he winked, telling her he’d been teasing “—then I’m here to do some research. You store county records under this roof. I’m looking for details about an old house that may have been one of the first in Crossroads. A friend of mine, Yancy Grey, claims it haunts him.”
She stood, trying to look her most professional, but it was hard to pull it off in the baggy trousers and bulky sweater she’d worn for a workday behind the dusty display cases. Any hope that he wouldn’t notice vanished when she saw him studying her from the knot of wild hair on the top of her head to her tennis shoes.
“Please follow me,” she ordered, her chin high.
He did just that, though she guessed he knew exactly where the museum records were kept. It was a beautiful room in the heart of the building. Although windowless, the walls between file cabinets and bookshelves had been painted sunset yellow. The tall room’s lighting had been expertly crafted with low-hanging wrought-iron chandeliers. Local cattle brands were laser cut into the dark iron giving the room a warm, Western glow. The Double K for the Kirklands, The Bar W for the Collins’ ranch and many others including the Devil’s Fork. Wilkes’s family brand looked like the branches of a winter tree that nature had shaped into the lines of a three-tine fork.
She started when Wilkes overtook her a moment before she reached for the doorknob. He held it open for her and then followed her in. For the first time, she noticed a leather backpack slung over one of his shoulders. “I’m afraid I can’t show you around. I haven’t had a chance yet to explore all the wonderful records in this room.”
He dropped his pack on the nearest chair and sat on the end of the long oak table that sliced down the middle of the room. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve explored these stacks. My mother used to volunteer here on Saturdays, and I always tagged along. I think this place is why I majored in American history in college.”
“You went to college?” The words were out before she could stop them. Somehow with his worn boots and old jeans she’d formed the idea that he’d never left the ranch for more than a few hours.
He grinned, that wicked grin she’d seen her first day. “Much as I tried to goof off, I ended up with a degree in history and a minor in math.” Sitting on the table, he was eye level with her, which made him impossible to ignore. Men shouldn’t be that rugged and that good-looking at the same time.
The memory of their kiss warmed her and she licked her lips. His smile faded, but his eyes darkened slightly, telling her he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Wilkes folded his arms and looked away. One kiss might have been an accident, a part of a game he assumed was being played, but another would be an advance. He was silently telling her it wouldn’t happen again.
He was right, of course. It shouldn’t have happened in the first place. The best kiss of her life had been a mistake. Nothing more.
She tried to be polite. Change the subject before her cheeks matched the color of her hair. “There’s not a great deal you can do with a history degree unless you want to teach, I’ve heard.”
He crossed his legs at the ankle, almost touching her shoes as he did.
She moved a foot away.
“I’ve no interest in teaching. I want to ranch, Angie. Tried to find something else but waking up to clean air and sounds of the country won out. Maybe I didn’t love ranching so much as I simply had no great ambition to do anything else,” he said. “Today, I’m just helping a friend who wants to learn about one of the houses at the edge of town. I’m not working on some great research project.”
She took another step toward the door. “I’ll come back and check in on you later. We have painters down in the foyer and a high school group coming in to look at the wagons.”
“Who is the we?” he asked.
“Well...me,” she admitted, realizing just how alone she was most of the time. Normally, she loved it, but somehow, with him here, she wanted to feel as if there was a crowd around. In an odd way, this rough-around-the-edges cowboy tempted her. He wasn’t relationship material, but maybe for that one-night stand all her friends talked about but Angela had never tried. If he made love as well as he kissed, he might be more than she could handle.
Who was she kidding? His old uncle Vern was probably more than she could handle.
Still, she could dream about it, even if she knew nothing would ever happen. Wilkes Wagner seemed perfect to fall in love with for the night and then walk away. He’d never work for long-term but she had a feeling he’d start a fire that would fill her dreams for years.
He stood so smoothly, so silently, she was halfway to the door when he said, “Angie, I’m not going to attack you. I didn’t the day we met. You just jumped when I must have startled you.” He moved around the table and pulled a chair out as if proving that he’d come to work. “And just for the record, I won’t ever ask for your hand. If I come a-asking, it’ll be for a lot more than just your hand I’d want, darlin’. I have no doubt there’s a woman beneath all those baggy clothes.”
Now several feet away, she felt more comfortable. “I wasn’t startled,” she lied, not wanting to think about the hand comment.
“You’re the most skittish woman I’ve ever met. Hell, I’ve seen horseflies calmer than you.”
Angela smiled, feeling safe so near the door. “You meet a lot of skittish women, do you?”
“Not many,” he admitted as the corner of his lip lifted slightly. “Not any that taste like warm honey.”
She walked away, her cheeks burning.
He called out before she closed the door. “Let me know when it’s closing time. I don’t own a watch and I forgot my cell.”
Glancing back, she noticed there was no clock in the room. Wilkes was already busy opening the file drawers, and, to her surprise, he did look as if he knew his way around the stacks of records.
She promised herself she would not go check on him until five o’clock, but a little after four she couldn’t resist any longer.
As silently as possible, she opened the library door to find the long oak table covered in books and papers. Wilkes Wagner was sound asleep, his chin on his chest and his boots propped on the chair across from him.
She moved closer and noticed the stubble along his jaw and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He seemed to be a man who laughed often even if he was a puzzle. Why would someone get a college degree and not use it? Why would a handsome man flirt with the likes of her? Why did he let his uncle talk to him as if he were a kid?
As she studied him, she spied a few scars on his chin and one just above his eye. For a man who couldn’t be much into his thirties, she was surprised to see so many deep scars on his hands.
A photograph of a house lay next to his left elbow. It was a small two-story, built low into the ground. She’d read early homes often were dug into the plains’ sod to save on lumber and to keep the small dwellings warmer in winter and cooler in summer.
Above the photograph someone had written Stanley House. Angela began to put facts together like puzzle pieces in her mind. A family named Stanley was listed among the first settlement in the area. They worked as blacksmiths and farriers on the Kirkland spread. She couldn’t remember seeing any Stanleys
