Charlie, in person, back for a repeat performance.
His appearance this morning was rumpled, and he needed a shave. But so what? Despite her bad mood, she’d have had to be comatose not to observe how to-drool-over sexy the man was.
His sun-streaked hair flopped on his forehead. That crooked smile deepened the laugh lines around his Paul Newman eyes. He was tall and slim and sturdy, and possessed more animal charisma than ought to be allowed.
She’d half convinced herself that she’d dreamed him up the night before, some combination of stress and overactive imagination at work. Cassie sighed. Well, there went that theory.
Whoever he was, he was no apparition, that was for sure. One of her friends, that had to be the explanation. A few of them knew all about her Cowboy Charlie stories. Sandy, or Margie, or some other well-meaning person had decided to play a little trick on her, bring a little fun into her stressful life. This, she decided, seemed like sound reasoning, even if the likelihood of finding an exact replica of her Charlie—as exact as this one was—had to be pretty remote.
But still, the whole thing had to be a joke. And she’d go along with the joke, by heaven, because Cassie had a sense of humor.
Like that she found herself relaxing in his easygoing, attractive presence. Not that whoever was responsible wasn’t going to pay, big-time, she amended. Still, for the moment she’d play her part and have a little fun at the same time. And why not? After all, the man was, quite simply, impossible to resist.
Her mind made up, instead of taking his head off, when Charlie smiled, Cassie found herself smiling back.
“Morning,” he said cheerfully. “How’re we doing today?”
“We’re just ducky,” she said, chuckling. “And you?”
There, Charlie thought. He’d suspected that the lady’s smile would warm up her pretty face, would bring that merry sparkle to her eyes, and darned if he hadn’t been right. “I sure could use that drink, ma’am. I spent the night in that shed behind your house, and there wasn’t any water that I could find.”
“You slept in my garage?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She bit the edge of her lip, but he could tell she wasn’t really upset anymore. She wore a long robe, one that outlined that cute little body of hers, letting him know that the curves he remembered from the night before were real. He wondered briefly if he was supposed to be noticing her body and the nice rasp of her voice, if that was part of his quest. But whether or not he was supposed to, he was a man, after all. Some things were not in his control.
Folding her arms over her chest, she asked, but with a smile, “Okay, truth time. Who sent you?”
Uh-oh. We’re back to that again. Charlie pushed his hat back and scratched his head, trying to tamp down the small spurt of irritation her question aroused. “I thought we got that straightened out last night,” he said, determined to be patient, even though his mouth felt like sawdust. “You did.”
“Right. Okay, I sent for you.” She sighed, shook her head. “But if I tell you I don’t have time to play this morning as I’m running late, would you be willing to go back to wherever it is you came from?”
He removed his Stetson and smoothed back his hair, something he always did when he needed a moment to ponder a situation. “I’m not sure I can do that,” he told her, setting the hat back on his head. “All I know is you called me, I’m here and I’m supposed to rescue you, and that’s about it.”
At the perplexed expression on her face, he added, with a shrug, “I’m sure sorry. I don’t know any more than you do what the rules are. I’m afraid the whole thing isn’t up to me. Or you. So, I figure we both better accept it and just get on with it.”
“‘Just get on with it,”’ she repeated.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She studied him for a while, seemed to be deciding something big, then, like that, she sighed, opened the screen door and stepped aside. “Put the guns down—” she pointed to his holster and six-shooters “—and then come on in.”
“They aren’t real bullets, you know.”
“There are bullets in there?”
He popped open the chamber and peered inside. “Not anymore,” he told her, taken aback by the fact. He twirled both empty chambers, to show her.
“Good. Put the guns down, anyway, all right? This is a gun-free household.”
He did as she’d requested, removing his holster and setting it down on a small bench by the door. Then he crossed the threshold just as she said, “The least I can do, I guess, is to offer you a glass of water. If Margie or Sandy or Rosa put you up to this, you’re probably harmless, right?”
“Well, ma’am,” he offered, “I don’t know as I’ve ever been called harmless, exactly. But I know how to behave myself. My mamma made sure all us boys had manners.”
“I’m sure she did. I’m Cassie, by the way.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know.”
It felt nice and cool inside and he was grateful. It was hotter than Hades out there already, even though it was only morning. He gazed down at her. My, she was a little one. Fiery, for all that, but still, little.
“And you can cut out the ‘ma’am’ stuff,” she said, propping her hands on her hips. “I’m not old enough yet.” Grinning one more time, she added, “Though I’m rapidly getting there.”
She turned and he followed her, boots clicking and spurs jangling loudly as he trod her wooden floors. But he didn’t really pay any attention to the sound, because he was watching the way her shapely hips moved inside her robe. And his nose was picking up the scent of—what? Some kind of spring flowers. Lilacs, maybe. It floated behind her and right into his nostrils. The scent of a woman. This woman. Cassie smelled downright savory.
In the kitchen a girl child sat at a small round table, making a face at a bowl of mush. She raised her head when her momma walked in with him following. Her eyes grew huge with wonder as she stared at him.
“Mommy!” she said. “It’s Cowboy Charlie!”
“Morning, miss,” he said with a tip of his hat.
“Mommy!” she squealed again, her high-pitched voice verging on affecting his hearing. The little girl stood, looking excitedly from him to her mother and back again. “It’s Cowboy Charlie! He’s here!”
“No, it’s not him,” Cassie answered, taking a glass from a shelf and turning on the tap. “Not really. Well, yes and no. Oh, heck.” She shrugged her shoulders, seeming to surrender any attempt to make sense. “Whatever. Charlie, meet Trish.”
He offered his hand to the child, who took it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Trish,” he told her solemnly, but the little girl’s face lit up with a grin that made her look just like a fairer-haired, rounder-faced version of her mother.
“Me, too. You’re my hero.”
“Trish,
