The Trouble with Texas Cowboys (Burnt Boot, Texas #2)(75)

“We might have entered the war as a third country,” Sawyer said.

“They’d better hope not. When I fight, I go in with intentions of winning. Bless their hearts, there might not be anything left of them when the dust settles if they continue to pull us into this war, not even a beefsteak from one of their blondie steers.”





Chapter 23


Something had happened. Something big.

Jill wasn’t sure what it was, but Sawyer didn’t like it. He’d been distant most of the evening. After the sweet daisies and the note that had brought tears to her eyes, she’d thought they’d climbed up on a higher level in their relationship. But something had sure enough ticked him off royally. Had Kinsey or Betsy finally convinced him to go out with them?

A stab of jealousy shot through her faster than any speeding bullet or two-edged hunting knife. A picture of either of them lying naked on his bed, getting a full body massage, played through her mind. She could almost feel the smoke coming out of her ears as the image sharpened and grew brighter. Would he scatter daisies on the bed for them? Would he write poetry about them?

The jukebox was unplugged. The flashing lights around the outside had gone dark, and it was tired of singing for the people. Smoke still hung above the tables, but a lot of it had escaped as the packed house fanned in and out of the door.

Sawyer’s expression was blank, set in stone. If he smiled, cracked a joke, flirted, or even looked her way, it would most likely shatter like broken glass. Whatever his problem was, if he didn’t want to talk about it, then he could damn well fix it without her help. She was tired, cranky, and ready for bed—as in sleep.

And you thought he could walk on water. Men are men, and they are all rascals, the mean voice in her head taunted.

He finished sweeping and started getting the bar ready for the next day—checking everything at least twice, like he always did. The grill and fryers were turned off, the red cup dispensers were filled to the top so she wouldn’t have to stop for supplies, and the last of the beer and margarita pitchers were in the dishwasher.

She made sure toilet paper, paper towels, and soap were in both bathrooms, and sprayed a healthy dose of disinfectant spray into the air before she shut the doors.

“Ready?” He waited beside the door, the bulge of a handgun not far from his belt buckle.

She breezed past him, crossed the cold gravel lot to his truck, and had her hand on the handle when the beeping noise told her he’d opened the door remotely. A norther hit with a blast of colder air, sending dead leaves, cigarette butts, gravel, and dirt into a swirl. It would be fifteen degrees colder by the time they reached the bunkhouse. She’d love to curl up in his warm arms under the fluffy blanket, but that wasn’t happening.

They drove home in complete and uncomfortable silence. She glanced his way a couple of times, but his neck was stiff and his eyes set on the road ahead. Before he could be the cowboy gentleman and open doors for her, she bailed out of the truck, stormed the short distance to the porch, used her own key to get inside, and went straight to her bedroom, without even stopping to talk to the kittens.

A loud slam told her that he had done the same thing. Bathwater started, she stripped down to nothing but socks and caught her reflection in the mirror. The daisy had wilted, some petals twisting toward the middle, others hanging limp. She removed it carefully, ran an inch of water in the bathroom sink, and floated it. Maybe it could be saved with a little rehydration.

Tears welled up and ran down her cheeks. She shouldn’t have wasted even one of her daisies. All the others would last for a week if she changed their water daily, except for that one she’d popped the stem off and wrecked to show the feuding cowboys that their roses didn’t impress her.

She sunk into the tub, her spirits sinking even lower. She didn’t like this feeling of distance between her and Sawyer. They might have started off that first day on shaky ground, but he had become her best friend, her partner in three different jobs. Maybe even her soul mate.

“Whoa!” She brushed away the tears and slid down into the water, getting her hair wet so she could wash the stink of smoke from it. “I’m not going there tonight, not when he’s being such a jackass.”

*

Pulsating hot water kneaded at the sore muscles in Sawyer’s back, but he couldn’t be still long enough to let it work all the anger knots from his shoulders and neck. He turned the knob, threw back the curtain, and picked up a towel.

The jar of daisies sitting beside the bed caught his eye. He didn’t want to look at them, but he couldn’t force his eyes to look at anything else. When he did finally glance away, his eyes came to rest on the indentation in the pillow where he’d left the poem. He quickly dressed in pajama pants and a thermal-knit, long-sleeved shirt, but all he could think about was Jill with tears in her eyes and the poem in her hand.

“Dammit!” He threw himself on the bed, wiping out the hollow place with his head and getting a whiff of her perfume at the same time.

It was light and airy like Jill, not heavy or musky. Just sweet and sassy at the same time, drawing his thoughts to that first evening when she’d barreled into the bunkhouse with a shotgun. They’d come a long way since then, but tonight had sure enough put the skids to another step forward.

The kittens chased through the crack in the door, deftly climbed the bedcovers, and jumped around like windup toys from one side of the bed to the other. Piggy stopped short of falling off the edge and discovered a purple daisy petal hung up in the stitching on the quilt. One little gray paw flew out, and she swatted it, growling down deep in her throat. Chick arched her back and tiptoed from one side of the bed to the other. When she saw the evil purple alien, she fluffed up her tail, and the two of them fought over who’d kill the wicked thing first.