Texas Standoff. Ruth Smith Alana

like a cougar on the prowl. Sometimes it was only the action itself that made her aware of being in a state of flux. She’d catch herself doing it and know something was amiss inside her. This time she knew in advance. It amazed her she could feel so many contradictory emotions at once-satisfied but wanting, wonderful but wretched, embarrassed but excited, unrepentant but remorseful.

      Lifting her hair off her neck, she gave in to the urge to twirl about. She spun around the room, a humming, carefree soul for a brief, totally out-of-character moment. Suddenly she drew up short, the sparkle in her eyes snuffed out by a glimpse of lavender hanging on the back of an opened closet door. The mere sight of the sundress dampened her spirits, the significance of it bringing reality crashing down around her shoulders and weighting her conscience like lead. One second drunk on desire, the next as sober as if she’d taken a dunking in Whistling Creek.

      God A’mighty, what had gotten into her? She sank to the edge of the bed, falling back flat against the mattress with a groan. There was no denying she’d acted the fool, letting her tainted hot blood overtake her cool head. What must Colin Majors think of her? Not much, her disgusted self answered. He was probably smirking to himself this very minute, thinking she was either the dumbest or the horniest woman in all of Texas. Whereas, even knowing how loco a thing it was to have done, if she was lying on her death bed this very moment and rehashing the lows and highs of her days, undoubtedly she would recall the wild interlude with Colin Majors fondly. For surely it would be one of the most memorable nights and probably the best sex of her life. As badly as she hated to admit it, if she were given the chance to backup and do it differently, she wasn’t real sure she would forgo the experience.

      “You can’t undo what’s done. Might as well quit moping about your sorry self, get off your backside and get about your day. Face him down when you must,” she told herself in no uncertain terms.

      It was easier said than done. As she went about readying herself for what she knew was going to be a hard morning after, the worry about confronting Colin Majors again kept creeping into her head. What would his reaction to her be? Would he act as if nothing had taken place between them? Or would he feel awkward, so much so that it showed? Damn, but she dreaded having to look on his handsome face again. Maybe he would just cut out without saying a word. But that was unlikely, since he was miles from anywhere without transportation. Part of her hated the thought of his leaving, which was about as crazy a notion as the thought of him staying.

      She showered hurriedly, tugged on her socks, boots and a fresh pair of Levi’s. Donning a clean denim shirt, she whipped a brush through her burnished hair, slicked it back and secured the sleek length at the nape of her neck with a tortoiseshell clip. The boys would be expecting her to take breakfast with them at the chuckhouse as usual. She prayed they wouldn’t notice the telltale blush of great sex still lingering on her skin. She was in no mood for their ribbing. She had a lot more important things on her mind, like how to handle the problem of bidding her houseguest adieu. Ranch life had exposed her to a lot of different men-all the wranglers who’d come and gone throughout the years. It was an isolated world in which she existed-primarily a man’s realm. Though each of the men she’d known was a colorful individual with a style all his own, as a group they had a few traits in common. They treasured their freedom almost as much as they liked to linger around a camp fire, sipping coffee, swapping stories and kidding each other unmercifully. And one thing they couldn’t abide was a sticky goodbye, especially when it came to bidding farewell to a woman, and most particularly when it was a woman they wished to be rid of. She’d heard them say they’d prefer being gored or bucked or snake-bit over having to endure a prolonged parting packed with lies. It was ten times more painful than saddle sores.

      With a determined set to her jaw, she walked over to the mirror and squared the Stetson on her head. “I’ll make it easy for you, Colin,” she said out loud, trying to convince herself. “It was nothin’ personal, just passing acquaintances who shared a ride and casual sex.”

      Yet when she passed his closed bedroom door, she paused for a moment. Colin Majors had touched her in a way that was hard to dismiss. He had ignited the fiery yearnings she claimed to dispossess. He’d blown in on the wind and rain and stirred up a maelstrom of emotions within her. Well, at least his appearance in her life had jarred her out of a complacency she’d nearly accepted. The solid and seemingly natural direction she’d been set upon before his arrival no longer seemed so sure a course for her to follow. But then, he’d never know the crucial part he’d played in altering her future.

      Images swirled in her head-him frozen like a deer in her headlights, then leaping out of harm’s way at the last possible second; their entwined bodies moving in feverish rhythm to a serenade of fading rain. All at once she was struck by the strange irony of their brief encounter. She might’ve been the one responsible for knocking him off his feet in the beginning, but he was the one who’d knocked the props out from under her in the end. Her fingertips lightly trailed across his bedroom door as she moved away. “Nice knowin’ you, Colin,” she whispered. She sincerely meant it. He’d been a delicious reprieve from the daily grind and the loneliness that sometimes felt as if it might swallow her whole. And in the biblical sense, knowing him had been as fine an experience as any woman could ever hope for. Truly fine.

      

      COLIN WAS SHOWERED and dressed and in the kitchen, in the hopes of seeing her, a mere thirty minutes later. He was anxious to judge her reaction to the bizarre set of circumstances that had taken control of them through the night. More to the point, he felt compelled to confront those blue green eyes in the cold light of day. What private message would they telegraph him? For once in his life, he actually felt uncertain of his ability to express himself adequately. How could he convey to a woman he barely knew the specialness of what they’d shared? How could such strong feelings be reduced to mere words? Dared he risk it? What if he came across sounding foolish or, worse yet, as if he was accustomed to playing one-night stands and delivering practiced lines.

      Deprived of rest, bothered by the combustible chemistry between them and a physical attraction he himself did not fully understand or accept, he wondered how in the hell he could convince her that something more complex than hard-core sex had occurred last night? In some mysterious and profound way, the ranchwoman had marked him with her E.Z.-ness in much the same fashion as everything else around this place was branded. In a few short hours, her hot aura had seared his flesh and was indelibly burned into his memory. It was crazy but true. More than anything, he wanted an opportunity to know her better, to explore all the softer facets lurking beneath the diamond-tough surface.

      Though they’d engaged in more physical activity than conversation, he’d learned a few things about her. She’d told him that her family roots ran deep and were imbedded in this ranch land, and it was obvious how dearly she’d loved her father and how fiercely protective she was of her heritage. When she spoke of Roe Winston, her voice was full of respect and loyalty; however, such was not the case when Colin had again brought up the subject of the portrait and tried to delve into the background of Lady Pamela Walford-Winston. When it came to her mother, E.Z. had little to say, none of which was flattering. And though she mentioned a brother, she did not elaborate, except to say he was five years younger and precious to her.

      He enjoyed her sense of humor. The lady was as naturally easy as her nickname implied. What’s more, he discovered that his first impression of her had been right: she was every bit as passionate as her looks suggested. He couldn’t help but make the comparison to his ex-wife. Making love to E.Z. was akin to riding an intense Texas heat wave. She created a thirst within a man that made him want to drink her in quenching gulps. Gwen had been more like a cool, smooth libation, light refreshment sampled in measured sips. He’d been hungry for many things in his life-money, success, professional recognition-but thirsting for a woman was a new sensation for him, one he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. Yet wary as he was of being the one consumed rather than the consumer, his need to know whether the sensation was fleeting or something more lasting in nature was even greater.

      So here he stood, in her kitchen, his palms sweating and heart pounding, waiting for her to appear.

      Minutes passed. Spying the coffeepot, he poured himself a cup of the steamy brew and sat down at the table. He drummed his fingers and glanced at the