The Last Cowboy
Crystal Green
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
A fter walking this earth for forty-two years, Jackson North had drifted through enough fights to know how to deal with a sticky situation.
If you were in a bar and a roughneck didn’t take too kindly to the way you sipped a beer, buy him enough to either make him your buddy or make him pass out. If you felt a pair of eyes boring into you from across a smoke-shrouded room, never look up from the table to acknowledge the threat. And if worst ever came to worst, let the fists fly and worry about the damage later.
But Jackson was exhausted these days. Too bone-weary to play peacemaker, too disillusioned to care about much of anything anymore.
That’s why—when he felt the punch skim past him only to miss the victim standing on the other side of his body—Jackson actually thought of turning tail and running from this particular confrontation.
He tensed and glanced down at the battling little boy and girl.
The punch thrower came perilously close to leaning against Jackson while taunting his opponent.
“I’m gonna get you, Alina!”
“Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!” said the girl tot who was hovering ever closer to Jackson’s other leg.
They were closing in. It was harder to breathe now.
Why’d this have to go and happen? Here he’d been, perfectly content to linger on the fringes of the party when the two children had burst out of nowhere. They’d caught Jackson off guard when they’d sprinted over to him from the main lawn of Oakvale Ranch—where pony rides, a chili cook-off, games and carnival attractions were sending off sparks of laughter and country-western music.
Damn Rip McCain for dragging Jackson and the ranch’s few other workers over here, all but forcing them to be social and “mingle with the neighbor people.” Hell. It was bad enough that Jackson’s most recent home—the Hanging R—would soon see the arrival of Old Rip’s great-nephew, who’d recently lost his parents and didn’t have any other relatives to take him in.
Dammit, if Jackson had known there’d be a little boy living with them, he wouldn’t have hired on just over a month ago. If—
The sound of a razzing tongue distracted him.
“Stop that, Konrad,” the young girl said from Jackson’s right flank. “I’m telling Mom on you.”
This time, the razzer did lean into Jackson’s leg. The touch completely froze him, lodging his heart in his throat. Memories of two other children—his sons—threatened to crush him.
“Kids…” The word choked out of him as he helplessly raised his hands out of their way.
He should’ve retreated from the discomfort that was slowly enveloping him, but when he’d first gotten to this Leukemia Society fund-raiser, he’d made the unfortunate choice of standing with his back to one of the festive tents, cutting himself off from all human contact.
Cutting himself off from an escape, too.
As Alina swatted at Konrad, the boy hugged Jackson’s leg. Jackson’s three-year-old son, Lucas, used to do that—hug his leg.
Back when Jackson had been another man.
Without thinking, he rested his fingertips on this child’s head, bringing Konrad to a slow-motion halt as Jackson envisioned Lucas’s reddish-brown hair—hair just like his ex-wife’s.
As a long-suffering numbness swallowed the wrangler, he remembered five-year-old Leroy’s freckled smile, too.
When Konrad glanced up at Jackson, the man jerked his hand away at the toothless surprise of a gaping mouth, an unfamiliar face.
“Konrad! Alina!” said a female voice.
Stepping forward, away from the suddenly quiet children, Jackson nearly bumped into the caller. Instinctively, he reached out, grasping her soft shoulders, steadying her.
Beautiful blue.
Her eyes were all he saw before he averted his gaze, lowering his hands so he could erase the burn of contact by easing his palms against his hips and gripping the denim for some mental balance.
She laughed, but he didn’t look back up at her.
“So,” she said. “You’re all that was keeping the terror twins from ripping each other apart?”
Jackson sort of grunted, hoping that would do for an answer. In the meantime, he tried to distance himself inch by inch, wondering if he could fade into the background again. Wondering if he could get his pulse back to its regular road-to-nowhere speed.
“Well, you two.” He could hear her moving toward the twins. “I think you need to say sorry to this man for putting him in the middle of your silliness.”
He chanced a wary look while she gathered the kids.
Something in his chest clenched at the sight of her: A light-blue short-sleeved blouse and a wispy ankle-length flowered skirt with a wide-brimmed hat to protect her fair skin against the August sun. Long hair, as white-yellow as the meringue on top of those pies they were selling in one of the charity food tents. And when she tilted her head toward him and smiled, he got a second gander at those eyes: as playful as a kitten’s, tipped up at the corners, a twinkling shade of blue.
She was almost a throwback to simpler times. A prairie girl full of light and innocence, caught in a museum painting or a fantasy of days gone by.
Jackson cleared his throat and squinted. He’d been gaping. Might as well face the music.
“If the kids here apologize to anyone,” he said, “it should probably be to each other. Not to me.”
The little boy shrugged. “We fight all the time.”
“Yeah,” the girl agreed.
Growling in mock frustration, the blonde pretended to grab the twins’ ears. “You’re both a real big help to your mom. Here she is, just out of the hospital with another baby, and you’re running around wreaking havoc. Why, I oughta…”
She made an ear-twisting motion with her hands and the twins giggled.
