A Cowboy's Christmas Reunion. Sasha Summers

home. I feel weird about leaving Dad home alone.” Which was partly true.

      “Okay,” he said slowly. “You can leave. Once there’s some color in your cheeks and you don’t look like you’re gonna pass out. Don’t think this car would take a beating the way Granddad’s truck did.”

      She glared up at him. She pinched her cheeks, then smiled thinly. “There. Color in my cheeks.”

      He laughed. “Don’t make me pick you up, Jo.”

      She slipped from the car, grasping the roof for support.

      They stood there, regarding each other in the warm rays of the setting sun. No one came out to greet them. Other than the faint coo of a dove, the moo of a distant cow and the slightly rhythmic whump of the windmill’s blades, it was quiet.

      “Drink?” he asked. He held out his hand awkwardly.

      She stared at it and pushed off her car, not taking it. “I think I can manage to walk to the door, Hunter. I’ll have my drink and hit the road and you can have a peaceful evening with the family.”

      “Eli’s out.” He sounded amused. “Fish, Archer and Ryder all have places of their own. But Renata still lives with Dad so she can take care of him. She always was a daddy’s girl.”

      Josie felt bile in her throat. He wanted her to sit through dinner with him and Amy? She felt angry suddenly.

      “Don’t you think it might be a little awkward?” She turned toward him. “Okay, a lot awkward.”

      “Why?” He looked genuinely surprised. “Why would being alone with me be awkward?”

      Josie was distracted by the shift of emotions on his face. The tone of his voice was soft but coaxing. He seemed to take a step toward her, rattling her from her silence.

      “Alone?” A full-fledged pounding began at the base of her skull. Shooting pain focused right behind her left eye.

      He nodded. “Let’s get you inside. You can lie down, have your drink, and once you’re better, you can leave, if that’s what you want to do.”

      “I should go now,” she argued. “Pretty sure it’s a migraine and once it gets started—”

      “You’ll be down for the count.” He nodded, slipping his arm around her for support. “You’re not driving, Jo. It wouldn’t be right or gentlemanly.”

      “You could be a gentleman and drive me home now.” She didn’t have the energy to argue, but she refused to lean into him.

      “In a bit.” He swung her up into his arms.

      “Hunter—” His name escaped on a startled breath, right before she was bombarded with his scent. Everything about him was familiar. The earthy spice of him, the strength of his arms, the warmth he exuded, the feel of his breath against her forehead. It was sweet torture. “I can walk,” she bit out, sitting rigidly in his arms. She would not relax. She would not melt in his arms and press herself to him. She would not kiss his neck or run her hands through his thick, dark blond hair. She would not think of doing those things, either.

      He carried her into the house, ratcheting up her nerves. This was how she was going to see Amy? In his arms? Her whisper was urgent. “Please put me down.”

      And he did. On the couch. “Sit,” he murmured before leaving the room.

      “Bark bark,” she muttered childishly. Her gaze bounced around the room, searching, waiting.

      He laughed. “You still do that?”

      “You still order people around?” she snapped.

      He left and then walked back with a glass of water and a bottle of pain pills. He sat on the coffee table opposite the couch, offering them to her.

      She stared at him, deciding whether to take the offered answer to her pain or suffer through out of sheer stubbornness. She took the bottle and the water.

      “Still get migraines?” he asked.

      She shrugged, pouring a couple of pain relievers into her hand before putting the lid back on the bottle. “Sometimes.” She glanced at him. “Still have sneezing fits?”

      “Sometimes.” He smiled. “Still painting? I mean, other than your illustrations.”

      “Yes.” It was ironic that, even though she’d been desperate to leave the state of Texas and everything about it, Texas landscapes were one of her favorite things to paint. “Still write poetry?”

      “No.” He stared down at her. “You wanna lie down? Eli’s room is a mess, but you can rest in mine if you want.”

      Rest in his room? Amy’s room?

      She shook her head. “No, thank you. If I lie here for a minute, will you let me leave?”

      He stood over her, still smiling. “I’m not kidnapping you, Jo. You can go whenever you want to go. As long as you can make it all the way back into town with no problems.”

      She sat up and felt instantly nauseous.

      “Yeah.” He sighed. “Stop being so stubborn and lie down.”

      “I’m stubborn?” she snapped as she lay back on the cushions of the couch.

      “Relax for a few. Dinner’s almost ready.” He winked at her. “The protein’ll do you some good.”

      She pulled her gaze from him, shaking her head. “Where is everyone again?” Being alone with him wasn’t good for her. She didn’t like feeling so vulnerable, so needy. As a matter a fact, she was feeling way too much right now. Even with her pounding head, she was preoccupied with thoughts of being wrapped in his arms.

      “Eli’s spending the night with a friend. My brothers have their own places. They’re probably off doing what grown men do.” Hunter shrugged.

      “That sounds...dangerous,” she muttered, waiting for the rest. But Hunter didn’t say a thing about Amy. She narrowed her eyes. He was going to make her ask, wasn’t he? She started to, but couldn’t. It had taken her a long time not to wince just thinking Amy’s name. She sure as hell wasn’t going to say it, out loud, here.

      She’d turn up sooner or later—she always did.

      “No interruptions. You rest. I’ll work. You can eat later and I’ll drive you home.”

      She continued to glare at him, even as she lay back on the couch cushions. Her head was pounding, making her ears ring. She closed her eyes, trying to relax. But she couldn’t.

      She was alone with Hunter. Just the two of them. She opened her eyes, looking for him.

      The place had changed, but it still felt the same. The inside had obviously been gutted and redone. The walls were painted a warm cream with knotty wood trim. The ceiling was dark, with heavy exposed beams. The cast-iron wagon-wheel chandelier was the same. So was the wood-burning stove in the far corner.

      But the room felt bigger—was bigger. The dining room was now part of this room—separated by a long brown leather sofa. On the far wall, beneath a huge picture window, was Hunter’s old-fashioned drafting table. Her mouth went dry at the memories that table stirred up.

      They’d spent most of that morning bringing in the round hay bales in the tractor. Once they’d been left alone, she’d dragged him inside with obvious intentions. Her lips had fastened on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. When her lips suckled and nipped at his earlobe, he’d tugged her jeans off, tossing them hurriedly over his shoulder before grasping her hips and setting her onto the table. With his jeans around his ankles, he’d loved her hard and fast. How could she remember the feel of him, as though he was with her now?

      They’d been young, too young... But they’d loved each other, really loved each other. And then life—Amy—had gotten in the way.

      She