His Country Girl. Jillian Hart

it show. He grabbed the pen Sierra offered him, seeing the same dread reflected on her beautiful face.

      “This time tomorrow,” he went on, turning his attention to scrawling out numbers on the napkin, “your mom will call and tell me how fantastic you’re doing and that I had better find me a good sheep because you’re ready to start learning the trade.”

      “All right!” Owen clasped his hands together, as if overcome with joy.

      Only then did Tucker realize what he’d done. He’d promised to teach the boy without clearing it first with his mom. Ouch. That was one big mistake. He stared hard at the pen and napkin in hand, knowing recrimination was about to come in one form or another. It was his experience that most mothers did not want their sons to grow up to join the rodeo.

      “I’ll give you a call.” When Sierra spoke, there wasn’t veiled anger layered beneath her quiet alto. Not even a hint of coolness or a tone of disapproval. What he heard instead made him turn toward her, surprising him like nothing could. She smiled, taking the pen and napkin from him. “It’s a good thing your neighbors raise sheep. We’ll know just where to look.”

      “Right.” His throat tightened. Words tumbled straight out of his head. He felt awkward and wooden as his boots hit the tile and he grappled for his cane and his hat. He didn’t know why he could see her heart, but he could. She was grateful for his offer because it gave Owen hope; it gave her hope, that there would be a lifetime of tomorrows yet to come for her and her son.

      “You be sure and watch some of those movies,” he told the boy. “The one with the wooden toy cowboy is my favorite. When I talk to you, I want to hear what you think.”

      “Sure. ’Bye, Tucker.” Owen wrapped his arm around the stuffed bull and held on tight.

      The picture he made, sitting frail and small in his hospital bed, tore at him.

      “Thanks for having me over,” he said, taking a step into the hall before he realized it was true. He thought he’d been doing a favor for the charity, but he’d been wrong. The favor had been for him.

      Sierra was on her feet, following him into the hall. Light played in the multihued layers of her hair, golds, honeys and platinums glinted beneath the fluorescent lamps. She looked lighter than when he’d met her a few hours ago, so luminous it hurt to gaze at her.

      “I can’t believe everything you did for Owen today.” Her fingertips landed on his forearm. “Thank you.”

      “My pleasure.” Her touch felt like the sweetest comfort he’d ever known and he did not pull away. “You promise to call? I want to know when he’s out of surgery. I’ve got a sheep to find.”

      But that wasn’t what he meant and judging by the gleam of emotion pooling in her gray eyes, she knew it, too. The sheep wasn’t the problem. It was his concern for the boy.

      “Promise.” Her lower lip trembled and she fell silent, as if she could not risk saying more. She firmed her chin and straightened her slender shoulders. So much strength for such a wisp of a woman, and seeing it made him admire her all the more.

      “Goodbye, Sierra.” The emotion wedged between his ribs arrowed impossibly deeper. He forced his feet to carry him down the hall and away from the woman responsible. It had to be sympathy he felt for her because, as every woman he’d ever dated had told him, he wasn’t capable of more.