Jackson took a couple more steps back, chest heavy with things he’d rather forget. Family. Kids. Inevitable anguish.
“We’ll be good, Felicia,” the girl said, hugging the blonde.
Not to be outdone, the boy joined the embrace. “Don’t be mad at us.”
She laughed again, her words muffled by their enthusiastic cradling. “I will be mad if I see you going after each other again. I’m serious.”
Unable to help it, Jackson found his eyes glued to her once more.
“Go to your mom.” She hustled the twins away, pointing toward a well-padded woman holding a swaddled infant and standing near a tiny merry-go-round. The kids took off, greeting their mother with clumsy energy.
The blonde didn’t move for a moment, just kept her gaze on them. A sad sort of gaze. The corners of her mouth twitched once before she sighed and crossed her arms over her chest.
The sounds of carnival music mixed with a Clint Black song, filling the silence between them. Finally, she straightened up and walked toward him, all cheer and sunshine once again.
“I really am sorry about that.”
“Forget it.” Could he leave without Rip getting all over his case for being a curmudgeon?
Then again, did he really want to go now that the day had become a little more interesting?
She was close enough so he could smell her perfume—something as pure as summer petals.
Closing his eyes, Jackson tried to fight whatever it w
as that addled his brain. He was beyond flirtation and intimacy. Had been for years.
When he looked again, she was sticking out her hand. “I’m Felicia Markowski. I work in housekeeping here at Oakvale. And those were two of many, many second cousins.”
He hesitated to accept her touch, entertained a slew of curse words in his mind then slid his fingers into her gentle grip. Still, Jackson didn’t allow himself the luxury of enjoying her skin. Instead, he ignored the warmth, the tingling bolt of awareness that jagged through his body.
He disconnected.
“Jackson North,” he said. “Hanging R.”
“Really?” She didn’t seem to mind that he’d just about treated her handshake like a man whipping off a clinging snake that’d buried its fangs into him. “Old Rip hasn’t hired anyone in ages.”
Discomfited, Jackson hoped he could leave soon.
“I’m surprised he took on another employee,” she added, “what with all the rumors about the ranch being in such bad shape. We all love Rip McCain to death, but he wouldn’t ask for help even if it started licking his ankles and begging for attention.”
Jackson thought of the Hanging R’s dilapidated buildings, the dwindling stock of longhorn cattle, the rusted tools and broken fences.
But he didn’t say squat.
She must’ve noticed him fidgeting like a teenage boy who’d been caught climbing out of a girl’s window with his pants around his ankles. Her smile was way too amused to be casual.
“So you go by Jackson, huh? If we’re going to be neighbors, can I call you Jack?”
She wouldn’t be calling him anything once he finally got back to the ranch and stayed there. “If it pulls your trigger. Sure.”
“It does.” A laugh bubbled out of her. “What brings you to these parts, Jack?”
“I…Well, what brings most wranglers to a ranch?”
“Oh, a private man. Got it.” She didn’t seem very put off by his clammed-up-ness. In fact, she was being so warm and welcoming that he could’ve mistaken it for something deeper.
Attraction?
Sure. Gorgeous blondes were always drawn to men like him: as craggy as the face of a mountain, old enough to be her babysitter. And plenty of off-putting attitude to boot.
Might as well leave while the leaving was good—before he found himself in an actual conversation. He hated those. Hated having to make excuses when it came time to take the next step with a woman.
Damned divorce, he thought. Damned fear.
Tipping his hat in farewell, he started to walk off, to be alone again.
Just then, a gust of wind stirred the air and the woman’s own straw hat huffed off her head.
Had it been his imagination, or had she let it go a little too easily?
“Oops,” she said, sounding much too innocuous.
As the hat rolled over the neatly manicured lawn, he stepped over, scooped it up and returned it.
“Thank you.” She positively beamed at him, as if he’d gathered her into his arms to carry her over a muddy puddle or had plucked her puppy dog from a flood.
Would it be a bad thing to preen a little under her appreciation? He did—until he forced himself to stop. “It was nothing.”
Unable to help it, he found himself peering at her again. Caught her giving him the once-over, too, her gaze slowly traveling up his body from boot to hat.
A flare of pure lust consumed him, unwelcome in its heat, its unguarded possibilities. He cleared his throat.
She blushed, smiled again, then started walking at a speed that invited him to keep pace. Like some kind of wood puppet, he did.
There’d been a time when he’d have followed a beautiful woman anywhere. Maybe feeling unhindered again—even for just a few minutes—wouldn’t do any harm.
Right?
Besides, maybe he could tolerate being neighborly until he made it to the exit.
As they strolled, matching steps, he said to himself, This is nice. Right nice, actually.
Nearing the quaint midway, they passed the twins and their mother, and all of them waved. The woman held a hand over one of her baby’s ears and called, “Polka, Felicia! An hour and a half! You’ll be there?”
