favorite coffee shop and the laundry that folded her shirts just right—all were in New York. Fun and games with the world’s handsomest cowboy wasn’t enough to make her give up her laundry service.
So she would keep her dealings with Dylan Marshall strictly business, and she’d leave with a well-written article and no regrets.
Above all, no regrets.
* * *
DYLAN FOUND HIMSELF out on the front porch without realizing quite how he got there. His brain had switched off, and all he could do was feel. Those seconds with Jess Granger’s slender shoulders under his palms, her scent surrounding him and her eyes gazing through the mirror into his, had been...well, cataclysmic. He’d walked away a little disoriented.
Women didn’t usually befuddle him like this, even beautiful ones. Ever since he’d discovered the difference between boys and girls, he’d made a point of getting to know as many of the opposite sex as possible—as friends, as lovers, as human beings. He considered women to be a separate species and thoroughly enjoyed all their unique, feminine attributes.
Somehow, he would have to maintain his usual detachment when it came to Jess Granger. He had to keep their relationship under control, avoid letting her get too close. She was, after all, a journalist. She’d come specifically to delve into his life and, more important, to reveal to the public as many of his secrets as she could discover.
Because of the person she expected him to be. The person he’d once been.
At eighteen, he’d left home determined to “make it big.” He’d had talent but he’d also gotten lucky and done some sculpting that the “right” people thought they understood. They’d invited him to their playgrounds and he’d gone along because he was young and stupid and flattered by the attention. To a kid from tiny Bisons Creek, Wyoming, attending art parties in Paris, France, appeared to be the pinnacle of success.
He knew better now. His life in that world had come to a screeching halt one chilly afternoon during a conversation that lasted maybe five minutes. Later, standing in a Paris sculpture garden, he’d surveyed his own work and felt completely detached from its purpose, its meaning, its origin.
All he’d wanted at that moment was to go home. To be with his brothers, inside the family the four of them had built together. After years away, he’d craved the life he’d once worked so hard to escape.
He’d been on a plane less than twelve hours later. And once he got to Wyoming, he hadn’t left in more than two years. He certainly hadn’t courted the attention of anyone in the art world. But then Patricia Trevor called him, having seen a piece he’d donated to a Denver hospital charity auction. She suggested a gallery exhibit of his recent projects, and he was vain enough to say yes. He wanted exposure for his ideas as much as ever. If he didn’t have something to say, he wouldn’t spend time or effort on the process.
But he didn’t expect his former fans to understand or appreciate this current approach. Jess Granger’s article supposedly launching the show would probably bring down a hailstorm of derision on his head. That was the way the art world worked—you gave them what they wanted or they cut you off at the knees. In spite of her beauty—or maybe precisely because she was so beautiful—he expected the same treatment from her.
The screen door to the house opened and the lady herself stepped onto the porch, a high-tech camera hanging around her neck. “There you are.” She squinted against the sun. “It is bright out here. Thanks for the hat.”
“You’re welcome.” A compliment on how she looked in the hat came to mind, but he ignored the impulse. “Let’s go watch the kids.”
Walking side by side up the hill, Dylan found himself searching for something to say. “We took them to a rodeo and most of them decided they wanted to compete.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Not so far.” They crested the hill and approached the group of kids gathered on the other side of the barn. “They’re still at the learning stage.” In the natural way of things, he would have put a hand on her shoulder to bring her closer to the action.
“Come watch,” he said, keeping his hands at his sides and feeling as awkward as he probably sounded. “You can meet everybody. They’re practicing on the bucking barrel.”
The bucking barrel was a fifty-gallon drum suspended sideways by metal springs from four sturdy posts. With a rider sitting on the barrel, the contraption tended to bounce around, mimicking the motion of a bucking horse or bull. Ropes could be attached at various points, allowing spectators to increase the range of motion and the unpredictability of the ride.
“That’s Thomas Gray Cloud.” Dylan pointed to the boy currently riding the barrel. His dirty T-shirt testified to a fall or two already.
“All he holds on to is that one rope?” Jess shook her head. “I can’t imagine. At least he wears a helmet.”
“Ford, the legal eagle, made sure of that. But the secret is balance. You try to stay flexible and move with the animal, keeping your butt in place and using your arms and legs independently.”
She looked over at him, her golden gaze intent on his. “Is this the voice of experience?”
He nodded. “I rode saddle broncs. The horses wear a special saddle—with stirrups—and you hold on to a rope attached to the horse’s halter. It’s slower than bareback riding, but style counts a lot more.”
Her attention shifted to Thomas. “I think you’re all crazy.”
As they reached the group around the barrel, Thomas lost his balance and fell off to the side. He pounded a fist on the ground, but rolled over and got to his feet right away.
“My turn.” A bulkier boy stepped up to the barrel. Thomas gave him a dirty look but backed out of the way, dusting his hands off on the seat of his jeans.
“Marcos Oxendine,” Dylan told Jess. “One of our more challenging kids.”
But today Marcos seemed to be on his best behavior. Grinning, he climbed onto the barrel, wrapped the rope around his gloved hand and yelled, “Let’s go! Aiyee!”
The kids on the four corners began pulling their ropes, causing the barrel to tilt and sway in all different directions. Their encouraging shouts rang out in the afternoon air, recalling the roar of the grandstand crowd at a real rodeo. Marcos stayed on for nearly eight seconds, using his upper body to counter the motion of the drum he rode. When he finally did come off, he sat up laughing, while the spectators around him applauded.
“Again!” he demanded. “I’m doin’ it again!”
Dylan glanced at the reporter beside him to gauge her reaction. What he noticed was that she stood with her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, and the stance did great things for her figure. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat and refocused his attention on the kids.
Marcos’s second ride didn’t last as long, but he moved away agreeably enough when Lena Smith marched up and announced that she wanted to go next.
Jess turned to Dylan with a shocked expression. “These events allow women to compete?”
“Yes, and there are a couple of women out there today riding against men. Lena is interested, so we wanted to give
