Jeannie Watt - To Kiss A Cowgirl

“Do you have anyone else interested besides Marti?”

“One potter.”

“Only one other artist?”

“I’ve been kind of busy doing my job,” Jolie said dryly.

“How many people did you ask?”

“Look,” she said, forcing herself to focus on coming up with an answer rather than the man standing too close to her because they were both too stubborn to back off. He smelled...good. “I just started this process and there was nothing in our agreement about reporting my progress to you.”

“Let’s make an addendum.”

“I called nine people.”

“And got one.”

“It’s a feed store, Dylan.”

“That is exactly why this probably isn’t going to work.”

“Do you always give up this easily?” she blurted.

Dylan looked surprised. “I never give up easily.”

“Then why do you expect me to?”

He opened his mouth and abruptly closed it again. The cat peeked out from behind a row of shovels and Dylan jerked his head toward the door. “Maybe we should get out of here so Marcel can finish eating.”

“Sure.” It was the perfect excuse to put some physical distance between them and she was glad that he’d been the one to suggest it. She also had the strong feeling that she would not have liked whatever he’d been about to say.

They’d just stepped outside when the phone rang. Jolie forced a smile. “Ah. Probably an artisan calling back.” She gave him a smug nod then headed back into the warehouse to the extension phone.

* * *

DYLAN WATCHED JOLIE GO, fairly certain it was not an artist on the phone. Why would an artist display their stuff in a feed store? It made no sense. He had to admit, though, that Jolie wasn’t rolling over in the face of adversity—not yet anyway—but he had a feeling it was because she knew he expected her to fail. He did, but he didn’t need to harp on the matter.

So, in the interest of maintaining a peaceful work environment—and also because he seemed to be noticing a few too many things about his bookkeeper, like the way she wore her jeans—Dylan would keep their relationship briskly businesslike.

For the remaining days of the week, he did not mention the gift boutique and Jolie kept quiet on the matter, too, which made him believe that the project was indeed falling by the wayside.

At least she had given it a shot. And he had to admit that he kind of felt bad when he walked through the store and heard her talking earnestly on the phone to someone who was probably in the process of telling her no dice. He didn’t say anything. Why rub salt into the wound?

That night after dinner, Dylan went for a slow jog around the neighborhood. His bone had mended—it was the injured muscles and ligaments that still had a way to go. But he was healing. He was running farther, faster, and he no longer limped when his leg got tired.

He’d thought about calling Pat Michaels, his ex-partner, to see how things were going at the precinct, but hadn’t been able to bring himself to make the call. After the accident, he and Pat had naturally seen less of one another but he also had the strangest feeling that his partner was distancing himself from him and he didn’t know why. He hadn’t been culpable in the accident and he was unaware of being on the wrong side of any precinct politics, so he’d finally decided that something outside of the job was eating at Pat. It happened. It also made him hesitant to call.

Hell, his life in Montana was so far removed from his life in Lanesburg, maybe it was better to focus on the here and now instead of worrying about things he was no longer part of—at least for the time being. He’d bring himself up to speed once he got his medical clearance and sat for the detective exam. When he was back where he belonged.

* * *

DYLAN HAD KEPT HIMSELF busy in his office and the warehouse for several days after Marti’s call. Not once did he mention Jolie’s project, nor did she, even after booking two more artisans—a leatherworker and a woman who made picture frames. She was making progress, but she wanted to fill the front of the store with interesting items, make a statement, catch the eye as people came in and then keep them coming back when gift-giving occasions arose. No one was going to drive a few extra miles for a tiny selection of handcrafted goods. She needed more artisans.

When she walked into the bar that night, Jim raised a lazy hand to greet her and she could see that it had been a slow afternoon, which wasn’t unusual for a Thursday. He poured them both seltzer water, as he usually did when they had downtime, and after putting her purse away, she perched on her stool near the edge of the bar.

“Probably not a big tip night,” she said, nodding at the two patrons playing a game of pool.

“It’ll be a sleeper,” he agreed. He leaned his elbows on the bar opposite her. “So how’s your big project coming?”

“I’m halfway there. I need just four more artists to have a respectable showing.”

“I talked to Mac.”

Jolie had her glass halfway to her lips then put it back down. She’d asked Jim about his brother’s ironwork, but Jim hadn’t been hopeful about Mac agreeing to participate. “And?”

“He said I can pull some of his stuff out of the garage and let you display it. I got you two wine racks and two towel bar sets.”

“Oh, my gosh.” Jolie practically jumped off the stool. Mac’s wrought-iron work was gorgeous.

“And he’s working with a guy whose brother just got out of prison at Deer Lodge. He hitches horsehair and has some belts he’d like to commission.”

“Jim, you are a bona fide doll.”

He went a little red. “I know.”

Jolie’s run of good luck continued for the next few days. On Saturday she heard back from a leatherworker who had spur straps and wallets to display and on Monday a silversmith finally returned her message and agreed to drop off twenty pieces of jewelry. She was so tempted to walk into Dylan’s office and slap her list of artists on the desk in front of him, but she refrained. Partly because she was above that and partly because he’d been avoiding her, which made her believe he’d felt the same sense of tension building between them that she did.

During her lunch hour, Jolie walked the area near the front of the store where she wanted to build her display and debated about how best to squeeze in an attractive backdrop, attractive being the key word. The walls were painted flat white and the floor was half-century-old cracked tile. She didn’t have a lot of time and her budget was very close to zero dollars. She would have to make do with what she could scrounge around the place.

She went back behind the counter, flipped open the notebook she used to jot down special orders and, after a moment, started sketching, trying to come up with a way to cover the walls, build shelving, disguise the floor—

The bell above the door rang and she jumped a mile. Dylan gave her an odd look as he crossed the room and she slowly closed the notebook.

“Did I interrupt something?” he asked curiously.

“No. I was just drawing.”

“Drawing.”

“Ideas for my display.”

He stopped on the other side of the counter. “I take that to mean that you contracted your seven artisans?”

“I did. Now I’m going for ten.”

“Can I see your plan?”

“I don’t think so,” Jolie said with an easy smile. It was beyond rough and she wasn’t presenting any ideas to him until they were polished. She’d learned her lesson about that.

“Is it some big secret?”

“Maybe I don’t want you taking over.”

His eyebrows shot up as if he had no idea what she was talking about. “Why would I take over?”

Her lips twisted. Really, Dylan? “Because that’s our history. You take over.”