Kara Lennox - The Forgotten Cowboy

He could tell Sherry was trying not to laugh. “And that’s why you broke up?”

“Believe me, it was no laughing matter. Her folks went ballistic. She was supposed to go off to college in the fall—Stanford. But after ‘the incident,’ as it was referred to, they didn’t let her go. They thought she would ‘go wild’ way out there in California.”

Sherry looked confused. “Did she need their permission?”

“She needed them to pay for it. Stanford’s not cheap. Willow didn’t have the funds to do it without their help. She had to live at home and go to junior college for a couple of years.”

The song ended, and by silent, mutual agreement Sherry and Cal headed for the refreshment table. “And that’s why you broke up?” Sherry asked as Cal filled a cup with punch for her.

“I ruined her life.”

“Oh, and I suppose she had nothing to do with it?” Sherry scoffed.

“Well.” This was the part Cal hated to admit. “It was my fault. I sort of pressured her into it. She wasn’t ready, but I was older and I’d waited all this time for her to grow up, and I was facing the prospect of her running off to California, half a country away—”

“And you wanted to bond with her more closely.”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t believe he was talking to his boss’s wife about sex, but Sherry was really easy to talk to.

Jonathan sauntered over, putting an end to the conversation. “You gonna monopolize my wife all night, Chandler?”

Sometimes, Cal couldn’t tell if Jonathan was kidding or not. He’d always been kind of serious, though Sherry’s freewheeling style had loosened him up quite a bit.

Sherry just punched Jonathan in the arm. “Why would you care? You don’t dance. And this young man…” She plucked the red carnation from Cal’s buttonhole. “…can dance.” Then she stuck the flower between her teeth and struck a flamenco dancer’s pose.

Jonathan grinned and took his wife’s arm. “Come on, Sherrita, I’ll show you some dancing.” As he dragged her off, Sherry looked at Cal and nodded toward Willow, as if to say, Ask her.

Well, hell, why not? What was the worst that could happen? Willow wouldn’t make a scene, not at her friend’s wedding.

WILLOW DRAINED the last of her punch from the glass and checked her watch. She was getting tired. Ever since her hospital stay, she had almost no stamina. But her grandmother was having a good time, dancing with the bride’s grandfather, and Willow didn’t want to be a wet blanket.

A shadow fell across the table. Willow looked up, and her breath caught in her throat. A handsome, tanned man with sun-streaked hair stood before her, somber-faced. Uh-oh, no woman to anchor him to. And he wore the ubiquitous gray suit, though his broad shoulders filled it out much better than the average man.

Momentarily panicked, her gaze darted to his lapel. Thank goodness, no red carnation. She’d thought she was in trouble there for a minute. Still, she had no clue who this man was—only that he made her palms damp and her mouth dry.

Whoa. Get a grip, there, Willomena.

He flashed a dazzling smile, and Willow’s heartbeat accelerated to hyperspeed. “Hi, Willow.”

“H-hello.” How could she not remember a guy as appealing as this? He had a rugged outdoorsy-ness about him that made her think of sunshine and fresh air—and a few less innocent thoughts, as well.

“It’s good to see you. I heard about your accident.”

“It’s nice to see you, too.” Whoever you are. “I’m fine now. Except for the black eye.” She reached up and touched her discolored eye self-consciously. Almost two weeks since the accident, the bright purple bruises had faded to green and yellow, which she’d mostly disguised with makeup. But her cover-up job wasn’t perfect.

“I think you look beautiful.”

Ohh, a flatterer. She’d better be careful with this one. She resisted the urge to flirt back. What if he was married? The husband of a good friend?

Could he be Jeff Hardison? Handsome, blond…

No matter who he was, she had no business entertaining ideas. She had work to do. Preparations to make. A brain to fix.

“Your grandmother told me you were recuperating at her house,” the man said.

“Nana is spoiling me rotten.” Just keep talking. Maybe she would figure it out.

“She always did. Do you…would you dance with me?”

The exhaustion Willow had felt moments earlier vanished like mist on a hot day. “Sure,” she heard herself say. Oh, why not? It was just a dance. No law said she couldn’t dance with a sexy guy at a wedding.

The song was an old number by Clint Black, and the man took Willow into his arms in an easy two-step. She didn’t consider herself much of a dancer, but her partner was easy to follow and soon they were gliding across the floor with little effort, a veritable Fred and Ginger.

“So, what are you up to these days?” Willow asked. This question had served her well all evening. Once someone started talking about themselves, she could usually figure out who they were.

The man shrugged his broad shoulders. “Same old stuff. Making a living. Trying to stay out of trouble.”

That was no help!

“I hear you’re off to med school in a few weeks,” he said.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“You’ve worked pretty hard to get there. You must be proud.”

“Still a lot of work ahead.” More than anyone knew.

Willow didn’t want to talk about herself, and her dance partner wouldn’t talk about himself. So they danced in a highly charged silence, gliding across the floor in perfect harmony. The man’s hands were large, slightly rough from hard work and unusually warm. The one at her waist felt like it could burn a hole through her silk dress.

She avoided looking straight at him because something in his eyes made her want to squirm uncomfortably. It was almost as if he knew more about her than she knew herself, that he could see deep to her core and know her innermost secrets.

But how could that be? This man could not possibly be someone she knew well or she would have figured out his identity by now. Although his voice struck a slight chord of familiarity, she couldn’t place it. It was deep, a little bit hoarse and husky, as if he were just recovering from a cold or had been yelling too long and too loud at a baseball game.

The bouncy song came to a close, then immediately blended into a slow ballad, some dreamy old thing by Patsy Cline. Willow knew she should thank the man for the dance and sit down. A song like this was reserved for lovers, so they could hold each other close and murmur into each other’s ears and be intimate in a public place.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Instead she nestled into the warm embrace of her mysterious stranger, where she seemed to fit perfectly. There wasn’t even a moment of awkwardness. His strong arms slid around her waist, hers went around his neck and she laid her head lightly on his shoulder. She could smell traces of his aftershave, something old-fashioned like English Leather, or maybe just lime-scented shaving cream. She’d never been good at telling one smell apart from another, which was unfortunate, because smell was one of the main cues face-blind people used to distinguish friends…and lovers.

Mmm, she was sure she would remember this scent, though. Shampoo? Starch? Laundry detergent? Whatever it was, the blend was intoxicating.

Willow hoped no one was watching her. They might think it strange to see her so intimately wrapped up with—whom? Who could it be? Was she behaving inappropriately? Surely if the man was married he wouldn’t act like this in public. But men could certainly be cads.

Oh, shoot, she didn’t care. Anyway, the lights had been turned down so low, no one could see who was dancing with whom. An old-fashioned disco ball spun in the air above them, the tiny bits of mirrored glass casting glittering flecks of light over the dancers, creating a cocoon of surrealism.