His Country Girl. Jillian Hart

      “Wow.” Owen’s face fell and he stared hard at the bull tucked tight against his chest. With his head bowed, his cowlick stuck straight up, making him look both cute and vulnerable. “What’s your daddy like?”

      “My dad?” The question startled him. He shot a glance at Sierra, still asleep in the chair. He did his best not to notice what a beautiful woman she was and the pretty picture she made, there in her light pink sweater and well-worn jeans, like a snapshot to be treasured over time. Her warning popped into his head. He knew the boy wasn’t bringing up the issue of his missing father, but it was implied in that question.

      How did he handle it? He studied the kid for a second, taking in the downcast look and the wistful tone of his question. Couldn’t hurt to talk about Dad. There wasn’t a better father on this earth than Frank Granger.

      “I get my animal sense from him.” Tucker was surprised at the wash of memories that hit. He spent most of his adult life either on the road or keeping up his training. Riding was an art, one that required practice every day and kept him far from his childhood home. That was the way he’d wanted it, so he was hard pressed to explain the beat of longing for family, for his dad.

      “Was he a rodeo rider, too?” Owen asked, head up, eyes sad.

      “Nope. He is a hardworking rancher. He is a good dad. The kind that’s patient and steady. He listens. He was always there taking care of Mom and us kids. He taught me to whisper to the animals.”

      “Whisper? You mean you can talk to them?”

      “Sure you can. You just open your mouth and say stuff.”

      That bit of humor almost distracted the boy from the father discussion. Owen broke a hesitating smile and rolled his eyes. “I know that. Anybody can talk to ’em. But how do you do it in horse?”

      “That’s a good question. Not everyone can.” The memories came quietly and as welcome as a Wyoming summer, breezing through him stirring up images of his dad kneeling down, hands out, baritone rumbling like song. Frank Granger was a big man, several inches over six feet, and he’d seemed like a giant to the six-year-old boy Tucker had once been. A gentle, powerful, able-to-do-anything father he could always lean on.

      “The secret is easy.” Tucker said the same words to Owen that his dad had told him. “You put your feelings in your voice and in your hands and you leave the door to your heart wide open.”

      Chapter Three

      Sierra blinked, staring at the man, his words resounding inside her. Maybe it was sleep clinging to the corners of her mind making things fuzzy, but had Tucker Granger truly said that? She didn’t realize that a man like him—one who was always laughing, carefree and without a single tie in the world to bind him—would know anything about what lived inside the heart.

      “Look who is back with us.” His smile warmed his voice, and she’d never thought of a man’s tone as cozy before, but his was. “Sleeping Beauty is awake.”

      “Sleeping Beauty. Really?” Groggy she may be, but she wasn’t that out of it. She shook her head. “Is there an off switch to that charm of yours? It’s getting a little much.”

      “I’ll turn it down a notch.” Good humor sparkled back at her. The man dazzled, that was for sure, and it was hard not to hold it against him. “Feeling better?”

      “A little.” Good thing she’d kept her cup upright. It was tilting a bit but hadn’t spilled. She took a sip of the lukewarm goodness to give her a moment to compose herself.

      “Just in time.” He rose, tossing a smile at someone behind her shoulder. “Looks like pizza is here.”

      “Pizza?” She hadn’t ordered any. The delicious aroma of dough, red sauce and pepperoni filled the air.

      “Pizza!” Owen looked beyond amazed. “Really? Pepperoni and everything?”

      “You betcha, little buddy.” Tucker handed over a generous tip and took charge of the boxes and container of drinks. “I can see by that big frown they forgot to clue in your mom. I had Janelle clear this with your team of docs.”

      “Oh boy! Goody.” Owen beamed joy. “Thank you, Tucker. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

      “You’re welcome. I’m partial to pizza myself.” He slid the boxes on the bed. “When I’m on the road, I eat way too much of it. I’m on a health kick these days, eating well so I heal up right. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed this stuff.”

      “Me, too!” Owen squeezed the stuffed bull in a big hug. “My mom says pizza is not a food group. You’re only supposed to eat food groups.”

      “Really? That’s just plain wrong.” He hauled out a cup of cola from the drink holder and handed it over to her. While he was jovial, it was easy enough to read the understanding somberness in his impossibly dreamy eyes. “Pizza has dough, so that’s as good as a whole grain right there.”

      “No, it isn’t. This is a white-flour crust,” she argued, laughing, too. “There is a difference between processed flour and the real stuff.”

      “Sure,” he said, as if he didn’t believe her one bit, his dimples deepening.

      She set her coffee on the floor and reached for the drink he held out to her. Her fingers curled around the cold circumference of the cup and brushed the heat of his calloused, sun-browned hand. A spark snapped down her arm like an electric shock, startling her. He didn’t seem to notice, pulled away and kept on talking, but the charge kept tingling and seemed to dig into the marrow of her bones. What was that? Her imagination? Static electricity in the air?

      “There’s the red sauce,” Tucker went on, unaware of her reaction as he flung open one of the boxes. “That’s made with tomatoes or tomato paste or something like that. That counts as a vegetable. And the cheese is dairy. Pepperoni is meat, so that sounds like four food groups to me.”

      “Me, too!” Owen was happy to agree, seeing as how he was about to benefit from the argument. “Tucker? Which is the biggest piece?”

      “Let’s see.” Tucker grabbed a napkin and considered the pie in front of him. “This one, do you think?”

      Owen leaned forward, studying the slice his hero was lifting onto a napkin. Cheese strings stretched and broke, red sauce dripped and pepperoni grease oozed.

      “Yep,” the boy said with satisfaction. “That one’s the best piece. Can it go to my mom?”

      “Sure, buddy.” What a sweet kid. Tucker held out the piece to Sierra, doing his level best not to be affected by her. It wasn’t her beauty that was getting to him, but something deeper, something he admired more than he wanted to admit. “It’s only right that ladies are served first. I’ve got pineapple and Canadian bacon in the other box if you’d rather have it.”

      “This is great.” She didn’t meet his gaze but took the napkin carefully and this time their fingers didn’t touch.

      He couldn’t say why that was a letdown. It wasn’t as if he was interested in the woman. He wasn’t looking for a connection or for reasons to like her.

      “Which piece for you, cowboy?” he asked the kid, who had already picked out the slice he wanted and pointed. “You’re going to have to put down Jack and Slayer.”

      “This is Slayer? Cool.” Owen seemed pleased with that, although he had a hard time putting down either toy. He debated which one to let go of first, carefully released the plastic horse and set him on the bedside table. Then he propped the stuffed bull against the pillows and tucked him beneath the covers, like a good dad would.

      After handing over the slice, Tucker took one for himself. “Sierra, something tells me you’re just itching to say grace.”

      “I’m more curious to see what you are going to say.” She had the most amazing eyes,