Page 2 of Destined for the Cowboy

Of course you can—you’re standing here like an idiot with your head against his chest. And he’s talking to you like you’re a horse he’s shoeing.

She pulled back, and he released her arms. She hadn’t even realized he’d been steadying her, she’d been so fixated on thatvoice. And she had never realized just how…solid he was. Big, yes, she’d known that. He was as tall as her brother and even broader. But she felt as if it would take nothing less than a speeding freight train to dislodge him if he was set on staying.

Looking up at him she saw the scar she’d noticed the first time she’d ever seen him, which ran along the left side of his face at the jawline, and wondered if it had been a horse who didn’t want to be whispered. And his hands, strong, powerful, and a bit battered, from his work no doubt. You probably didn’t become the most in-demand farrier in ranch country—she knew Nic would have settled for no less than the best for this new venture—without being able to wrestle heavy tools, hot iron, recalcitrant horses…and careless pedestrians.

“Sorry,” she said, and to her embarrassment it came out a little breathily.

“No problem.” He gave her the briefest of smiles, but somehow his eyes made it seem longer.

“I was just looking for Pie to say hello. And,” she added, not sure why, “hiding.”

His gaze flicked to the open doorway of the barn, with its view of the festivities and the crowd, then back to her. And this time the smile was longer. “Me, too.”

How had she not noticed his eyes before? Bright green, they were the color of a Texas spring when all was coming to life, right before the eruption of the bluebonnets they were celebrating now.

Deep down she knew why. The only other time she’d actually spoken to him was when she was buried so deep in her grief she barely noticed anything, back when he’d said those words she only later realized had meant so much that she still remembered them years later.

And she’d never thanked him.

She glanced around. They were alone in the barn. She might never get another chance. “This is very overdue,” she said, a little breathlessly, “but I want to thank you.”

He blinked, drew back slightly. “Thank…me?”

He sounded astonished, and utterly puzzled. “You probably don’t even remember, but when my husband was dying, you…said something to me. Something that helped more than any of the trite old platitudes everybody else was saying.”

She heard him suck in a breath, and something in those vivid eyes told her he did remember. But he didn’t speak—she had the oddest feeling he couldn’t—so she hurried to finish.

“Those words, that I was in as big a battle as you’d ever seen…meant a lot to me. Not just because they came from a veteran who would know, but…”

Something about the way he was staring at her made her voice trail away. She swallowed, fearing she’d offended the usually taciturn man.

“But what?” His voice was low, and even rougher than it had been.

She managed to get the words out. Barely. “Because they came from you.” Something flared then in those incredible eyes. Something that made her add hastily, “Because I know that you don’t…talk much.”

The gleam faded, and his mouth quirked slightly. “The Last Stand grapevine is as efficient as always.”

It was indeed. Especially when it came to the more…interesting residents. And since no one could quite figure out Logan Fox, he was a frequent topic.

“Thank goodness,” she said, telling herself she’d imagined that flash of…something in his gaze. “It helped save my nephew a couple of months ago.”

“I heard. I’m glad he’s all right. Sorry I wasn’t here to help.”

She wanted to ask where he’d been, because she was curious about this quiet yet impressive man, but did not ask because she was afraid he might think she was blaming him for not being here for the search for Jeremy during that massive thunderstorm.

And before she could think of another thing to say—unusual for her since she was usually rather adept in conversation—he touched the brim of his gray cowboy hat to her in a polite acknowledgment and continued walking in the direction he’d been going when they’d collided.

When you crashed into him, you mean.

She couldn’t stop herself from turning around to watch him go. The view from behind was as impressive as from the front. The kind of view that made her appreciate well-fitting jeans. She’d always thought she preferred traditional blue jeans, but he could convince her black ones were nicer. She wondered if he wore them while working, too. It would make sense, like his black boots did, because singe marks wouldn’t show up as much.

And as he walked out the big barn doors—neatly avoiding the main crowd gathered, she noticed—she wondered again where a man like Logan Fox went when he needed to get away.

And if, like the loner the Last Stand grapevine had dubbed him, he always went alone.

Chapter Two

Logan Fox leanedon the corral railing and rubbed the muzzle of the buckskin horse who came up amiably to greet him. The TV star horse, who had been ridden by the man who’d started this enterprise. It said a lot about Jackson Thorpe that when he’d learned they were going to dump the animal, he’d immediately bought him and brought him home, just as he had for the sorrel they’d probably been ready to send off to the knackers because he spooked at all the equipment and noise of a television production. He’d seen the video of Jackson rescuing the animal when its fears had gotten it trapped in a mud flat.

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