Kara Lennox - The Forgotten Cowboy

“But I want a good table,” she argued. “I’ve fanta-sized about doing this for years. I want it to be perfect.”

Hank winked. “I know the maître d’. Our table is reserved.”

Just then the gangway was opened and everyone started boarding, so they remained in line. Hank and the maître d’, whose nametag identified him as Ken, shook hands and did a little backslapping. Willow listened attentively in case Ken used Hank’s real name, but he didn’t, darn it. They were shown to a lovely table for two, tucked away in a private corner. But they had a good view out their own little porthole.

“Oh, this is perfect,” Willow said.

And it was, every nuance of the evening. As the barge got under way, beginning its languorous journey around the glass-smooth lake, Hank ordered some expensive French burgundy. Willow was only sorry she didn’t know enough about wine to fully appreciate it, but it tasted wonderful and she didn’t object when Hank refilled her glass.

She sipped slowly, savoring the deep, dark flavor. Every bite of her tender prime rib melted in her mouth.

And of course they danced. Hank was a really good dancer—not flashy, not a show-off. Just smooth. Her heart felt like a balloon inflating in her chest every time the band started up a slow song.

He pulled the same trick as he had at the wedding reception, dancing her into the shadows. But instead of pulling her more tightly into his arms and kissing her, he guided her out the hatch and onto the deck.

The deck was almost deserted. They found a secluded portion of railing and leaned against it, watching the shoreline slip by as the flaming sun settled behind a distant hill.

“It’s so pretty out here,” Willow said on a sigh. “I tend to take the lake for granted. I know it’s here, I cross over the bridge every time I go to my parents’ house. But I don’t think much about it.”

“It’d be nice to have a little sailboat out here,” Hank said. “With just the sound of the wind and the lapping water, you could really think. Clear all the junk out of your head.”

“And what sort of junk would a man like you have to clear out?”

“Oh, you know. Baggage. Bad habits. Regrets.”

“Surely you don’t have many of those.”

“Only one, darlin’.” And then he kissed her, and she didn’t resist at all.

This really wasn’t like her, she thought yet again as she returned his kiss in full measure, their tongues dancing, her breath rising and falling in tandem with his. His hand brushed against her breast, almost as if by accident. He did it again, turning the incidental contact into a tender caress. Her nipples hardened, thrusting against the silk and lace of her bra, the sensation so intense it was almost painful.

The assault on her senses was so overwhelming she had to put a stop to the embrace. If she didn’t, she was afraid what might happen. With determination, she pulled away, pushing slightly against his shoulders for good measure.

The effect was like a bucket of cold water. Hank looked so crestfallen, she wanted to take it back, to return to his embrace and just let him do whatever he wanted.

“Willow, I’m sorry. Please, don’t be mad. You’re just so beautiful tonight, I can’t hardly control myself.” His words came in an urgent whisper, even huskier than usual. “I’ll be good. I will. The last—the very last thing I want to do is rush you.”

Good heavens, didn’t he get it? She wanted to be rushed. She wasn’t upset about his behavior, only a bit bewildered by her own. The last thing she needed was an apology. How could a man apologize for making her feel so special, so excited, like a top just before someone pulled the string and sent it spinning out of control?

“Will the cruise be over soon?” Her own voice sounded a bit hoarse.

He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Guess that means you are mad.”

“No. I just—I’d like to be alone. With you, I mean. Alone with you.”

Cal was sure he was dreaming. He’d counted himself lucky that Willow didn’t throw things at him when he approached her at Mick and Tonya’s wedding. He’d thought divine intervention must have been responsible when she let him kiss her the first time, and when she’d agreed to go out with him, he’d thought he must be the luckiest man in the world.

But he’d never dreamed he would hear those words out of Willow’s mouth, not on their first date in five years. I’d like to be alone…alone with you. Yup. Had to be a dream.

If it was, he hoped he never woke up.

The Party Barge was about to dock. Cal left a generous tip for their server, then steered Willow toward the gangway. They were first in line to get off.

“You’re not getting too tired, are you?” He was still a little shaky from his own hospital stay, and he’d been released several days before Willow.

“No, I’m fine. And the Party Barge was wonderful, everything I always imagined it would be. But I’m ready to—”

She stopped, and Cal was dying to know what she was about to say. But he didn’t want to push her. He again helped her into the truck, then climbed in and started the engine.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked as he eased the truck out of the bumpy parking lot, glad they were beating the crowd. “We could take a drive. Lots of pretty country roads around here.” Though he would not go anywhere near the place where he and Willow used to go parking.

“Could we go to your place?” She sounded a little nervous. “Or maybe it’s rude to just invite myself over. You could—I mean, Nana wouldn’t mind if we hung out at her house. But you might not think hanging with my grandmother is that cool.” She laughed, then looked at him uncertainly to see if he was laughing with her.

He smiled. She was nervous. “We can definitely go to my house.” He wasn’t the best housekeeper in the world, but he hired a cleaning service to come in every couple of weeks and give the place a good going-over. Fortunately, they’d just come that morning. “Not that I don’t adore Clea, and I wouldn’t mind a few more of her cookies.”

“They’re outrageously good, aren’t they? You should try her fudge.”

It was on the tip of Cal’s tongue to remind Willow that he had tried Clea’s fudge dozens, maybe hundreds of times. They were his favorite, and Willow used to accuse him of dating her just so he could get to her grandmother’s cookies.

It was odd Willow wouldn’t remember that. But he decided to say nothing. He didn’t want to bring up the past at all. They were starting over tonight with a clean slate.

Cal rented an apartment in one of Cottonwood’s oldest neighborhoods, just off the square, on the second floor of a painted-lady Victorian.

His grandmother on his mother’s side had left him a farm up in Lancaster, a small town just southwest of Dallas. He could have sold it and used the money to buy just about any kind of house he wanted. But buying seemed like such a permanent decision for someone who didn’t know where he would be in five years. So he rented, and the money he collected from leasing the farm for grazing went into shares of a mutual fund that had performed steadily despite the roller-coaster economy. If Cal ever decided what he wanted to be when he grew up, he had the funds to do it.

That was a big if.

“Oh, my gosh, what a great place,” Willow said when he turned into the driveway. “I’ve always loved this house. The Whittakers used to live here, didn’t they?”

“They still do—on the ground floor. They rent out the second floor to me.” He took her around to the back and up the fire-escape stairs. They could have gone in the front door, but Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker would waylay them and talk their ears off, and he would never get Willow alone.