Page 36 of The Cowboy Comes Home

“You talking to me, or yourself?”

Jackson gave him a sideways look, then looked at the big, black and white horse, then back to Tucker again. He let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Yeah, yeah, remind me again how I fell for the pretty colors.”

“Nah,” Tucker said. “You just wanted him for Jeremy, because he looks like Pie.”

“True,” Jackson said. “But right now he’s not allowed anywhere near my son.”

“Maybe you need to call in Logan again.”

“No maybe about it,” Jackson muttered. “This clown needs a lot more of that whispering of his.”

He wrestled with the horse long enough to finish clearing the pebble the animal had gotten wedged in his hoof, then released the leg and straightened up. He tossed the hoof pick back into the open box of grooming tools next to the stall door, untied the fractious pinto and led him into the stall. He stepped back out, closed the lower half of the door, and only then reached up to unhook the lead rope. He’d learned, obviously, that leaving the halter on the animal made it easier for next time.

Then he turned to face Tucker and began again. “You know darn well that’s not what I meant. I was asking you if you were having second thoughts.”

Tucker grimaced. He’d been hoping Jackson would drop it.No such luck.“You’re going to have to be more specific. I’m having a lot of second thoughts right now.”

“About being the rodeo star tomorrow, or talking to Lily Highwater? Or maybe not grabbing the chance to ask Emily Stratton for a date when you had the chance?”

Tucker straightened up, staring at his closest friend. “Did Nic put you up to this?”

Jackson shrugged. “She might have suggested that last part. The rest I figured out all by my lonesome.”

Tucker checked the lid on the can of leather oil, just because it gave him something to do. Then he put it back in the toolbox, shoving the cleaning rag he’d been using into his back pocket.

“Tuck?”

Letting out a disgusted breath Tucker turned to face him. “What do you want me to say? That I’m surprised they wanted me to pull the trigger at the rodeo? I am. That I’m wondering what on earth made me say yes to that reporter? And once I did, wondering what made me pour my guts out like that? I am. I’m wondering all of that.”

“And Emily?”

“Don’t start, man.”

“Nic says she’s wonderful. Besides being beautiful, she’s honest, sweet, caring, and the list went on but I can’t remember,” he finished rather lamely. “And there, I kept my promise that I’d tell you how great she is. In case you hadn’t figured that out on your own.”

“That’s the problem,” Tucker muttered. “I did figure it out. She’s all those things. And more. Plus she was born and raised here, led a straight-arrow life, happy, mostly carefree, is still tight with her folks, all that. She’s the all-American dream girl.”

Jackson frowned. “And your point?”

“My point is we have absolutely nothing in common.”

Jackson studied him for a long, silent moment. Tucker braced himself. A lot of people had at first assumed Jackson was just another self-absorbed actor, good at pretending he was someone else, but not much more. But Tucker knew better, knew that one of the things that made Jackson so good on screen was his ability to observe and interpret what he saw in others. And when he finally spoke, there was such knowing in his voice it made Tucker wince inwardly.

“And yet you look at her like I’ve never seen you look at another woman. Ever.”

He supposed it was probably true. Because he’d never felt that kind of instant reaction before. But that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it. He’d already poured his guts out enough for one week, and the way he was regretting that should be a clue not to do it again.

Not even to his best friend.

He scrambled for a distraction. “I gaped at Swiffer’s red Ferrari, too.” Of course that had been more at the stereotype of the wealthy producer buying the flashy sports car to compensate for aging, balding, and generally letting himself go, rather than for the car itself. “Didn’t mean I wanted one.”

But wanting Emily? Oh, yeah, he could manage that.

“Felix Swiff is the one thing I don’t miss most about Hollywood,” Jackson said dryly, and Tucker dared to hope his diversion had worked.

“Dad! Dad!”

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