Page 41 of Destined for the Cowboy

“Wow,” Tris said. “That would be something. And more than well deserved!”

Maggie’s expression was beyond proud as she handed her the manila envelope Rylan had dropped off before he and Kaitlyn had headed out.

“I’ll get it to Logan right now,” she promised.

Maggie gave her a wide smile. “Say hello for me. And tell him I know this is going to work out splendidly.”

“I’ll do that.”

As she drove off, she was secretly grateful for the conversation starter delivering that message would be. She hoped.

It wasn’t as far from the Rafferty ranch as it was from the Baylors, so she was nearing the big oak tree after what seemed like only a few minutes. She slowed to make the turn, then slowed even more, telling herself it was because the long driveway—if you could even call it that, since it was more like a street of its own—wasn’t built for paved road speeds. But intruth she knew it was because she was nervous. She didn’t like admitting it, but she was.

When she got to the house, she thought perhaps all her nerves had been grated on for nothing, because he didn’t answer her knock. Or the next one. She pondered leaving the envelope at the door but didn’t like the idea. And his truck, his only vehicle, was over by the workshop, so he had to be here, even if the sliding barn-style door was closed.

She started toward the other building and before she’d taken more than a few steps, she saw that a side door she hadn’t noticed before was open. She walked that way. As she got closer she could hear music, and guessed that was why he hadn’t heard her pull up. And she smiled when she recognized the song and the voice. Kane Highwater, local legend and rapidly rising national phenom. That Logan was listening to him made her relax for some reason. Well, that, and that it was one of her favorite songs of his, about finding your way back to home and family.

And Kane would know.

But what about someone who never really had a family to get back to? She couldn’t begin to imagine. She’d been lucky in that respect. She and Jackson had had good parents, and for the too-short time they’d had them, loving spouses. Logan had had neither.

She sighed inwardly. If the opportunity arose, she’d take it. But if it did not, this time, she wasn’t going to push it. She didn’t think this was the kind of thing that could or should be forced. Not when she was only now facing the reason why it mattered to her. She cared about him, enough already that it made her ache a little when he pulled back. Which was a shock to her in and of itself. She felt a bit as if she were taking her first steps outside after being locked in a small room somewhere for far too long.

She stopped on the threshold, looking at the interior of his workshop with interest. It was much like a spacious barn, high-roofed—which she guessed was a help in the heat of the summer—with worktables along the wall to her right, the forge, fired up but banked low, against the far wall, and various other tools and equipment tidily arranged along the wall to her left. Pieces of tack and cupboards she guessed must hold materials were on each side of the doorway wall.

And, of course, there was Logan. Leaning over one of the worktables, studying something before him she couldn’t see from here. He was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt in the warmth of both the day and the forge-heated space, and he’d apparently been at it a while because it clung to him slightly. And yet again her breath caught at the way this man was put together. And the work he did to stay in this kind of shape.

She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t spoken. Yet suddenly Logan stood up straight. His back was to her, so she could see him reach up to scratch the back of his neck, as if something had suddenly itched. And then, quickly, he turned around. And looked at her as if he’d already known she would be there. As if that itch had somehow been…her.

And he looked almost resigned. She didn’t want to delve into what that might mean. She dragged out her best official teacher voice, held up the envelope and said cheerfully, “I’m just here to deliver something for Rylan. He said you’d be expecting it.”

She saw his expression change, shifting to understanding. “Oh. Yes. He said he’d have something for me today.”

She took that as, if not an invitation, at least not resistance to her entering his workspace. Perhaps in part because she wanted to see it, this place where he spent so much time. So as she walked toward him, she looked around, taking in every detail she could put a name to, and making note of the ones she couldn’t so she could ask about them.

He met her halfway, and reached out for the envelope. His fingers brushed hers as he took it. “Sorry,” he muttered, pulling his hand back.

“For what?”For the electric shock I get every time we accidentally touch? For the stream of warmth every time you do it on purpose, even if it’s only to help me in that gentlemanly way of yours?

“My hands are…beat up. Rough. Too rough.”

He didn’t say “for you,” but she heard it as if he had.

“Your hands,” she said evenly, “are working hands. The kind that built this place, this state, this country. The kind we could use more of.”

For a long moment he just looked at her. Then, very quietly, he said, “I’ll bet you turn out some amazing kids, Teacher.”

Her cheeks heated. He couldn’t have said anything about her work that pleased her more.

Chapter Twenty-Two

If he washonest with himself—and he tried to be—he’d admit he’d nearly panicked when he’d turned around and seen her standing there. He’d been lost in thought about the materials he’d need to do what Rylan wanted done. He hadn’t been prepared, as he was when they’d arranged to meet. He hadn’t been considering the possibility, as he did every time he went into town where it might be possible to run into her, as he had that day he’d made that comment that had somehow stuck in her mind. He hadn’t even been wondering if he might see her, as he did whenever he went to some place that had some historical significance.

No, for the first time in a while she hadn’t been in the forefront of his mind, as he focused on the task at hand. And now he was standing here dumbstruck, like some kind of idiot who couldn’t put two words together. Which had given her time to start looking around.

Now she was standing by his tool rack, looking at it as intently as if it held something that truly interested her. And as widespread as her interests appeared to be, he couldn’t swear that ordinary display didn’t.

She didn’t look around when he approached, just pointed to the short-bladed, curved tool that hung beside the hoof nippers. “What’s that one for? I recognize the ones you use to clip hooves—nippers, I think?—but not this.”

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