Cowboy's Kiss (10 page)

He could be charming.

He could be pleasant.

He could even be funny in his way.

And he didn't have any one special
lady friend
that he was involved with....

* * *

“...and Mutt came home all muddy and smelly, so me ‘n' Hans gave him a hose bath and Mutt stayed real still while I got him soaped up good and then all of a sudden he shaked and shaked and suds went everywhere on me and Hans, and Hans looked so funny and...”

While Ally stood in the spray of the shower a few minutes later, Meggie sat on the clothes hamper and regaled her with tales of her day.

Every muscle in Ally's body ached. Her hands were a mess of raw flesh and angry blisters. And she was so exhausted she was leaning against the wall, letting the water rain over her and trying not to fall asleep standing up.

But every bit of it was worth it to her to hear her daughter chattering the way she was. Meggie was turning back into a little girl, and no amount of work or misery or fatigue was too high a price for Ally to pay for that.

“I have to wash my hair now, honey,” Ally called through the shower curtain, forcing herself to straighten away from that wall. “I won't be able to hear you with my head under the water, so hold on a minute.”

“That's okay. I better go downstairs and set the table for dinner anyhow.”

Ally heard the bathroom door open and close as she reached for the shampoo. The image of her daughter scurrying off to do a chore made her smile.

In the past three years Ally had jumped through hoops trying to bring Meggie out of her divorce depression. She'd gone into debt for a vacation to Disneyland and for every toy her daughter had seemed even remotely interested in. She'd taken her bike riding, camping, hiking, to every kids' movie, museum, amusement park or entertainment that had come along. She'd gone after the job as camp cook and slopped more oatmeal and boiled more hot dogs than she hoped to see the whole rest of her life. She'd done anything and everything imaginable to brighten Meggie's spirits.

Except given her chores to do.

Who'd have thought that would have done more good than anything?

Or that Jackson Heller, of all people—whip cracker, taskmaster and sometime nice guy—would have been the one to accomplish it?

* * *

It was still Meggie's voice that Ally heard as she approached the kitchen half an hour later when she'd finished her shower, dressed in a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a T-shirt, and dried her hair. Only her daughter's audience now was Jackson.

Rather than revitalizing Ally, getting cleaned up had sapped what little was left of her energy and for a moment she paused outside the door, closed her eyes and reveled in her daughter's voice while she tried to summon the stamina to get through the evening.

What she heard surprised her.

The conversation that was going on on the other side of the door could have been one between herself and Meggie. Not only was her daughter telling the same stories, but with as much warmth and spirit and lack of inhibitions—as if she felt almost as relaxed with Jackson as she did with Ally.

And for his part, Jackson laughed in all the right places and asked just enough questions to show he was interested, to encourage her, to pave the way for Meggie to open up even more.

Gratitude to him for all of that made Ally forgive him a lot at that moment. It also made it occur to her that maybe, like his father, beneath the gruff exterior he had a pretty soft interior.

Just then she heard her daughter say in a conspiratorial voice, “Let's set it all up before Mom comes down so she can't say no.”

And with that Ally decided it was time to join them in the kitchen.

“Can't say no to what?”

Meggie made the face of someone caught in the act. “Me and Jackson want to eat on the coffee table, in front of the TV tonight,” the little girl said as if the idea were already doomed.

“I can't see the harm.” Jackson added his support.

“I usually like for us to have dinner together, at the table.”

“Oh, ple-eease,” Meggie begged. “Just this once?”

Indulging Meggie always came easier than sticking to the rules, and tonight Ally was too tired not to take the easy way out. Plus, with Jackson throwing in his encouragement, she didn't want to be the bad guy. “I suppose it would be okay just this once.”

Marta had left them food again—meat loaf, potatoes, peas and bread—and they all took what they could carry and headed back the way Ally had just come, putting it on the square coffee table in the center of the three sofas that formed a U around the big-screen television.

