Diana Palmer - Christmas Cowboy - Will of Steel / Winter Roses

“I hate guns.”

“You said.”

“I really mean it.” She shivered dramatically. “You could shoot somebody by accident. Didn’t one of your patrolmen drop his pistol in a grocery store and it went off?”

He looked grim. “Yes, he did. He was off duty and carrying his little .32 wheel gun in his pants pocket. He reached for change and it fell out and discharged.”

He pursed his lips. “A mistake I can guarantee he will never make again.”

“So his wife said. You are one mean man when you lose your temper, do you know that?”

“The pistol discharged into a display of cans, fortunately for him, and we only had to pay damages to the store. But it could have discharged into a child, or a grown-up, with tragic results. There are reasons why they make holsters for guns.”

She looked at his pointedly. “That one sure is fancy,” she noted, indicating the scrollwork on the soft tan leather. It also sported silver conchos and fringe.

“My cousin made it for me.”

“Tanika?” she asked, because she knew his cousin, a full-blooded Cheyenne who lived down near Hardin.

“Yes.” He smiled. “She thinks practical gear should have beauty.”

“She’s very gifted.” She smiled. “She makes some gorgeous parfleche bags. I’ve seen them at the trading post in Hardin, near the Little Bighorn Battlefield.” They were rawhide bags with beaded trim and fringe, incredibly beautiful and useful for transporting items in the old days for native people.

“Thank you,” he said abruptly.

She lifted her eyebrows. “For what?”

“For not calling it the Custer Battlefield.”

A lot of people did. He had nothing against Custer, but his ancestry was Cheyenne. He had relatives who had died in the Little Bighorn Battle and, later, at Wounded Knee. Custer was a sore spot with him. Some tourists didn’t seem to realize that Native Americans considered that people other than Custer’s troops were killed in the battle.

She smiled. “I think I had a Sioux ancestor.”

“You look like it,” he drawled, noting her fair coloring.

“My cousin Rabby is half and half, and he has blond hair and gray eyes,” she reminded him.

“I guess so.” He checked the big watch on his wrist. “I’ve got to be in court for a preliminary hearing. Better go.”

“I’m baking a pound cake.”

He hesitated. “Is that an invitation?”

“You did say you were starving.”

“Yes, but you can’t live on cake.”

“So I’ll fry a steak and some potatoes to go with it.”

His lips pulled up into a smile. “Sounds nice. What time?”

“About six? Barring bank robberies and insurgent attacks, of course.”

“I’m sure we won’t have one today.” He considered her invitation. “The Callisters brought me a flute back from Cancún when they went on their honeymoon. I could bring it and serenade you.”

She flushed a little. The flute and its connection with courting in the Native American world was quite well-known. “That would be nice.”

“It would?”

“I thought you were leaving.” She didn’t quite trust that smile.

“I guess I am. About six?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you then.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Should I wear my tuxedo?”

“It’s just steak.”

“No dancing afterward?” he asked, disappointed.

“Not unless you want to build a bonfire outside and dance around it.” She frowned. “I think I know one or two steps from the women’s dances.”

He glared at her. “Ballroom dancing isn’t done around campfires.”

“You can do ballroom dances?” she asked, impressed.

“Of course I can.”

“Waltz, polka …?”

“Tango,” he said stiffly.

Her eyes twinkled. “Tango? Really?”

“Really. One of my friends in the service learned it down in Argentina. He taught me.”

“What an image that brings to mind—” she began, tongue-in-cheek.

“He didn’t teach me by dancing with me!” he shot back. “He danced with a girl.”

“Well, I should hope so,” she agreed.

“I’m leaving.”

“You already said.”

“This time, I mean it.” He walked out.

“Six!” she called after him.

He threw up a hand. He didn’t look back.

Jillian closed the door and leaned back against it. She was a little apprehensive, but after all, she had to marry somebody. She knew Theodore Graves better than she knew any other men. And, despite their quarreling, they got along fairly well.

The alternative was to let some corporation build a holiday resort here in Hollister, and it would be a disaster for local ranching. Resorts brought in all sorts of amusement, plus hotels and gas stations and businesses. It would be a boon for the economy, but Hollister would lose its rural, small-town appeal. It wasn’t something Jillian would enjoy and she was certain that other people would feel the same. She loved the forests with their tall lodgepole pines, and the shallow, diamond-bright trout streams where she loved to fish when she had free time. Occasionally Theodore would bring over his spinning reel and join her. Then they’d work side by side, scaling and filleting fish and frying them, along with hush puppies, in a vat of hot oil. Her mouth watered, just thinking about it.

She wandered into the kitchen. She’d learned to cook from one of her uncle’s rare girlfriends. It had delighted her. She might be a tomboy, but she had a natural affinity for flour and she could make bread from scratch. It amazed her how few people could. The feel of the dough, soft and smooth, was a gift to her fingertips when she kneaded and punched and worked it. The smell of fresh bread in the kitchen was a delight for the senses. She always had fresh homemade butter to go on it, which she purchased from an elderly widow just down the road. Theodore loved fresh bread. She was making a batch for tonight, to go with the pound cake.

She pulled out her bin of flour and got down some yeast from the shelf. It took a long time to make bread from scratch, but it was worth it.

She hadn’t changed into anything fancy, although she did have on a new pair of blue jeans and a pink checked shirt that buttoned up. She also tucked a pink ribbon into her long blond hair, which she tidied into a bun on top of her head. She wasn’t elegant, or beautiful, but she could at least look like a girl when she tried.

And he noticed the minute he walked in the door. He cocked his head and stared down at her with amusement.

“You’re a girl,” he said with mock surprise.

She glared up at him. “I’m a woman.”

He pursed his lips. “Not yet.”

She flushed. She tried for a comeback but she couldn’t fumble one out of her flustered mind.

“Sorry,” he said gently, and became serious when he noted her reaction to the teasing. “That wasn’t fair. Especially since you went to all the trouble to make me fresh rolls.” He lifted his head and sniffed appreciably.

“How did you know that?”

He tapped his nose. “I have a superlative sense of smell. Did I ever tell you about the time I tracked a wanted murderer by the way he smelled?” he added. “He was wearing some gosh-awful cheap cologne. I just followed the scent and walked up to him with my gun out. He’d spent a whole day covering his trail and stumbling over rocks to throw me off the track. He was so shocked when I walked into his camp that he just gave up without a fight.”

“Did you tell him that his smell gave him away?” she asked, chuckling.

“No. I didn’t want him to mention it to anybody when he went to jail. No need to give criminals a heads-up about something like that.”

“Native Americans are great trackers,” she commented.