Carlota’s eyes started to saucer even before Emmy could finish.
“My husband says this new wrangler Rip’s hired is the last cowboy the Hanging R will ever see.”
Emmy’s pronouncement sank in, burying itself into Felicia like seeds in a garden—waiting to be watered by faith and tears.
Waiting to flower.
Jack North—the last cowboy on the Hanging R?
If only Felicia could bring herself to believe in her destiny as easily as her friends did.
Chapter Three
A s the next day’s sun tucked itself behind the highs and lows of Texas hill country, Felicia drove to the Hanging R, got out of her used, temperamental Pontiac and clutched some grocery bags against her chest. The vibration of her heartbeat pulsed against the paper, shaking it ever so slightly.
How had Emmy and Carlota even talked her into coming over here? It was bad enough that she wanted to believe all this “last cowboy” talk. Actually showing up to see if the prediction would come true was even worse.
Still, a tiny flare of faith had been lit in her.
A dream.
Step one in Felicia’s Big Plan to win over the future father of her child?
The slam of the car door caught the attention of the men on Rip McCain’s buckling porch. Both cowboys had their denim-covered legs stretched out in front of them. One man—the infamous Rip McCain—swayed back and forth on a screeching swing that Felicia could hear even a hundred feet away. The other—Jack!—leaned back in a chair, taking a knife to what she guessed was a piece of wood. The glow from an inside lamp lent the pine cabin’s windows a sleepy warmth, matching the orange of dusk. The structure seemed lonely resting on the desolate spread, framed by a creaky windmill, a graying barn and a bunkhouse.
The cow dog, a Queensland heeler, chugged over to greet her.
“Hey, J-Wayne,” she said, wishing her hands were empty so she could pet him.
The mangy guy simply wagged his tail, giving Felicia enough courage to see if Jack had glanced up from his whittling to lay eyes on her yet.
Nope.
If he was her destiny, shouldn’t it be easier to attract him?
Old Rip, the owner and ranch foreman of the Hanging R, stuck up his arm in greeting and creaked down the steps toward her. He walked as if he’d been riding a horse for all his years and had just now climbed down.
One more glance told her that Jack was still absorbed in his work. Great.
“Hello, there, little Markowski,” Rip said, rubbing his hands together. His hat was tilted back, revealing silver stubble and sun-leathered skin. He talked around a bump in the bottom of his lip. Snuff. “What have we here?”
He was more subdued than usual. Was it because of the failing ranch? Or…yeah, more likely it had to do with the impending arrival of Rip’s great-nephew, a boy he’d never met. County gossip held that Rip hadn’t even seen his nephew’s parents since they’d been kids, yet he’d been the only remaining relative who was able to take the six-year-old in.
Good old Rip. Salt of the earth.
Felicia hitched up the bags as they slipped from her grasp. “I’m done with housekeeping for the day, so I volunteered to be neighborly, seeing as you’re short a cook.”
“Aw, his brisket was tough anyway.”
Neither of them mentioned why the unpaid employee had left the Hanging R.
He relieved her of both bags, and J-Wayne pattered away from them, heading off to sniff at her car.
“So how’re you, Rip?”
“Happier than a lost soul with hell in a flood,” he said.
Though she wasn’t sure what that meant, his grin told her that something as minor as bankruptcy wasn’t about to get him down.
“Aside from the fund-raiser, I haven’t seen you around for a couple of months,” she said, walking next to him as they headed for the porch.
“Been busy keepin’ busy here.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she kept track of Jack North. Maybe Carlota had been wrong about him giving her a baby. If he was her true love, then why hadn’t the man paid her any mind since she’d driven up the Hanging R’s drive?
He’s going to make you a mother.
She could almost feel the tender weight of a baby’s sleeping body curled in her arms. She’d held a hundred younger cousins and they’d all tugged at her heartstrings.
But cuddling a body that had slept inside hers? One that had been nourished by her love?