It was the call of those overstuffed couches that did Ally in.

When Jackson and Meggie went for drinks, Ally eased her exhausted bones and sore posterior onto the downy cushions of one of them.

Just a little rest, she told herself. She could lay her head on the sofa back and close her eyes for only a minute while Jackson and Meggie were out of the room and then she'd feel so much better....

Ally was sure not more than a few seconds had passed when she felt her right hand being lifted gingerly from her lap.

Meggie, she thought. Meggie was probably going to pull her arm around those narrow shoulders and cuddle up to her side the way she did sometimes when they were watching television.

That would be nice. In fact it made Ally smile. But only with her eyes closed. Her lids were too heavy to raise, so she granted herself a moment's more rest and stayed where she was, waiting to feel that tiny body against hers before she'd tell Meggie to go ahead and eat, that she'd join her and they could snuggle later.

But no tiny body curled up under her arm.

Instead a big, callused hand cradled the back of hers and four long, thick fingers began to rub something cool and smooth over her palm.

This was not Meggie.

And the realization of that fact forced Ally to drag herself from a deeper sleep than she'd thought she was in.

When she finally managed to open her eyes, it was to find Jackson sitting crossways on the couch beside her, holding her hand while he rubbed some sort of ointment on her blisters.

Without moving, Ally glanced around the room. Meggie was nowhere in sight, the coffee table that had been laden with dishes and food was now clear of everything, and she sensed that the hour was much, much later than when she'd sat down.

But she was still so weary, so weighted with the deep sleep she'd just come out of, that she couldn't make herself do more than stay the way she was.

Of course, helping to persuade her was the fact that Jackson was concentrating on what he was doing and didn't seem to know she was awake. And his ministrations felt so good she couldn't resist letting them go on.

Carefully. Very carefully, he dabbed the ointment and then smoothed it around with a gentleness that amazed her.

As she basked in the slow, steady strokes, she watched him.

The man was almost too good-looking to be real there in the dim glow of a single lamp that dusted the hollows of his cheeks with shadows and gilded the chiseled crests in gold.

His features were relaxed—a state she hadn't seen them in much since she'd arrived—and the lack of furrows in his brow only enhanced his handsomeness.

His hair was combed in a careless way that said it had seen more action from his fingers than from a comb; his mustache was neatly trimmed, and he smelled pretty terrific, too.

But more than with the way he looked, he was enrapturing her with his touch. Warm, tender, almost loving—though of course, that was a silly thought.

Finished with her right hand, he set it on her lap and picked up the other.

Ally was just tired enough to remain sleep-limp without effort, so still he wasn't alerted to the fact that she was awake.

And yet if he had been, he might have glanced up and given her a view of those incredible blue eyes of his—something she suddenly craved.

“That's nice,” she said, hoping he wouldn't stop but willing to risk it to satisfy that need.

Up went his brows and, with them, his lids as he finally looked at her, still holding her hand but not applying the cream just then. “You missed supper,” he said in a quiet, husky voice that only informed without criticism.

But even if he had criticized, it would have been worth it for the sight of those eyes.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Almost eleven.”

“And Meggie—”

“Upstairs asleep.” He dipped his fingertips into the jar of ointment and went back to her blisters.

“This is the second night I've missed tucking her in.”

“I did it tonight,” he said, his gaze on what he was doing again. “She asked to take Mutt with her and when I brought him up to her I got her all settled in.”

“Mutt the dog?”

“Mmm. He's sleeping at her feet.” Jackson let a split second of silence pass before he said, “I've never seen anyone brace themselves with all those dolls and things the way she does. What's that about?”

His tone held more than curiosity, it actually rang with some concern and compassion, too. And something about that melted her insides even more than the soft touch of his hands. “Insecurity, I guess. She started doing the bumper pad of toys after the divorce and she hasn't been able to sleep any other way since.”

He nodded as if she'd only confirmed what he'd suspected.

