supper?” He felt as if he was rambling, but something needed to be said, and he had no idea what.

  “And vegetables,” she suggested.

  He nodded. She wanted a meal, not just the meat. “I’ll have them toss in sweet potato fries and okra.”

  She held the blanket tight as if he might see her body. She didn’t meet his eyes when he added, “I enjoyed kissing you, Quinn. I look forward to doing so again.”

  With her head down, she nodded as she vanished into the darkness without a word.

  He walked off the porch, deciding if he lived to be a hundred he’d never understand Quinn. As far as he knew, she’d never had a boyfriend when they were in school. And his wife had never told him about Quinn dating anyone special when she went to New York to that fancy music school. Now, in her forties, she’d never had a date, much less a lover that he knew of. But she hadn’t been a virgin when they’d made love the first time.

  Asking her about her love life seemed far too personal a question.

  Climbing into his truck, he forced his thoughts toward problems at the ranch. He needed to hire men; they’d lost three cattle to rustlers this month. As he planned the coming day, Staten did what he always did: he pushed Quinn to a corner of his mind, where she’d wait until he saw her again.

  As he passed through the little town of Crossroads, all the businesses were closed up tight except for a gas station that stayed open twenty-four hours to handle the few travelers needing to refuel or brave enough to sample their food.

  Half a block away from the station was his grandmother’s bungalow, dark amid the cluster of senior citizens’ homes. One huge light in the middle of all the little homes shone a low glow on to the porch of each house. The tiny white cottages reminded him of a circle of wagons camped just off the main road. She’d lived fifty years on Kirkland land, but when Staten’s granddad, her husband, had died, she’d wanted to move to town. She’d been a teacher in her early years and said she needed to be with her friends in the retirement community, not alone in the big house on the ranch.

  He swore without anger, remembering all her instructions the day she moved to town. She wanted her only grandson to drop by every week to switch out batteries, screw in lightbulbs and reprogram the TV that she’d spent the week messing up. He didn’t mind dropping by. Besides his father, who considered his home—when he wasn’t in Washington—to be Dallas, Granny was the only family Staten had.

  A quarter mile past the one main street of Crossroads, his truck lights flashed across four teenagers walking along the road between the Catholic church and the gas station.

  Three boys and a girl. Fifteen or sixteen, Staten guessed.

  For a moment the memory of Randall came to mind. He’d been about their age when he’d crashed, and he’d worn the same type of blue-and-white letter jacket that two of the boys wore tonight.

  Staten slowed as he passed them. “You kids need a ride?” The lights were still on at the church, and a few cars were in the parking lot. Saturday night, Staten remembered. Members of 4-H would probably be working in the basement on projects.

  One kid waved. A tall Hispanic boy named Lucas, whom he thought was the oldest son of the head wrangler on the Collins Ranch. Reyes was his last name, and Staten remembered the boy being one of a dozen young kids who were often hired part-time at the ranch.

  Staten had heard the kid was almost as good a wrangler as his father. The magic of working with horses must have been passed down from father to son, along with the height. Young Reyes might be lean but, thanks to working, he would be in better shape than either of the football boys. When Lucas Reyes finished high school, he’d have no trouble hiring on at any of the big ranches, including the Double K.

  “No, we’re fine, Mr. Kirkland,” the Reyes boy said politely. “We’re just walking down to the station for a Coke. Reid Collins’s brother is picking us up soon.”

  “No crime in that, mister,” a redheaded kid in a letter jacket answered. His words came fast and clipped, reminding Staten of how his son had sounded.

  Volume from a boy trying to prove he was a man, Staten thought.

  He couldn’t see the faces of the two boys with letter jackets, but the girl kept her head up. “We’ve been working on a project for the fair,” she answered politely. “I’m Lauren Brigman, Mr. Kirkland.”

>   Staten nodded. Sheriff Brigman’s daughter, I remember you. She knew enough to be polite, but it was none of his business. “Good evening, Lauren,” he said. “Nice to see you again. Good luck with the project.”

  When he pulled away, he shook his head. Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered to stop. This might be small-town Texas, but they were not his problem. If he saw the Reyes boy again, he would apologize.

  Staten swore. At this rate he’d turn into a nosy old man by forty-five. It didn’t seem that long ago that he and Amalah used to walk up to the gas station after meetings at the church.

  Hell, maybe Quinn asking to kiss him had rattled him more than he thought. He needed to get his head straight. She was just a friend. A woman he turned to when the storms came. Nothing more. That was the way they both wanted it.

  Until he made it back to her porch next Friday night, he had a truckload of trouble at the ranch to worry about.

  Lauren

  A MIDNIGHT MOON blinked its way between storm clouds as Lauren Brigman cleaned the mud off her shoes. The guys had gone inside the gas station for Cokes. She didn’t really want anything to drink, but it was either walk over with the others after working on their fair projects or stay back at the church and talk to Mrs. Patterson.

  Somewhere Mrs. Patterson had gotten the idea that since Lauren didn’t have a mother around, she should take every opportunity to have a “girl talk” with the sheriff’s daughter.

  Lauren wanted to tell the old woman that she had known all the facts of life by the age of seven, and she really did not need a buddy to share her teenage years with. Besides, her mother lived in Dallas. It wasn’t like she’d died. She’d just left. Just because she couldn’t stand the sight of Lauren’s dad didn’t mean she didn’t call and talk to Lauren almost every week. Maybe Mom had just gotten tired of the sheriff’s nightly lectures. Lauren had heard every one of Pop’s talks so many times that she had them memorized in alphabetical order.