do you figure that?”
“Maybe it’s the way you walk around with your nose in the air.”
“I do not!”
“Not that it’s not a cute nose, mind. Just a mite haughty.”
“If this is your awkward attempt to endear yourself to me…”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“It seems to go with the territory,” she muttered darkly.
“And what territory might that be?”
“Cowboy territory.”
“And I suppose you know all about cowboys?”
“I could write the book on them. In fact, I have written several of them. So trust me, I know all about cowboys with itchy feet,” she loftily informed him.
“My feet aren’t what’s itching at the moment,” Dylan lazily assured her. “It’s something much higher up on my…anatomy.”
“I have no wish to discuss your anatomy.”
“You’d rather just look at it.”
“That’s right. I mean, of course not!”
“So you would rather talk about it.”
“I’d rather ignore it.”
“So would I. But that’s hard to do, no pun intended, when I have this fierce ache…”
“I don’t want to hear about it!”
“Right here…” His hand hovered suggestively before landing on his thigh.
“Maybe you should put some horse liniment on it,” she suggested tartly. “I hear it works real well on stubborn mules, as well.”
With that, she turned on her heel and marched back inside, leaving Dylan staring after her.
“First I’m cuter than a moose and now I’m a stubborn mule. I think she likes me,” Dylan informed the orange barn cat curled up on the crooked front-porch swing. “I think she likes me a lot!”
Dylan’s first week at the ranch flew by. Working from dawn until dusk when daylight lasted for over fifteen hours would do that to a man, make time fly by. But working for a woman like Abigail Turner did other things to a man, like turning his head. She’d done that, all right—with her wild curls that she constantly battled to keep out of her eyes, eyes as blue as the big Montana sky.
While standing under a spray of cold water from the shower, Dylan sang the opening lines of a George Strait classic. Cold showers had become a daily ritual for him since meeting up with Abbie. After getting dressed, Dylan grabbed a bottle of juice out of the tiny fridge and drank it straight from the bottle, all the white wondering what Abbie was doing this morning.
Dylan always thought of her as Abbie, even during those times when she stuck her adorable nose in the air and went all haughty on him. He’d never really had to chase after a woman before; usually they seemed to swarm around like bees to honey. Dylan was cynical enough to suspect that the buckle bunnies who followed the rodeo trail had found his championship buckle as appealing as he was. He’d noticed there sure as hell hadn’t been any groupies hanging around the hospital when he’d been released.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he replaced the juice bottle and cooked up a mean Mexican omelet.
Dylan had just finished eating when he heard someone banging on his front door. It was Shem.
“Did you hear that strange noise?” the older man demanded. “It’s stopped now, but it sounded kinda like a cross between a hyena and the howl of a mad dog. Randy claims he heard something that sounded like George Strait lyrics, but I told him no human being could sound like that.”
Dylan wasn’t about to admit that he was the culprit. It wasn’t the first time he’d had this kind of reaction to his singing. Grown men had been known to crumple and beg for mercy when he let loose. Instead, he muttered, “I didn’t hear a thing. Was that why you stopped by?”
“That and mail call. Got a package here for you. Thought I’d drop it off before heading on out.” Without further ado, Shem shoved the package at him and took off.
The cardboard was dented and dinged, as if it had been shunted from pillar to post. Looking at the address label, he realized that indeed the package had made the rounds—starting with down in Arizona and following him three states north at his various forwarding addresses until reaching him here. The return address was almost illegible after all the official-looking postal stamps marked on it, but further study told him that it was from his sister, Gaylynn. The postmark was late May, nearly two months ago, and was listed as Lonesome Gap, North Carolina.
When he’d phoned his mother for her birthday a few weeks back, she’d told him that Gaylynn had gone and married Hunter Davis down in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The last time Dylan had seen Gaylynn had been April, at their older brother Michael’s wedding to Brett. And now Gaylynn was married, too.
Dylan shook his head, hoping this matrimony bug wasn’t contagious somehow. Not that marriage had been in his short-term plans before the accident, but now it was even further off. First he had to see how his recovery went this summer. He had orders to return to the doctor in Arizona come September for another evaluation. If the truth be known, Dylan still had this fantasy that he’d be able to return to the rodeo circuit. Reality dictated otherwise, but it was just so damn hard for him to accept that he’d never return to the life he’d loved for more years than he could remember.
Returning his attention to the package, he opened it up, thinking that he really should send Gaylynn and Hunter a wedding gift, even if they had eloped. His sister had looked and acted pretty skittish the last time he’d seen her, unusual for her since she was the fearless one in the family. But maybe that was because he’d seen her at Michael’s wedding and reception, neither one of which had been a quiet affair—not with dozens and dozens of Janos cousins attending. His family was not known for their subdued natures.
Which was why Dylan hadn’t told them about him being in the hospital. They would only have gotten hysterical and flown down to Arizona on the next plane. He’d had enough to cope with.
Despite the battering the package had taken en route, Gaylynn had packed the contents well, with plenty of those irritating plastic peanuts that stuck to your fingers like glue.
He found the note first.
Dear Baby Brother,
Hope this reaches you in good shape. I’ve enclosed the paperwork on this surprise for you, from the original note from our great-aunt Magda in Hungary, to the Post-it note Michael wrote me. I hope the box serves you as well as it has Michael and me. And listen, I think there’s a side effect of this whole thing—I don’t know how to explain it other than saying a new skill is bestowed upon the owner. For me, it was drawing—remember how I could never even draw a straight line before? I’ll have you know that I’ve even sold several of my sketches now! Who’d have thunk it, huh?
