The Cowboy and the Kid

by Anne McAllister

"Forgot to take the cellular with me." Taggart tugged his hat down on his head and met Noah's gaze defiantly.

  Noah's brows lifted. "Forgot?"

  "Forgot."

  Felicity felt as though she was watching a duel—glares at ten paces. "You've been known to forget things at times," he reminded Noah pointedly.

  Neither spoke for a long moment. Then Noah kicked one of the tires. "Yeah, I reckon so." The staring contest went on for a few more moments, then Noah cocked his head Felicity's way.

  "You kept him in line, I hope." He gave her a wink that made her blush furiously. She hoped he'd think her heightened color was due to the still icy wind.

  "Of course," she said in her best schoolteacher voice. "He was a perfect gentleman."

  Noah laughed. "A perfect gentleman. Whoa! Wait'll I tell Mace and Jed!"

  "Stow it," Taggart said gruffly. His face was red, too, and Felicity knew very well it wasn't just from the cold. "Did you come to harass us or are you gonna help get us out of here?"

  Noah grinned and headed back to his own truck for chains. But even with the chains they were so far down the slope and at such an angle that they couldn't get out.

  "Want me to call a tow truck?" Noah asked.

  "No!" Taggart was adamant. "You think Felicity wants the world to know she spent the night in the truck with me?"

  Felicity didn't actually care what the world knew, though she realized that was, perhaps, foolish of her. After yesterday evening's display on Apple Street, she knew this was a small town and not anonymous Southern California. "I don't mind."

  "You do," Taggart said firmly. He looked her straight in the eye. "Sam Bacon's dad drives the tow truck."

  "Oh."

  Noah must have got the point, too, for he said, "I'll call Jed," and climbed the slope to his own truck to get his cellular phone.

  "Tuck's uncle," Taggart told her. "He won't say a word."

  Felicity could well believe that. "Fine."

  While they were waiting for Jed, Noah called Tess and told her to get Becky. Then he handed the phone to Taggart.

  "Hey, Pard. How you doin'?" There was a tenderness in his voice as he talked to his daughter that melted Felicity's heart. His smile broadened at the sound of her voice, then faded. "I know," he said after a moment. "I know I should've taken it with me. Then I could have called and you wouldn't have worried. I'm sorry."

  Taggart's gaze flicked up to meet Felicity's. "She's fine, too." He hesitated, his eyes locking on Felicity's. "Yeah," he said a little hoarsely. "I … took good care of her." He looked away, his voice dropping. "Not long now. Jed's coming. I'll see you pretty soon. Promise." He smiled once more. "Love you, too, Pard."

  Jed arrived an hour later in a heavy-duty truck with a winch on the back. For cattle as much as machinery, Noah told her.

  Felicity smiled at Jed uncertainly, wondering if he, like Orrin Bacon, might look at her and Taggart with speculation in his eyes, but she could barely see them, shadowed as they were beneath the brim of his hat.

  He gave her a faint nod, touched a finger to the brim of his hat and followed Noah and Taggart to study the lay of the land. In the end, it took forty-five minutes to get Taggart's truck out. Noah and Taggart discussed and theorized. Jed waited till they were done, then set to work. When they were once more on the road, he rolled down his window, touched his hat brim to her once more, then drove off.

  "Talkative, isn't he," she said to Taggart when both Jed and Noah were gone.

  Taggart shrugged. "That's Jed."

  Once they got back on the road she could see that more than a foot of unseasonable snow blanketed the entire valley. The wind, still blowing, rearranged it in drifts. But the sun was strong and warm.

  "It'll melt in two days or less," Taggart said as he drove her up Apple Street. Felicity was suddenly conscious of window curtains on either side. Was one twitching back just a bit? Was another being adjusted just now? She didn't care.

  "Good. But I must say, I'm glad it happened." She turned to him and smiled.

  He didn't. He looked grave as he parked in front of her house. She started to open the door, but he stopped her. "I'll carry you in."

  "I thought you were worried about the neighbors."

  His scowl surprised her. "You're right. Is your house unlocked? I'll go get you some better shoes." He came back a few minutes later with a pair of deck shoes. "If this is the best you can do, you'd better go to Bozeman and get prepared for winter."

