Page 39 of A Cameo for a Cowgirl

“What book?” He followed her pointed finger to the leather-bound Bible. “Oh, that book.”

“Yep, that one. The best book to read is the Bible,” she added, in a singsong tone.

Reminiscences flashed. Church services. Sunday school. Memory verses. His grandma’s voice: “We all need God, Harrison. More than anything. You need to stop running and let Him wrap you in His arms of love. Only then will you feel whole and complete again.”

What was with these women around here peeking into his soul? Did he have a sign saying Please comment on my spiritual state?

His chest hurt, and he pushed himself upright, and picked up the chicken salad wrap. “Well, thanks again. Much appreciated.” He fake-smiled, staring at her until she finally got the hint and left. As soon as the door shut, his shoulders slumped. He could feel a new ache beginning to grow, and this one was nowhere near his ankle. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt closer to his heart.

Nine

Shadows were crawling across the buildings by the time Cassie had finally screwed up enough courage to make the trek into the western town. Her lips twitched. Riding in at this hour made her feel a little like a gunslinger from a spaghetti western. She already had the horse and the white hat. Obviously, she was the goodie in this scenario.

But even that was a thought she couldn’t chase too deeply. She wasn’t all that good. She’d been pretty selfish, allowing her insecurities from the past to get in the way of what Jesus would do. Jesus, who preached love for one’s enemies, even if occasionally Jesus had also used a whip on some of them. Not that she’d be using any whips today. Her smile twisted, faded. For while Harrison Woods was not exactly her enemy she knew she definitely had some making up to do. Especially as the Holy Spirit hadn’t let up from those feelings of conviction stirred up earlier by Poppy’s words. The verse in Romans about “as far as it depends on you live at peace with all men” was now emblazoned on her soul.

Harrison might not be a Christian, but as one of Christ’s followers she wasn’t called to love only the lovely. And while Harrison might qualify as handsome, he’d been definitely unlovely in some other aspects. But then, so had she.

Harrison wasn’t like Mark. And just as Mark had arrogantly treated her, like she was dumb, so she’d been treating Harrison, like he had nothing to offer. Which wasn’t Christ-like—or true—at all.

So, after finding Ainsley’s missing apron, then continuing the tedium of stock take, then working on estimates for a cowboy-sci-fi mash-up movie, she’d known she needed to come here. Today. Well, tonight now. To apologize. To say thank you. And hopefully, forge a new path with this man who left her feeling so unsettled.

She knocked on the door. No answer. She counted to three and knocked again.

Then he opened it.

She swallowed, dragged her gaze from his bare chest up to his face. “Um, hi.”

“You came.”

His face, his tone, was soft, like he couldn’t believe his eyes. Like he really had wanted her to visit.

She thrust the package in front of her. “I, um, came to say thank you for rescuing me last Saturday.” Gosh, could her words sound any more robotic? “So, yeah. Thanks.”

His mouth curved, as if he too recognized the extreme lack of gallantry in her manner. But she’d said what she needed to, and as soon as he took the peace offering of her mom’s cookies, she could leave.

She shoved the package at him blindly, not wanting to look at the sculpted perfection of his chest again. She wasn’t one of those girls.

His hand trapped hers, then drew around her fingers. Her breath hitched, then she tugged her hand away. “I gotta go.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“You just got here. And I,” he swallowed. “I’d like to talk to you.”

Her insides tensed. He probably wanted her to explain her rudeness. Which would prove problematic as she couldn’t really explain it to herself.

“Look, I said thanks, and I don’t know what else there is to say.”

“Have you had dinner yet?”

“What?”

“Have you eaten dinner yet?”

She’d snatched a piece of fruit when she’d called in at the ranch house to sneak some of her mom’s cookies to give to Harrison. “Does an apple count?”

“No.” He smiled.

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