He had finished with her left hand by then and let it go. Ally immediately regretted losing his touch, but at least he didn't move away. He stayed where he was, so close beside her that the shin of the leg he had up on the couch ran the length of her thigh.

He leaned an arm along the back of the sofa where her head still rested and stared at her, studying her, but in a thoughtful way now, unlike the other times when his eyes had bored through her.

“What about you?” he asked. “Do you have insecurities from your divorce?”

“I don't know. One or two, I suppose. Comes with the territory.” Territory she didn't want to talk about. She held up her hands, palms first. “Thanks for this.”

He only nodded and changed the subject yet again. “With that red hair and those green eyes, I keep wondering if you're Irish. Are you?” he asked out of the blue.

“On my mother's side.”

Again he nodded. “Irish eyes—that's what I thought.”

Those sparks he'd raised in her at the end of the day came back to play along her nerve endings with the dark whiskey tone of his voice just then and the words that let her know she wasn't the only one noticing things she shouldn't be noticing.

“You should sell out to me and go away, Ally,” he told her then, not an order, more a suggestion, unlike even the warnings he'd delivered in the past. This was quiet, heartfelt, as if he were wishing she'd do it before whatever it was that was wrapping around them both at that moment got any stronger or pulled them any closer.

But even as he said it, he kept on studying her face, searching her eyes, and she didn't seem able to do more than shake her head in denial as she lost herself in the sight of his face, too.

For a moment time seemed to stand still as the intimacy of the room, of being so close together on that couch, of the touch they'd just shared, wiped away all the harsh words that had been said since they'd met, all the harsh treatment. Suddenly they were not two people at odds. They were two people attracted to each other.

Intensely attracted...

Very slowly, Jackson came nearer, pausing—hesitating—with his mouth poised a scant breath from hers. But only for a heartbeat before closing that last distance and kissing her.

Had she really thought he might not be good at it? She'd been wrong. He was better than good at it. He was great. His lips felt as supple as they looked. Just slightly moist, just slightly parted, just...wonderful. His mustache was soft, almost silky and the little bit it tickled was tantalizing. Titillating. Very sexy...

He kissed the way he did many things—expertly, firmly but gently, with knowledge and experience. And with a quiet passion that took her breath away.

She shouldn't be doing this and she knew it. She knew she should put a stop to it right then.

But it felt so terrific to be cocooned in the soft cushions of the couch with Jackson's big, powerful body looming over her, his hand tenderly cupping the side of her face, his mouth on hers. She just couldn't do it.

Then all at once, Jackson did, pulling away so abruptly it was as if someone else had yanked him back.

He shook his head in a strong denial, and his expression seemed to be full of self-disgust. “Damn it all to hell,” he muttered.

Then he shoved himself off the couch and stood there, tall, gorgeous, angry again. “Are you going to make it up the stairs under your own steam tonight or do I have to carry you?” he demanded as brusquely as ever and as if the end of the previous night had irked him, too.

“I can make it on my own just fine, thanks,” she answered with a fair share of coldness to mask her confusion and embarrassment—though what she had to be embarrassed about she wasn't quite sure.

“Good, then do it,” he ordered. And with that, he headed for the foyer with one last bark. “We start at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow.”

Ally watched him go, wanting to throw something at that broad, straight back; wondering why the sound of his boots on each step that took him to the second level echoed in her pulse; and wishing—wishing hard—that she'd pushed him away the moment her eyes had opened and she'd found her hand in his.

Hearing his bedroom door close, she got to her feet and moved stiffly in the same direction, all the while telling Jackson off in her head, calling him names, letting him know in no uncertain terms just how much she didn't like him.

And she
didn't
like him.

Yet after she'd looked in on Meggie and finally eased out of her clothes with the agony of the sore, tired muscles and raw flesh that
he'd
caused, the memory of those scant few minutes when things had been so different between them got into bed with her.