Page 17 of The Way to a Cowboy's Heart

“Well, obviously not never. Because…” She gestured to her face.

She was about to ugly cry. Dropping her face in her hands, she turned away from him.

“Yeah, that rule is meant to be broken.”

She laughed in spite of her tears. “It’s a horrible mess. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. You didn’t invite them to come and assault you at a private christening. And who the hell are they anyway?”

She snorted and swiped a knuckle under her nose. “J-just the biggest news channel in the city. And she’s one of their anchors. F-frickin’ Kyria Baldwin. I’ll be all over the five o’clock news. I’ve ruined the whole day. Just… just take me home, please.”

He glanced at the driver in his rearview mirror who was taking in their conversation. He sent Liam a sympathetic look.

“Icouldtake you home, if that’s what you really want. Or… we could walk it off in the park where no one knows you or where to find you. Get some crisp February air, look at the ducks… get a new perspective…”

She gave a watery laugh. “The ducks? And a walk? A walk won’t change anything.”

“Not how I see it. Exercise is always the answer. A good walk through a park or a ride through a meadow on a good horse, that makes everything a hundred times better.”

They passed Columbus Circle where the horse-drawn carriages were lined up, waiting for passengers and then they entered the park. It was still cold, but not icy and the wind and rain had quit yesterday. A blue sky stretched out over the park and the trails were dotted with people who shared his philosophy. And honestly, the thought of returning to her apartment to wallow in the dilemma that had tossed her world upside down did not appeal.

She nodded at Liam, and he told the driver to pull over. He paid and the two of them disembarked onto the sidewalk of Central Park West.

For a long moment, they just stood there, watching the cab drive away. What could she say to explain herself? What must he think of her now? That she might be a criminal?

A few feet away, there was a man with a cart selling roasted chestnuts. The fragrance wafted to them on the thin, cold air.

“Look at that,” he said. “I’ve always heard about these things but never have tried one. You like roasted chestnuts?”

She nodded, giving her cheeks a two-handed swipe.

“Sold then.” He bought a small paper-wrapped cone of chestnuts, still warm from the vendor’s oven and handed them to her. “Here. Sad ladies first.”

She sputtered a laugh and pulled one out. At Christmas, when she was young, her father used to take her and her brother to buy roasted chestnuts from the cartman behind St. Martin-in-the-Fields, a church on Trafalgar Square. Maybe that explained her fondness for them. Because they were such a visceral memory of a time when they were closer.

Liam stared at the half-opened nut. “So, you just…”

She cracked open the shell on the puffy nut and pulled out the meat. “Just like that.”

He followed her lead, then popped it in his mouth. With a frown, he considered the taste. “Different. Smokey. A little nutty. I think I like it.”

She smiled, watching him chew. He had a scruff of beard on his jaw that, instead of looking scruffy, made him look pulled together in a cowboy-ish kind of way, along with that silver buckle on his belt.

They strolled down the sidewalk without talking, in no hurry to go anywhere and eventually they polished off the chestnuts.

“Feeling better?” he asked finally.

“Quite. Thank you. I am.”

“You… want to talk about it?”

She rolled her eyes. “First you meet me in my most humiliating moment, then you rescue me from the next. I hardly think you queued up to hear my sad tale.”

“Well. I have no other plans, considering we just officially ditched Jess and Carolyn’s reception. Lemme check.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh, yeah, I can squeeze a tale of woe into my schedule.” He flashed the smile she found irresistible.

“Well, I suppose you do deserve an explanation. And the fact that we’re practically strangers, is both weird and oddly freeing. Since you and I will probably never see one another again after you go back to Montana. While I—” she crumpled up the chestnut wrapper in her hand and tossed it forcefully into a waste bin—“while I stay here and attempt to figure out my life.”

He stopped on a small footbridge to look over the side at the water of the park’s pond. “Hey. You never know,” he said, staring at the ice forming on the edges of the water. “Life’s a bit of a choose-your-own-adventure thing, isn’t it? If there’s one lesson I’ve learned in the past couple of years it’s that expectations are a trap. Things hardly ever turn out the way we expect them to. And that’s not always a bad thing.”

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