  Felicity slipped them on. "I will. I thought I'd have more time." She slid down out of the truck and followed him, stepping in his footsteps all the way to the door. "Will you come in?"

  "Gotta pick up Becky." But he didn't immediately turn to go. He ducked his head, staring at the toe of his boot as he scuffed it through the snow on the porch. "I'm sorry … about last night. About getting stuck in the snow. About—" his color deepened "—everything."

  "I'm not." She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to take that look of misery off his face and make him smile the way she knew he could smile.

  She wanted to tell him she loved him. But if the rest of Elmer was ready and waiting to hear it, Taggart wasn't. Not yet.

  * * *

  Felicity wasn't positive that the residents of Apple Street were aware she had spent the night with Taggart Jones in his truck. If they were, they were discreet enough not to mention it—at least in her hearing. And if they passed on that little tidbit to anyone else, no one told Felicity. But even so, it took her three days to breathe a sigh of relief.

  At last, though, when Monday's classes came and went and no one pointed a finger in her direction and tittered and giggled, she felt she had weathered the storm.

  That storm. And the snowstorm which, as Taggart predicted, had all but melted away by Monday afternoon. In fact, the weather was almost balmy, making her feel that Friday night's experience might have been no more than a dream.

  But another storm—also one Taggart had predicted—blew in Monday afternoon.

  She had just settled down at her desk to go over some arithmetic assignments when a shadow from the doorway fell across the floor. She felt a leap in her heart—then she looked up and discovered it wasn't Taggart, but a man she didn't know.

  He wasn't quite as tall as Taggart and not nearly as handsome. In fact, his features reminded Felicity of the pug dog that lived next door to her parents' home in Iowa.

  She stood up. "Can I help you?"

  "You're Ms. Albright?" His tone reminded her of the pug, too. There was a yappy belligerence in it that made her stay where she was, rather than go around the desk to shake his hand.

  She nodded. "That's right. And you are…?"

  "Orrin Bacon."

  Felicity rubbed her palms surreptitiously against the sides of her skirt, drying them before offering her hand to Sam's father. "How nice of you to drop by. We missed you on Friday. I have the video if you'd like to—"

  "Wouldn't," he said. "No time for foolishness." He gave her hand a quick, perfunctory shake: "It's what I came to talk to you about, Ms. Albright. That foolishness you had those kids doin' on Friday. Friday, hell—I mean, heck! They been doin' it for weeks! Waste of time."

  "I don't consider it foolishness, Mr. Bacon. Or a waste of time. It's simply another teaching method. One you may not be used to."

  "You can say that again! Stupid method. Playing when they oughta be learning." He scowled at her.

  Felicity tried not to scowl at him. She drew a careful breath, reminding herself that she wasn't going to win any converts by battle. "Children learn in different ways, Mr. Bacon."

  "Nothin' wrong with the way I learned."

  "I'm sure there wasn't," Felicity said in as conciliatory a tone as she could manage. "And perhaps you learned well that way."

  "So can Sam if you stop coddling him."

  "I am not 'coddling' him, Mr. Bacon. Sam is working very hard."

  "Making toy guns." He snorted, nostrils flaring. "What the hell for?"

  "S
o he gets a feel for the work that goes into making something. So that he has something to do with his hands while he listens to the tapes I've made of the history."

  Another snort. "Tapes! Why can't he just read the book and learn it?"

  "He can," Felicity said. "But he hates it. It's a struggle."

  "It's work," Orrin Bacon agreed. "Nothin' wrong with work."

  "No. But there's nothing wrong with enjoying your work, either."

  He looked at her suspiciously, about to argue, then hesitating.

  "Do you enjoy your work, Mr. Bacon?"

  "Of course. Wouldn't do it if I didn't."

  Felicity smiled. "I suspect Sam feels the same way."

  "He's got to do it. He's a kid."

  And where, Felicity wondered, was the logic in that? Kids shouldn't enjoy life; only adults had that right? "We all have to do things we don't like at times, Mr. Bacon," she agreed. "But when we can learn by doing something that feels right to us, don't you think it's better?"

