B.J. Daniels - The Cowgirl in Question

She wiped perspiration from her forehead with her arm. Her skin felt flushed, then dimpled with goose bumps as a chill rippled over it. She blotted her hands on a clean towel, avoiding the sympathetic looks of Ellie, Kit and Arthur.

“Don’t you want me to call the sheriff?” Arthur said.

“No!” She lowered her voice. “Please. I can handle this.”

Picking up Rourke’s order, she hurried back out to the counter and put it down in front of him.

“Thank you,” he said, his eyes boring into her.

“Can I get you anything else?” Her voice only broke a little but she could see that he heard it, relished in the fact that he had her flustered.

“No thanks. I have everything I need. At least for the moment,” he added.

She was weary of this game and desperate to say the words she’d wanted to say to him for eleven years. “Rourke, I think we should—”

“I’ll let you know if I need anything else,” he said, cutting her off.

He didn’t want to hear her tell him how sorry she was for what had happened to him. Or how badly she felt about the part she’d played in it. He wanted to be angry. To make her suffer. Didn’t he know how much she’d suffered already?

No, she thought, looking into all that icy blue. He wanted to strike out at her for his own suffering. He wanted someone to pay. And he’d decided eleven years ago, who that person would be.

She stared at this hardened, cold, embittered man with only one thing on his mind: getting even with her. The realization left her feeling empty inside.

He’d never paid her any mind at all—except for one kiss when she was thirteen and then again after Forrest’s murder. He’d looked right through her before then.

She refilled his coffee cup. He thought she’d framed him for murder. That he’d been the only one to live his life under a cloud of suspicion for the past eleven years.

If he thought he could make her feel more guilty, he was wrong. She had blamed herself all these years.

Just do it, Rourke. Do whatever it is you’ve been planning to do to me for the past eleven years.

He must have seen the change in her. His eyes narrowed and he frowned as if suddenly confused.

There was a crash of pots and pans from the kitchen, followed by some mild cursing. Cassidy hurriedly returned to the kitchen.

Arthur looked up sheepishly. “Nerves,” he whispered.

She smiled at him, knowing how he felt, and bent to help him and Kit retrieve the clutter of pans that had fallen from the shelf. Ellie had finally left, it appeared. “These all have to be washed.”

“I’ll do it,” Kit volunteered, kneeling beside her on the floor. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

Cassidy nodded. She felt as if she’d just gotten the news that someone close to her had died. Only she and Rourke had never been close. Their only connection was his need for revenge. And her need to set things right.

She’d tried to just before Rourke was moved to the prison in Deer Lodge. She’d gone to the jail to try to talk to him but he’d been too angry to listen—let alone believe her.

Cassidy handed Arthur a pan as she rose. Hiding her tears, she made a swipe at them, then turned to go back out to the counter. Rourke would talk to her. And if he didn’t, well, she’d talk to him.

But when she reached the counter, she looked around in confusion.

He was gone.

She stared in surprise at the spot where she’d left him just minutes before. His plate was empty. He’d left the price of his meal and a generous tip on the counter.

She was torn between relief and regret. Both made her weak. She leaned against the counter, fighting back her earlier tears. She felt drained, bereft.

“Go on home,” Kit said as she scooped up Rourke’s empty dishes and wiped down the counter. “You’ve had a long day.”

Cassidy could only nod. It had been the longest day of her life.

She took off her apron, hung it up and went to her office to retrieve her purse again. This time, she didn’t hesitate. She opened the back door, trying not to run. She desperately wanted to go home, take a hot bath, mourn for all that had been lost.

The door swung open and she stepped out.

Rourke was leaning against his old pickup, arms folded across his chest, his cowboy hat pushed back, the last of the day’s sunlight on the face she’d dreamed about for eleven years. Some of those dreams had turned into nightmares.

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