Cats and Cowboys

by Ruth J. Hartman

  Wanting to fan herself, she held her hands by her sides, willing them to not move. What kind of impression would she give if he saw her visibly fawning over him? She was at the post office in an official capacity, after all. Although it probably wouldn’t be the first time a woman had that reaction to him. The cowboy was pure, undiluted man.

  She forced herself to stop staring at his face. Instead, she lowered her gaze and peered over the counter to the floor. Yep, scuffed, dusty cowboy boots. Just like every other man here in the small Texas town. But oh, my, what she wouldn’t give to feel those great big arms around her, holding her close, pressing her chest against his.

  Sighing, she bet anything he smelled great, too. She inhaled, as he got closer. Yep, her favorite aftershave. No fair.

  “Hey!” he said, smacking his palms flat on the wooden counter.

  She gasped and jumped. “Oh! Uh, hi.” Her palms sweated. So did the backs of her knees. What was wrong with her? Snap out of it, Lanna. He’s good-looking. So what?

  “Who are you?” He lowered his head, his brown–eyed gaze boring into hers.

  Huh? That sure snapped her out of her trance. Lanna put her hands on her hips, digging her fingernails into the denim. Feeling her left eyebrow arch, which only happened when she was steamed, she glared at him.

  How rude of him. So much for wanting his arms around her. If he tried that now, she’d smack him. Hard. She’d had enough of inconsiderate men to last four lifetimes. With a toss of her head, her shoulder-length curls bounced against her cheek. “I am Lanna Kirby.” Take that, you rude cowboy, you.

  “Well, Lanna Kirby, what are you doing behind that counter?” He pointed a long index finger in her direction. “And where is Gus Morris?”

  Lanna wondered why everyone felt it necessary to stick his or her finger in her personal space today. She didn’t like it. Nobody liked that. It might teach him a lesson if she bit him.

  Her face heated, which meant she was red from her forehead to her collarbone. Darn her redheaded complexion. “Look Mr.—”

  “Jackson.”

  “Look Mr. Jackson—”

  He crossed his arms. “No, Jackson is my first name.”

  She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Whatever. Gus Morris retired. I’m the postmistress here now.”

  Jackson shook his head back and forth, even before Lanna was through talking. “That’s not possible.”

  She lowered her eyebrows, glaring at him through squinted eyes. “It is possible. He’s gone. I’m here.” So what are you going to do about it? She jutted out her chin, daring the rude cowboy to argue with her. Why had she moved to this town again?

  “But—”

  She held up a hand an inch from his nose. She’d see how he liked having her fingers in his personal space. “Look, I have a busy day ahead. Extremely busy. You don’t even want to know what all I’ve got to do in the storeroom, not to mention dealing with people out here. Was there something I can help you with?” A kick in the seat of your pants, perhaps?

  Jackson removed his dark brown cowboy hat and rubbed his forehead beneath curly brown hair. Plopping his hat back on, he leaned closer to her. Lanna leaned back, hoping to avoid cracking heads with him.

  “Well, I don’t know what’s going on, or what you have to do with it, but I don’t like it. Not one bit. Gus would have told me if he was thinking of retiring.”

  Lanna fumed. Of all the nerve. The man made it sound as if she’d kidnapped Gus just so she could work in this glamorous small-town post office. Hardly. Did he think she had the older man hog-tied in the back of the building? As if.

  “That is not my problem. Now, can I help you with anything else?” She tapped her tennis shoe-covered toe on the floor. What she wouldn’t give right now to be wearing some of her spiky high heels. That would get her point across. Click, click, click.

  He glared at her. “I just came in to see if I have any mail.”

  She glared back. “Why didn’t you say so?” She pivoted toward the mail slots, her gaze roaming over the cubbyholes. Shoot. She hadn’t asked his last name. And he hadn’t volunteered it. That meant she had to ask. Without turning back toward him, she cleared her throat and said, “Uh, what is your…?”

  “Harrington.”

  “Thank you.” She ground out the words between clenched teeth before peeking at him over her shoulder. Rats, he was still good-looking. Shouldn’t someone who was rude have a gnarly face? Like a repulsive gargoyle? Seemed only fair, and it would make it less confusing for people like her when deciphering first impressions.