Felicia held back a rush of need. God in heaven, all she wanted was that child.
And a man who could just love her, even if she couldn’t manage to give him the baby she longed to have.
Had she only been imagining the way Jack had looked at her during the charity event? Could he ever find her attractive—outside and in?
“Jackson!” Rip was halfway up the cabin steps. “Company calls. Or does that there wood provide better conversation?”
If her blood had been skipping through her body thirty seconds ago, it was sprinting now.
The wrangler’s hat hid the weathered face that had haunted last night’s dreams. Even today, while she’d worked with the other maids dusting and polishing Oakvale’s massive bedrooms, she’d been dizzy with his image.
Curled shavings gathered around Jack’s feet, withered and forgotten. “Wood doesn’t make unnecessary small talk,” he said. “That’s for certain.”
Oh. Had that been some sort of dig about how she couldn’t keep her mouth shut yesterday?
He wasn’t so happy to see her here, was he?
Though he still whittled away, Felicia could see that the stick wasn’t taking any sort of shape. Rip shrugged at her and opened the cabin’s door. The hinges yelped as he went in.
Silence, except for the dry whisper of blade on wood.
“Hi, Jack,” she said.
Whisk. He finally looked up at her, squinting against the waning light of day. If she didn’t know better, she would have guessed that it actually pained him to see her.
“I guess that’s how it is around here,” he said, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Neighbors always dropping by with grub and good intentions.”
Her first instinct was to defend the care packages against the word grub. Not that she was about to announce that Emmy had spent hours helping her prepare that grub, but with the way he just sort of spat it out, he sure didn’t sound grateful.
“You don’t get hungry like the rest of us?” she asked playfully.
Slay them with kindness—that’s what she always said. She’d win him over, all right.
Jack squinted even harder and shook his head. “Didn’t mean to offend. I’m not big on unexpected company, is all.”
A hearty “whoo-hoo!” sounded from inside the cabin. Rip had probably found Emmy’s chocolate-dipped cherries.
Felicia leaned against the skeletal porch railing, but it let out a groan of protest, so she decided to sit on Rip’s swing instead. The sounds it made weren’t much more reassuring.
“Wycliffe,” she said, “is a community. Almost a family. When someone’s sick, we come running. When someone’s down and out, we offer our hand and hope they grab on. If you’re going to live here, you’d better get used to company.”
His spine seemed to stiffen under his shirt. “Don’t get me wrong, Ms. Markowski—”
“Felicia. I’m named after my grandmother—”
“—but when I hired on here, I just wanted a place where I could plant my bones. By myself. Except for Rip, of course, who yammers enough for the both of us.”
“You really don’t enjoy getting to know other people?”
Slice. Back to whittling. “After so many years, there’s not much of a need.”
Oh.
Unchecked, she blurted out her next question. “What the heck made you so standoffish?”
The knife blade stopped in midair, floating above the wood.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t know me well enough to answer.”
>
Yet.
He snapped the knife back into itself, then slowly lay the malformed stick on the porch boards next to his chair. “Just so there’s no mistake, don’t ever expect an answer to that.”
As he stood, Felicia felt more alone than she ever had. But she couldn’t let him off the hook. Not when so much was at stake for her.
She got to her feet, also. Why? She wasn’t sure. Was she going to tackle him in order to keep him here? Was she going to sit on him, keeping him captive, and put it all out on the line?
You’re not going to believe this, but you might be a big part of my future. There’s no way I’m going to give up on the possibility this easily.
Rip spoke from behind the screen door. “We’ve got a feast, Jackson, compliments of the lovely ladies over at Oakvale. Told you there were benefits to working at the Hanging R. Good eating is only the beginning. Get in here.”
Jack merely adjusted his hat and slipped a gaze Felicia’s way, hooking his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans.
The sun angled over his tall, rope-muscled body, shading half his face in darkness while the other half remained soulfully weary.
Looking at him, Felicia lost the ability to stand up straight. Her stomach twisted with pent-up longing. A sweet lightness tingled the area around her heart, cradling it with care.