  Bacon clamped his jaw together, not speaking. The look he gave her was wary, suspicious.

  "It's just that things are new," she said quietly.

  They stared at each other. Bacon looked away first, and Felicity heard him mutter something under his breath about "furriners."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  His jaw jutted. "I said, I don't like all you hippy foreigners comin' in here tellin' us what to do. Go back to California where you're from."

  "I'm from Iowa, Mr. Bacon," she told him. "I only lived in California. But some of my best friends are Californians." She smiled. He didn't. "Look, what it comes down to as far as I'm concerned, is, is Sam learning? And I think he is."

  Bacon scowled. "You didn't learn that way, I bet."

  "No, but I wish I had. I would," she said now, "if I was trying to learn something new."

  "You're not a student now. You're a teacher."

  "I still can learn. Can you?"

  His eyes bugged at her direct challenge. "What? Of course I can. What are you playing at, Ms. Albright?"

  "How about a deal?" She was making it up as she went along. "If I can learn something new, something hard, something that I would find challenging, you'll learn something, too?"

  "What something?" Orrin Bacon asked suspiciously.

  "To let me teach Sam my way."

  He pondered that. "What are you going to learn?"

  "I don't know yet. Something local. Quilting?" Alice could teach her that. "How to use Uncle Fred's printing press?" She'd love to do that. They could have a class newspaper. "What do you say, Mr. Bacon?"

  For a full minute he didn't say anything. Then, at last, he nodded slowly. "But if you don't learn, then you start teaching Sam my way, right?"

  "Right."

  Orrin Bacon nodded. "All right, Ms. Albright. You got yourself a deal."

  * * *

  Ten

  « ^ »

  He owed her. Big time. But it was a debt Taggart wasn't at all reluctant to pay. Hell, if the truth were known, he'd been looking forward to it all week!

  He was just glad he didn't have a school this weekend that would tie up all his time. Noah had a bunch of bronc riders in, and he would have to show up to do the videotaping, but other than that, he had no commitments.

  Except making love to Felicity Albright.

  When his parents had called to ask if Becky could come down and spend the weekend with them, well, it wasn't too hard to say yes.

  "You won't be lonely, will you?" Becky asked worriedly Friday afternoon when her grandfather came to pick her up.

  "I'll survive."

  "You can go see Ms. Albright." Becky hadn't said too much about last Friday night. She knew he'd spent it stuck in his truck with Felicity Albright. Undoubtedly she had her own ideas of what transpired. Taggart was quite sure he was better off not knowing what they were.

  "I could," he said vaguely. He wasn't going to deny it. Going to see her—making love to her—didn't mean he was going to marry her. Marriage wasn't an option, and he'd told her that. But a little loving—or a lot of loving—in a bed this time, would suit him just fine.

  "I knew it!" Becky crowed.

  Taggart scowled and pointed a finger at her. "You don't know nothin', young lady."

  "I know that's a double negative!" She leapt, giggling, into his arms to kiss him goodbye.

  * * *

  Even though he fully intended to enjoy every moment of his weekend with Felicity Albright, he still felt a little nervous when he knocked on her front door an hour later. He hadn't called her all week—unsure, under the circumstances, what to say.

  Now he didn't know, either. And he didn't know what she'd say to him.

  The door opened. Her face lit up. "Taggart!"

  "I brought dinner," he said, juggling the two small grocery sacks in his arms. "I hope you don't mind." It suddenly occurred to him that she might be going out. He stared at her, stricken.

  But she only opened the door wider and smiled a welcome. "Come in.

  She didn't step back, so he practically brushed against her as he passed. Certainly he was close enough to catch a whiff of lilacs again. He remembered it from last weekend when he'd held her in his arms, buried his face in her hair. A shaft of pure longing shot through him.

  "What have you brought?" She followed him into the kitchen and watched as he unloaded the bags.

  "Steak. Potatoes. Lettuce. Tomatoes. A bottle of salad dressing. Ice cream." He brandished each in turn. "Nothing fancy. I just—" He stopped, looking at her. God, she was beautiful. "I've been thinking about you all week," he said. About touching you again. Loving you. Finishing what we'd only just begun.