  “No problem.” He edged forward against the counter. The metal of his belt buckle scraped the corner of the counter. Crossing his arms, he stared at her, unblinking.

  Lanna turned back and glanced over at his box. Bottom row. Third from the right. With the way the boxes were situated adjacent to the front counter, he could reach it as easily as she could. Probably easier, with his long arms. And he would have his own key. Why hadn’t he just gotten his mail himself? Just to irritate her?

  She glanced at him again, taking in his large brown eyes, deep dimples, and lazy smirk. The cad. He was probably enjoying this way too much.

  She reached for her keys under the counter. Jingling like a Christmas reindeer, she unlocked his box with her master key. Grabbing the fat stack of envelopes, she thrust them in front of him. One flicked the end of his nose. She could just see it now. He’d end up with a paper cut and tell the whole town she attacked him.

  “There. Your mail. Anything else?” Why did this guy make her feel so agitated? So self-conscious?

  Crossing her arms, she hoped he couldn’t see her hands tremble. Wasn’t she usually more composed than this? She’d been a postmistress in downtown Indianapolis with all the big-city crazies. Dealing with a cowboy in this tiny building should be nothing. Piece of chocolate cake.

  The man didn’t answer. Why was he so rude? He flipped through the large stack of envelopes. Slowly. Good grief, was he expecting an invitation to the White House? Or to have tea with the Queen of England? Nobody’s mail could be that exciting.

  He flipped through the letters again. Even slower this time. Dark eyebrows came together. Mouth pulled down at the corners. How could he know it was bad news if he hadn’t even opened one?

  Lanna angled toward the counter. Drumming her fingers, her nails clicked on the smooth surface of the counter. She glanced down at her two nails with chipped pink polish, and she missed the manicures she used to get before she moved here. Would anyone in this tiny, backwater town even know how to give a decent manicure?

  She stared at her customer. “Anything else, Mr. Harrington?” There were things to do. Things that didn’t involve a rude, obnoxious, too-good-looking-for-his-own-good cowboy.

  When he raised his face to her, he was still frowning. Creases, probably from squinting at the sun, edged his eyes. His dark eyelashes framed his chocolate-brown eyes. “What? Oh. No. Nothing.” He tipped the brim of his dusty cowboy hat and left.

  Lanna stared at the closed front door screen. What had just happened? There she was, minding her own business and doing her job, when bam−in walked someone who got her motor running with one glance from his brown eyes. But he had to go and ruin all her warm, fuzzy feelings with his flippant sarcasm. Rudeness, thy name is cowboy.Tiny dust motes filtered through the air in the morning sunshine, blown about by the small fan next to the window. Birds twittered and flitted in the bushes outside the building. People said hello to each other as they passed on the sidewalk. At least some people around here were friendly. Not so with Jackson Harrington.

  What in the world had just happened with that man? It wasn’t her fault Gus hadn’t told him about retiring. And why hadn’t she ever met Jackson before?

  Everyone else seemed to come in every day or so. Sometimes more than once a day, checking, again, to see if their mail had arrived yet.

  She shrugged. May as well get back to work. Men in Texas sure were different from those in India
na. Although to be fair, every state had its share of jerks.

  ****

  Jackson made the sharp right turn onto the road that led to his lane. His tires spun in the dust, which rose up toward his open window. He squinted, hoping to keep any wayward dust from his eyes. The steering wheel squealed slightly. Better have his mechanic check that out. He’d been so grateful when Gus had given him this old truck. Said it was his contribution to Jackson’s new life on the ranch.

  So what was going on with Gus, anyway? Jackson blew out a frustrated breath.

  He had known the older man his whole life. Another transplant from the same town in Kentucky, Gus had always been a part of Jackson’s life. He’d been best friends with Jackson’s great uncle. Why wouldn’t he have told him about retiring from the post office? That was a major life decision, right there. Something you told people close to you. He’d hoped to have a letter from him, maybe explaining his departure, but there’d been nothing.