Some would call her ridiculous, but she didn’t know what it was about Jack North. The man was cranky, didn’t reveal a thing about himself and had the gall to make her feel unwelcome, yet…
Hmm. Was it because he was mysterious? A challenge of sorts?
Rip’s amused voice broke the moment wide open. “You two going to eat or not? We’ve got some pies, fancy stew and breads….”
Thank you, Emmy, Felicia thought.
“You want me to stay?” she asked.
Jack shuffled his boots.
“You’re our privileged guest.” Rip motioned her inside. His wiry body didn’t seem much bigger than a fence pole, but he was just as sturdy.
Jack spoke up. “Let her go, Rip.”
So he really didn’t want her around—not now, at least. Could she win him bit by bit? Jack North obviously wasn’t a man who took to being forced into a situation. Time was all he needed to get used to the fact that he could be meant for her.
And she was looking forward to convincing him, too.
Warmed by the thought, Felicia made her way down the steps, keeping that smile on her face. Maybe she’d lost the battle, but she’d win the war.
“Really, Rip,” she said. “Enjoy the spoils. The calzones are particularly good.”
“Cal-what?”
She laughed. “I’ll see you.”
As she walked away, she tossed one last grin over her shoulder—
—and caught Jack North watching her go, eyes barely visible beneath the brim of his hat.
Bang! Her heart thudded against her ribs, blood thundering through her body.
Well, now. What about that.
Her steps lightened in time to the cadence of Rip’s thank-yous and farewells. As she prepared to leave, she couldn’t help humming to herself.
Maybe the world would be her oyster. The sun would come out tomorrow. The…
The car wasn’t starting.
She tried again. And again.
Maybe she was meant to stay for dinner, after all.
“Good cookin’,” Rip repeated for about the one hundredth time as the three of them sat at the small dinner table. “Too bad the other hands went to town tonight. Poor pokes.”
Jackson had his mouth full of some fancy cinnamon bread, so it gave him an excuse not to engage. Needless to say, as Rip had waxed splendiferous about Felicia’s chow and the woman herself had made pleasant chatter, Jackson had been doing a lot of gourd stuffing.
He found himself watching her throughout the meal, chastising his body every time he caught him self doing it.
When she’d first gotten out of the car, Rip had let loose some remark about Felicia being the first woman in a flood of females to come and claim his new wrangler. Jackson hoped to God there wouldn’t be any more.
Felicia was enough.
Now, her summer-shine hair was tucked behind her ears, sheeting down her back. And she did have a cute little tipped-up nose to go along with those bright eyes. She reminded Jackson of one of the barn kittens—spirited, open-faced, innocent.
Hell. He’d already spent his last chance at happiness. Now, all he wanted to do was ride his mount over the country, communicating with a mere squeeze of his legs as he sat in the saddle. No more words.
No more blame.
Just him and the silent days ahead.
Rip was laughing—or wheezing, Jackson wasn’t sure which—at something Felicia had said. She’d thrown back her head in amusement, too, throat exposed, dimples framing her smile.
“Aw.” Rip sighed and patted his stomach. “I never could stand that other boy’s cookin’, and mine ain’t much better. Not that we have the time or energy to work the kitchen after a long day anyway.”
He jerked his stubbled chin in Jackson’s direction. In answer, Jackson merely shrugged and drew back into himself, making sure Felicia didn’t know that his mouth had been going dry at the sight of her.
“So what do you usually eat?” she asked.
“Whatever the ladies bring round.” Rip’s expression turned sly. “I expect a whole lot of gourmet offerings with the playboy bachelor here.”
Felicia blushed furiously, which made Jackson steam.
“Pipe down, Rip.”
“Is it some secret that you’re a single man? I could live like a king if you set your mind to working your wiles on the ladies of Wycliffe.”
Fighting a grin, Felicia said, “You’ve got a pretty blunt boss, Jack.”
