Jennifer Mikels - Big Sky Cowboy

Stories of family and romance beneath the Big Sky!

If he kissed her again, every sensible thought she possessed would flee.

“Colby.” His name was spoken on a ragged breath.

“It’s not fair,” he said in a voice that sounded rougher.

Was it possible that she’d made him feel as if the earth had rocked? That’s how she’d felt. “What isn’t?”

Featherlight, he kissed one corner and then the other of her mouth. “How wonderful you taste.”

“I have to go inside.” She gestured over her shoulder.

“Why?”

A quiet challenge stretched between them.

“Because I don’t know what I want,” Tessa said honestly.

With reluctance, he released her. Before she turned, he touched her chin, forced her eyes to meet his.

“I do,” he whispered. “I want you.”

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Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jennifer Mikels for her contribution to the Montana Mavericks series.

is from Chicago, Illinois, but now resides in Phoenix, Arizona, with her husband, two sons and a shepherd collie. She enjoys reading, sports, antiques, yard sales and long walks. Though she’s done technical writing and public relations, she loves writing romances and happy endings.

For Karen Taylor Richman.

Thank you again.

Prologue

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

Centuries ago she’d have been called a witch. Colby Holmes remained undecided about Tessa Madison’s psychic abilities or if she was loony or not, but she didn’t look the way he’d imagined—a bohemian type with frizzy hair, too much makeup, too many bracelets and beads. No, that wasn’t how she looked at all.

“Man, it’s hot, ain’t it, Colby?”

With effort he dragged his gaze away from the raven-haired woman and nodded at the teenager, a sixteen-year-old who loved rodeo and often displayed a hint of hero worship. “Real hot.”

Heat, a sultry warmth that belonged in the tropics instead of Big Sky country, had made Montana temperatures soar. The unseasonably warm July air carried no breeze. Even while he stood still, doing nothing, sweat dampened the back of his shirt.

Yet she looked cool. So damn cool, Colby mused. She wore some gauzy-looking, pale blue dress that skirted her ankles. He eyed the sandaled heels, the toenails painted a frosty-looking pink color. The sheen on her bare arms.

Petite, she had an easy stride that slightly swayed the subtle curve of her hips. Shiny black hair curtained an oval-shaped face as if protecting the fairness of her skin. She appeared fragile—delicate features, small hands, slim body.

He’d heard she lived alone, had no relatives near. Independent, he assumed. And he’d heard talk. Some people wanted her gone from town. But here she was. He admired people who knew how to hang tough.

He’d been told she was twenty-four, had moved to town two months ago. She’d opened her store in a Victorian that was painted a crisp white with dark green trim and shutters. Called Mystic Treasures, it was right around the corner from Main Street and other businesses. It catered to people who were lured to the mystical world of palmistry and astrological readings and believed in extrasensory perception and premonitions.

Colby braced a shoulder against an upright near the arched, flowered trellis the bride and groom had stood beneath moments ago. Along with moonlight, the malibu lights strung along the back of the ranch house fell on the guests gathering around Sylvia and Larry Hardy.

For another moment, Colby watched Tessa Madison inch her way around the buffet table, which was draped with a white linen tablecloth and filled with serving dishes. He gave no conscious thought to his actions. When he moved near to reach for a plate from the stack, she faced him. Her delicate fingers cradled a piece of bacon wrapped around something green. With her other hand, she reached for the plate, handed it to him. “Do you want one?”

Instead of taking the plate right away, he stared at her hand, thin-fingered, the nails tipped with clear polish. “Thanks.” It was dumb, but he wanted to stare at her eyes. Haunting eyes. Gray, fringed by long, dark lashes, they held a smile as they met his. “I’m Colby Holmes.”

Her smile widened. “I know,” she announced in a tone that conveyed he hadn’t needed to tell her.

She knows? Colby watched her turn away, stroll across the grass. What does that mean? Nothing. It’s nothing.

“Colby.” At the sound of his father’s voice, he swung around. Strands of gray weaved through brown hair the same color as Colby’s. More than once, Colby had been told that he looked like his father when Bud Holmes had been younger, trimmer. “Are you listening to me?”

“No, I didn’t catch what you said, Dad.” I was drooling over the town’s resident eccentric.

“So will you bring the car around?”

“Right.” He began working his way toward the cars.

“The heat wilted the bridal bouquet,” a woman standing near the flowered trellis complained to another woman.

“Tessa told Sylvia to have silk flowers,” her companion responded. “But Sylvia’s cousin works at the florist’s and would have boycotted the wedding if Sylvia hadn’t ordered flowers from her.”

“I listened to Tessa when she told me to see my sister in Oregon. It’s good that I did. She went into labor five minutes after I arrived.”

Colby frowned. He’d reached a point where he’d try anything to get normalcy back into his family’s lives. No one was getting answers about his aunt’s murder. When Chelsea Kearns, the forensic expert in town, had suggested he take a less traditional route and talk to the woman only a handful of people had known was psychic, he’d reluctantly considered the notion.

Since then, Tessa Madison’s so-called powers had become the talk of the town. According to people who believed in clairvoyants, she could help him.

He gave himself a mental kick. He must be nuts to think about going to see her. He didn’t believe she had any supernatural power. No one could see what wasn’t visible.

“He’s coming in.”

The he was Colby Holmes. Tessa swung a look away from her store assistant to the man at the shop entrance. She’d had a premonition about him, one she’d wanted to ignore. She let her gaze move up long legs encased in snug, worn-looking jeans. Briefly she glanced at the ornate rodeo buckle, took in the broad shoulders in the blue chambray shirt, the well-defined muscles in sinewy arms beneath the rolled-up sleeves. An ex-rodeo champion who fluttered the hearts of most women under the age of forty, he tipped back his square-crowned, beige Stetson.