  Jackson bet that little spitfire, Lanna Kirby, knew more than she was telling. When he’d walked into the post office, he assumed she was just helping Gus out. Not only was he surprised to find Gus gone and Lanna in his place, but to have had such a punch to his gut when he saw her! Never in his life had he wanted to wrap his arms around a perfect stranger.

  Her red curly hair begged for him to run his fingers through it. And those lips, so full, asked to be kissed. As she’d turned her back to look for his post office box, he’d automatically checked out her curves. Oh yeah, what curves.

  Turning left into his long lane, Jackson eyed the horses in the corral. The sun glinted off of their chestnut brown coats. Muscles rippled and manes lifted in the slight breeze. Most horses were grazing, but a couple of younger ones were running along the fence, hooves kicking up dirt. They all seemed healthy and thriving. Yes, thanks to his inheritance of this ranch from his great uncle, he had his life’s dream.

  He pulled up in front of the barn and climbed out of the truck. Removing his worn hat, he wiped his brow with his rolled-up sleeve.

  “Hey, boss.”

  Jackson glanced over to see Kenny, his ranch hand and mechanic striding toward him. “Hey Kenny. Anything happen while I was away?”

  The shorter, older, balding man shook his head. “Nope. Quiet.”

  Jackson nodded. “Quiet is good.” He started to walk toward the house, then stopped and pivoted. “Truck’s running fast. And may need some steering fluid.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Thanks.” He headed toward the house. As he opened the kitchen screen door, he noticed a squeaky hinge. Something else to put on the list. The amount of upkeep on a ranch amazed him. Every day something seemed to need painted, hammered, or oiled.

  His great uncle had owned the property for ages. Jackson was pretty sure the older man hadn’t had the time or energy to keep up with everything. And the chores didn’t even touch the work with the horses. That was a whole other task. But he wouldn’t change that. Not ever.

  Growing up in Kentucky, he’d always loved horses. Everything about them. The way they moved, their spirit, and their strength. His dream since he was ten was to own a ranch.

  Removing his dusty hat, he hung it on a red wooden peg behind the door. A slight breeze wafted through the window, ruffling the plain, white curtains. His great uncle also hadn’t believed in “new-fangled” amenities like air conditioning. Nor had he believed in the importance of having a mate to share his life. But Jackson had a need for someone who would be part of his life on the ranch. Even more than that, he wanted a woman to share his dreams and to love him. A picture of Lanna flitted across his mind. Now where had that come from? He’d just met her.

  After changing into his work clothes, he strode across the farm lot toward the barn. Kenny, along with ranch hands Dan and Bob, was mucking out the stalls while the horses were in the corral. Jackson wasn’t above helping them. He’d never understood owners who sat in their houses and watched through the window while others did the manual labor. Maybe someday, when he was older, he might do that. While he could still pick up a tool, he’d work.

  The day was sunny and bright. It promised to be another scorcher, with the air already sticky. Jackson’s shirt clung to the middle of his back. He walked to the barn to check on the foals because he couldn’t seem to be around them enough. He knew, deep in his bones, he’d been born to live this kind of life.

  Crossing the threshold of the open barn door, it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. His ranch hands were crouched in the far corner of the barn.

  Jackson frowned. Had one of the foals gotten sick? When he’d checked them earlier, they all seemed fine. His heart sped up as he quickened his steps. “What’s going on?”

  Kenny swiveled his head, looking at Jackson over his shoulder. “One of the mother cats had kittens again. Must have been a few weeks ago, by the looks of them. I’m guessing she hid them until now.”

  Jackson raised his eyebrows. Was that all? A stupid barn cat popped out yet another litter of annoying kittens, and this was newsworthy? “All right. Enough cat watching. We’ve got work to do.”

  The guys stood up and headed in separate directions to finish their work. He didn’t get the fascination with a barn cat having kittens so they could have more kittens themselves later on. Just more noisy, squawky mouths for him to feed. Though they were good for catching mice, he wasn’t so sure they were worth keeping around.

  Chapter Three

  Lanna hurried down the steps as fast as she dared. Breaking a leg was not in her immediate plans. And she doubted she’d get worker’s comp for it.