Felicia gave a thumbs-up and when she turned back to him, there was a certain sorrow taking the place of the twinkle in her eyes, though he could tell she was doing her best to hide it.
“She’s another cousin—a first, this time. And the baby’s named Stan, another second cousin.” There was a catch in her voice. But maybe he’d imagined it, because in the next instant, she was back to flashing a smile at him. “How about I introduce you to another neighbor or two?”
“I’ve…got to get back. Work. You know.” Why the hell did he sound so stiff, so uncomfortable? It was almost as if he’d never met a female before. Had he withdrawn from normal life so much these last few years that he couldn’t socialize properly now?
“I could walk you out then,” she said.
Tempted but…no. First it’d be a walk to the gate. Then an invitation to dinner. Then commitment. Then children….
He couldn’t breathe again.
Shaking his head, he pointed toward the exit. “Not necessary. Thanks for the offer.”
She laughed. “You’re not much for chatting, are you?” There was still a teasing lightness to her, making Jackson too aware that her youth and exuberance created a canyon of years between them, even if they had been walking side by side.
Dammit, he was the world’s biggest crab, wasn’t he? Couldn’t he relax, even a little?
This woman kind of made him want to try.
He jerked his head at the merry-go-round, back at the twins and their mother. “Your cousin, huh?”
Hell, it wasn’t brilliant conversation, but definitely a start.
“If you look around, you’ll see my entire clan running amuck.” She gestured toward a crowd of squealing brunette children by the ring toss who were pounding each other with the stuffed animals they must have won.
“You’re all from around these parts?”
There, he was getting better at this by the second.
“You bet. We come from generations of good Polish stock who settled here over a hundred years ago. If you’ve been to town, you’ve probably seen the church. My relatives helped build it during the last half of the nineteenth century.”
He nodded, even though, so far, he’d visited Wycliffe’s bars more often than any church.
They reached the heart of the midway, surrounded by the music stage, more rides and charity booths. The aroma of fried foods and cotton candy laced the air. In front of them, a table decorated with a crystal ball and sheer red material waited. A sign reading Back in a Flash was taped to a chair.
As they stood there, Jackson noticed that they were drawing stares and hopeful glances from most of the folks in the area.
Now he was feeling strange again, especially since they all seemed to have some kind of expectation in the lift of their brows.
“Don’t mind them,” Felicia said. “Everyone’s a matchmaker around here. But all you have to do is make small talk with every single girl you meet today, and the pressure will be off. You’ll get a flighty reputation no ehevermittler will want to touch.”
He probably looked confused at the foreign word, as well as her reasoning.
“Ehevermittler. German for matchmaker, the curse of my existence.” She shrugged, the gesture pretty adorable. “Yeah, German—my mom’s side. The hundreds of cousins you see are melting pots, too, just like me. Pop’s side of the family is where I get my polka skills, and…”
She cut herself off. “I’m talking a lot, aren’t I?”
He opened his mouth to answer. Sure, she was sort of like a windmill in a gale, but he wasn’t minding so much now. He’d probably never even see her again after today, so why worry?
“It’s an issue I’m trying to overcome,” she said, “talking a lot. I’m trying to make you feel at home, and I’m overcompensating,
I think.”
She took another breath to continue, then stopped, gaze fixed on a passing cluster of elderly women who were staring at Felicia with what seemed like pity. As she glanced away, they did, too, shaking their heads.
What had that been about?
“Well,” Felicia said, ignoring her neighbors and gesturing toward the table, “this is my last stop. I’m helping to collect money for the Society here.”
Jackson motioned toward the crystal ball. “The fortune-teller’s booth?”
“You’ve got it. Do you want Madame Carlota to divine your future? Riches, happiness…romance?”
Stepping away from the table, Jackson made his answer abundantly clear. If tomorrow was anything like his yesterdays, he didn’t want to know.
Felicia must have read his body language because, even though she kept up the peppy smile, her shoulders dropped, almost as if he’d let her down somehow.
Was she one of those women who pounced on every new man who moved into the area? If so, he was better off making his desire to be left alone even more obvious.
“I’ll leave you to your crystal gazing,” he said, tipping his hat at her again, then digging into his wallet for a twenty-dollar bill and handing it to her. “Put this in the pot.”
“Sure you don’t want your money’s worth?”
Tightness closed his throat and, as he lifted his hand in goodbye, he also turned to go. But, in his rush to get back to normalcy, he brushed against another woman.
She was a svelte brunette with light-brown skin, a flowing fortune-teller’s costume and straight dark hair covered with a gypsy scarf. Her deep brown sloe eyes blinked up at him as he passed her, his knuckles accidentally skimming her bared arm.
In that moment, Jackson felt like a book that was being read.
He apologized, then did what self-preservation dictated: he blocked her out and headed back to the safety of his own four walls.
A place where no one could look past his frown and discover what lay beneath.
The Last Cowboy Page 1