You could say the same about my fist filling his mouth, Jackson thought. Pretty damned blunt, too.
“Don’t worry,” she continued. “Rip’s right about there being a lot of willing ladies in the area, but they won’t bother you as soon as they hear you don’t encourage the companionship.”
Hallelujah, she’d finally caught on.
Was it time to hit the bunkhouse yet? The clock above the sink said eight o’clock. Damn.
“Tell me, Little Markowski,” Rip said, “do all the women in your family work a pan so good?”
Her mouth moved, but then she shut it. Then she began, “I, uh…”
Rip forged ahead. “Because we could sure use a cook until someone permanent comes along. Yup, we could use a dough puncher like you. Couldn’t we, Jackson?”
The old man chuckled, taking great pleasure in his employee’s mortification. The boss knew how to push his buttons, that was for certain.
Jackson just sank lower in his chair. All he needed was Felicia around to drive him to distraction.
“I already have a job, remember?” she said. “Over at Oakvale?”
That’s right. She didn’t have time for these childish games. So much for Rip’s bright ideas.
“Can’t say I didn’t try.” Rip winked at her and stood, gathering his crumb-littered plate, but Jackson still caught the twist of despair in the old cowboy’s gaze.
Following his boss’s progress toward the sink, Jackson’s brow furrowed. Rip moved like his joints needed a good greasing, and he held himself up by using the counter as he stared out the window at the darkness.
During the fund-raiser, Felicia had talked about the ranch’s poor state. Truth to tell, Jackson had been concerned, too, and not only about finances.
The boy was coming soon. Bobby. More than just another mouth to feed.
Jackson actually panicked at a name that would soon go with a small, all-too-real face.
When Rip turned back around from the sink, he nonetheless had that ever-present lump pushing out his bottom lip, tobacco or not. His eyes glittered, a teasing shade of blue, much like Felicia’s.
Jackson’s pulse popped just thinking about their shine.
; She had an intense quirk to her eyebrows while scrutinizing Rip. “Is there anything I can do to—”
“We’re right as rain,” he said, cutting her off. “Don’t you worry about the Hanging R.”
The thoughtful expression remained on her face as her eyes met Jackson’s, as if needing him to second Rip’s positive outlook.
Jackson lowered his gaze, stung by the heat thrashing under his skin.
Before he’d gotten divorced, Jenna, his ex-wife, had looked to him for solace in times of need. For opinions, as if he could take care of everything. They’d both learned the hard way that he wasn’t capable of much.
He was real good at damage, and that was about it.
“Rip…?” Felicia asked.
The old man clapped together his hands, grabbed his hat and headed for the door in a show of avoidance. “I told you I’d take a gander at that Pontiac to see what the problem is. Here I go.”
And with that, he left them alone in the dimly lit kitchen, the red-and-white gingham tablecloth being the loudest object in the room.
Felicia leaned her elbow on the table and her hair spilled over her arm. “Be straight with me. Is he taking on too much with this ranch and now his nephew?”
Jackson shifted in his chair. He himself wasn’t even ready for Bobby to be here. The thought of having a child around the age of Leroy and Lucas, who were frozen in his memory as eternal little boys, tore him apart.
“You know Old Rip. He loves taking in strays. He’ll be all right.” Especially since Bobby was coming to them with enough money from his late parents to cover his living expenses, for a while, at least.
“I don’t understand how he’ll take care of a boy and labor like he does.” She paused, then her eyes lit up. “You know, I’ll bet my friend Emmy and her husband Deston could improve matters. They wouldn’t hesitate to lend some money or help.”
“Wait, now. I haven’t known Rip that long, but I’m pretty certain he won’t accept charity. Seems stubborn as a jackass.”
“But look at this place.” Felicia motioned around, her eyes having gone softhearted, her hair shifting position and sliding against a shoulder. “He can’t refuse. Besides, maybe I could talk him into accepting…a loan.”
The Last Cowboy Page 3