  She dimpled. "And I've been thinking about you."

  "You … don't have plans? I know I should've called first, but—" he shrugged "—I thought you might say no."

  "No, I don't have plans?"

  "No, you don't want to see me." He swallowed as their eyes locked.

  "I want to see you, Taggart." Her voice was quiet, but firm. Her gaze seemed almost to devour him. "All week I've wanted to see you."

  Me, too. He didn't say it, just sucked in a ragged breath. "Good." He cleared his throat. "That's good."

  Still they stared at each other. Needing. Wanting. Hungering. And not for steak and potatoes. But since they were the excuse, Taggart felt obliged to try to get through them first.

  "Do you want to do them on the grill?" Felicity asked him, unwrapping the meat.

  "We can broil them."

  "The grill would do a better job."

  "But then we'd have to be outside." A grin quirked the corner of his mouth. "And Cloribel and company would be supervising."

  "They'll know you're here, anyway," Felicity said. "They'll see your truck."

  He shook his head. "I parked on Main Street," Taggart said. "In front of the bar."

  "And you don't think they saw you coming up the street?"

  "Maybe. But they won't think I'm still here hours from now."

  "Are you going to be here hours from now?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. She leaned against one of the kitchen cabinets and crossed her arms over her breasts.

  "I'd like to be."

  A flush crept up Felicity's cheeks. She hugged herself tightly. She reminded Taggart of a doe, cornered, looking for a way to bolt. But then something inside her seemed to settle. She dropped her arms so that they hung loose at her sides. She pushed herself away from the counter and lifted her face to his.

  "Good," she said.

  It was all he needed. In two steps he was across the room and taking her in his arms. He folded her against him, kissing her with a week's—hell, months'!—worth of longing. The night they had spent in the truck had given him a brief, incomplete satisfaction. If for a few minutes his body had been sated, the rest of him had only grown to hunger for her more and more.

  He needed her in every way he could think of. Mostly he needed to give her the loving she'd already given him. "I want y
ou," he murmured against her lips. "I want to love you, Felicity."

  She pulled back just far enough to look up at him with doe-like eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "Oh, yes."

  She took his hand and led him up the stairs into her bedroom. The furniture was old and heavy, dark and decidedly masculine. Fred's, no doubt. But the walls were cream-colored, and airy Irish lace curtains brought a contrasting feminine lightness to the room. Seascape watercolors hung on the walls, and on the table by her bed Taggart saw the photograph of a smiling young man. He tensed, knowing it was Dirk.

  Felicity felt his tension and saw where he was looking. She reached over and picked up the photo, handing it to him. Taggart forced himself to look. Dirk was a combination of determination and gentleness. A kind man, Taggart thought. The sort of man Felicity deserved.

  "He made you happy," he said, forcing the words through his too-tight throat.

  Felicity brushed her fingers over Dirk's picture. "Yes," she said. And then she took it from his nerveless fingers and put it in her dresser drawer. Then she looped her hands around his neck and tugged his face down to hers. "And so will you."

  He would, Taggart vowed, shutting his eyes. Or die trying. At least for tonight.

  He threaded his fingers in her hair, luxuriating in the heavy silken tresses as he weighed them in his hands. He kissed her again. First her nose, then her eyes, then her mouth. He feathered kisses along her jaw and nuzzled her neck. Felicity made a sound almost like a purr.

  He opened his eyes and smiled at her, then sat on the bed, drawing her into his arms. She came willingly. Eagerly. But there was a reserve about her, too. He had her. But he didn't have all of her. Yet.

  His hands roved over her—arms, shoulders, breasts, hips. Learning her curves and contours. He remembered doing things like this to Felicity in his dreams and waking, hot and hungry and eminently unsatisfied. The reality was far better.

  Now, smiling, he skimmed her scoop-necked shirt up and over her head in one quick movement and tossed it aside. And there she was, before him, creamy pale skin, narrow bones and a peach-colored bra that barely covered the fullness of her breasts. He cupped them in his hands, brushed his thumbs over them, making her tremble at his touch.