  Her alarm clock, old faithful for the last eleven years, had bit electronic dust. Bother. She’d have to buy a new one after work. She took the quickest bath of her life, not sure some parts of her had even gotten wet. But she couldn’t be late. How would she explain that?

  I got caught in traffic? Got stuck in a snow bank? Neither would fly with the mayor. She just hoped no one was waiting. Jumping past the two bottom steps, she landed hard on the soles of her tennis shoes. Rounding the corner of the hall leading into the post office, she heard someone clearing her throat.

  Uh-oh. Mrs. Billings stood at the counter, tapping her orthopedic shoe. Well, crap.

  Lanna scurried around to the other side of the counter, smoothing her wayward, damp curls. “Hi, Mrs. Billings. How are you to—”

  The older woman scowled. “Skip the chitchat, Little Miss.”

  Little Miss?

  “I’ll have none of that. Just want my patterns.” Mrs. Billings punctuated each syllable with a knock on the counter.

  Lanna held her breath, did a quick count to ten, let the breath out and peeked at Mrs. B. “It’s not here yet, but—”

  “What do you mean it’s not here yet? How long can this possibly take? Is it coming on a stage coach?” Mrs. Billings sounded like a hyperactive screech owl.

  Lanna held up her index finger. “If you’ll let me exp—”

  “I don’t think you know what you’re doing here.”

  “But—”

  “You need some post office training, Miss Kirby.” Her eyes narrowed.

  “I—”

  “Gus knew what he was doing.” She rested her hands on her bony hips.

  “You see—”

  “Maybe he could teach you a thing or two.”

  “It—”

  Mrs. Billings pivoted and stomped toward the door, almost mowing down a tall man in a cowboy hat.

  “—should be here today,” Lanna finished unnecessarily.

  “Bad day?” Jackson Harrington ambled toward the counter. His steps, slow and steady, made Lanna think of a plow horse. Except she’d never equated a horse with anything sexy before today.

  Her mouth went dry, and her palms were moist. Wasn’t this the same reaction she’d had to him two days ago? She’d thought it was just a one-time, first-impression thing. Obviously not. Even though he was gorgeous, the impression he’d left he
r with hadn’t been positive.

  “Not a great day, no.”

  He glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. “Didn’t you just open up?”

  “Yep.” What was wrong with her? Usually she was accused of being too talkative. Hadn’t her fifth grade teacher scolded her daily for being a chatterbox?

  He smirked. “Some days are just like that, I guess.”

  “Uh-huh.” Snap out of it, Lanna! He’s just a man. An incredibly good-looking, drool-worthy, hunky cowboy of a man. “Yes, I just opened a few minutes ago. Guess I caught the previous customer having a bad day too.”

  Jackson pointed behind him. “That woman is always in a rotten mood. Don’t take it personally.”

  Don’t take it personally? Wasn’t this same man just as rude to her two days ago? “Right. I won’t let it bother me.” She tried to control a curl she could see from the corner of her eye. It refused to cooperate, no matter how many times she stuck it behind her ear.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Why was he being so nice to her? Was the other day just a fluke? Bad cowboy hat day?

  “Is there anything I can help you with, Mr. Harrington?”

  “Jackson. Please.” He stared somewhere in the vicinity of her left ear. Was he looking at her hair? She scooped the curl behind her ear one last time and then lowered her hand, determined to draw his attention away from it.

  “Jackson.” She crossed her arms. So it was first names now?

  “I, uh, just needed to mail a letter.” He fumbled in his shirt pocket for something and then pulled out an envelope.

  “Okay.” She waited. Most people didn’t announce it. They just threw it in the box and left. There were times she got a “have a nice day” from some. Others, not so much.

  “And…I uh, need a stamp.” He rubbed his chin with one tan hand.

  What was with this guy? First he was rude. Now he was making small talk and standing around to mail a letter? This cowboy made her nervous. How was she supposed to get any work done when one look at him turned her mind to mushy oatmeal? “Sure. I may have one or two of those around here somewhere.”