Page 7 of Falling for the Cowgirl
“That wasn’t a hiccup. That was more like a gut-splitting cough.”
“Aw, c’mon. You’ve seen me ride enough to know I rarely meet my shadow on the ground.”
“You not only almost met your shadow, but you almost met your Maker.”
She fumbled at the buttons of her blouse, her fingers still numb. As he stepped out onto the bank and drew nearer, she tried not to notice the assured way he held himself and the strength that radiated from him.
But as he stopped only a couple of paces away, it was as if only a day had passed since he’d left. She was just as aware of his rugged good looks, work-roughened body, and no-nonsense blue eyes as she’d always been.
Why couldn’t he be as plain as paint? Just wasn’t fair for one fella to be so handsome. And just wasn’t fair she was drawn to him worse than a bear cub to a bowl full of honey, even after how hard she’d worked to stamp out every little bit of hankering for him. All it had taken was one glimpse of him standing there at Elkhorn Ranch, and earlier tonight all that desire had come flooding back worse than before.
Her fingers shook, and she lost her grip on her button.
“Look at you.” Irritation laced his words. “Frozen to the bone.”
She’d always had a knack for irritating him to no end. Seemed she still did.
“One more reason you shouldn’t take baths in the river.”
“I always manage fine.”
He reached for her button, as though to help her, and in the process, his fingers brushed against her chemise. A shiver skipped along all her nerve endings, one more powerful than any she’d ever experienced with him. And she’d had plenty of innocent contact with him over the years—hands brushing while roping, shoulders touching while sitting together on a corral fence, feet bumping beneath a table.
But this ... this was different. His presence powerful and raw and real. Warmth radiated from him. And his touch was somehow more intimate.
His fingers hovered above her as if he’d just noticed her curves and his proximity. She could almost see the realization clicking in his head, could almost hear his mental berating. She couldn’t keep from taunting him. “Scared if you help me, you won’t be able to let go when you’re done?”
He gave a low, scoffing laugh. “Of course not.”
“Prove it.”
He hesitated, stared at the button, and then dropped his hands and fell back a step. “I don’t need to prove anything to you, Ivy.”
She was being wanton again, wasn’t she? And he was still set on rejecting her. This was the way it had always been. Clearly nothing had changed.
“Reckon I can take care of myself just fine and don’t need to prove anything to you either.” She bent and swiped up her Buster Bliss outfit and began stuffing it into her saddlebag.
He watched her silently.
When she’d hidden away every last stitch of the clothing and spectacles, she combed her fingers through her hair and wound it into a knot on top of her head, heedless of how messy the bun was. She stuck in a pin to hold it in place, then pressed her hat down.
She tucked her boots under one arm and reached for Poppy’s reins. “See you around, Jericho.” With that, she started walking along the river path that led to the house.
Jericho didn’t respond, and she forced herself to keep going and not glance back at him, even though everything within her wanted to stop and stare at him all night long.
As she reached the low point in the river and started crossing over, she heard him following her and relief weakened her knees. The truth was, she didn’t want to part ways with him yet. She wanted the chance to talk with him, find out what he’d been up to, where he’d been, what he’d done.
With his long stride, he easily caught up, guiding his horse next to her. When they sloshed to the opposite side and reached the path that led up to Wyatt’s house, Jericho halted.
She paused beside the chokecherry bushes, loaded with clusters of fruit that were still green, although some were beginning to turn red. Wyatt’s wife, Greta, used the chokecherries in her jam-making, but it would still be a month or two before they were ripe enough for picking.
“I take it you haven’t told Wyatt and Flynn you’re competing.” Jericho spoke casually, but she’d learned long ago he rarely said or did anything without a purpose.
She swung around, arms stiff, body on edge, ready for a fight. “Nobody knows. And it better stay that way.”
“Or else what?” He pulled himself up to his full height so that he towered above her.
She knew as well as he did there wasn’t anything she could do if he decided to tell her brothers about her duplicity in entering the cowhand contests. And if they found out, they’d hog-tie her to a hitching post for a month. At the very least, they’d make sure she never competed again.
