Cassie's Cowboy. Diane Pershing

      “And I sure don’t mean to be rude,” he went on, “but I had to travel quite a far piece, and I have a powerful thirst. May I trouble you for a glass of water?”

      He waited for her answer, but Cassie was unable to say anything at the moment.

      Deterred not in the least, he went on. “Are you sure I can’t come in? I’m plum tuckered out. I can bunk down on your davenport, if you’d like.” He spread his hands and grinned the Cowboy Charlie grin she’d invented for him, based on the way Brad Pitt looked when he was feeling cocky. It was a smile that invited you to be in on the joke with him, the one that always brought sunshine to a dreary outlook.

      She shook her head until she was sure her brains were back in place. Then she stood ramrod straight.

      Enough!

      Either he was insane or she was. Either way, it was time to end this.

      “Listen to me, Cowboy Charlie, or whoever you are,” she said with newfound strength and purpose. “If you’re fictional, you don’t get tired and you don’t need any water.”

      “But—”

      She refused to let him continue. “And no, you cannot stay here,” she added indignantly, positive that someone had slipped her a hallucinogenic drug or that she was in a deep dream state and would wake in the morning, back to her old self again. “In fact,” she added for emphasis, “good night!”

      Ignoring the confused look on the stranger’s face, she closed the door and double locked it, clicked off the porch light and stomped up the stairs.

      There! she thought. That was telling him!

      She was probably sleepwalking—it was the only explanation that made sense—but it was time to seek the safety of her bed.

      In the morning he’d be gone for sure.

      Chapter Two

      The phone rang, followed by Trish complaining, followed by a knock at the front door. All she needed, Cassie thought, on the verge of screaming, was for a bomb to go off. Then her life would be complete.

      Setting the bowl of cereal down in front of her daughter with a bang, she picked up the phone and barked into it, “Hold on.” She glared resolutely at Trish. “You know I can’t hear you when you whine.”

      “But I don’t like oatmeal, Mommy,” her daughter whined, and pushed the cereal away.

      “It’s all we have this morning, so get over it. Yes?” she said into the phone, then pushed the bowl of cereal back before her daughter. “Not interested,” she said to the telemarketer.

      “That’s a shame,” an overly bright young voice replied, “because—”

      Cassie hung up before she got to hear about the shame. “Where is it written,” she said to no one in particular, “that just because I have a telephone I’m fair game?”

      “Do I have to eat this, Mommy?” Trish asked again.

      “You betcha.”

      Cassie was aware that she was acting and sounding cranky. But it had been a rough night, she had a headache that took up all available space behind her eye sockets—including her brain, she was sure—and the bright sunlight pouring in through the missing slats of the kitchen window blinds was directed straight at her eyes, as though she’d been purposely targeted by the sun gods.

      She poured herself another cup of coffee and took a slug. “I overslept and need to get dressed for work, honey,” she went on, forcing her voice to be more gentle, “so eat up before the car pool gets here.”

      “But—”

      “No buts. Do it.”

      Insistent knocking at the door made Cassie jump. Oops. She’d managed to forget that someone had already knocked once, just seconds ago. She glanced at the wall clock. It was ten minutes early for the car pool, but Helen Wasserman, whose turn it was today, was one of those chirpy, “better early than late” type-A personalities that Cassie positively loathed.

      “Eat,” she ordered her pouting daughter. “I’ll tell Helen she’ll just have to wait a couple of minutes.”

      Determined to check her testiness before she got to the door—after all, it wouldn’t do to unload on the poor woman whose only sin was a terror of being tardy—Cassie hurried to the front door. Before she opened it, she made sure her robe was tied. Then, forcing a broad smile onto unwilling cheek muscles, she pulled open the door.

      The smile left her face right away. In fact, her mouth dropped open, wide as the door, at the sight on her porch.

      It was him. Again.

      Or still.

      Cowboy Charlie, in person, back for a repeat performance.

      His appearance this morning was rumpled, and he needed a shave. But so what? Despite her bad mood, she’d have had to be comatose not to observe how to-drool-over sexy the man was.

      His sun-streaked hair flopped on his forehead. That crooked smile deepened the laugh lines around his Paul Newman eyes. He was tall and slim and sturdy, and possessed more animal charisma than ought to be allowed.

      She’d half convinced herself that she’d dreamed him up the night before, some combination of stress and overactive imagination at work. Cassie sighed. Well, there went that theory.

      Whoever he was, he was no apparition, that was for sure. One of her friends, that had to be the explanation. A few of them knew all about her Cowboy Charlie stories. Sandy, or Margie, or some other well-meaning person had decided to play a little trick on her, bring a little fun into her stressful life. This, she decided, seemed like sound reasoning, even if the likelihood of finding an exact replica of her Charlie—as exact as this one was—had to be pretty remote.

      But still, the whole thing had to be a joke. And she’d go along with the joke, by heaven, because Cassie had a sense of humor.

      Like that she found herself relaxing in his easygoing, attractive presence. Not that whoever was responsible wasn’t going to pay, big-time, she amended. Still, for the moment she’d play her part and have a little fun at the same time. And why not? After all, the man was, quite simply, impossible to resist.

      Her mind made up, instead of taking his head off, when Charlie smiled, Cassie found herself smiling back.

      “Morning,” he said cheerfully. “How’re we doing today?”

      “We’re just ducky,” she said, chuckling. “And you?”

      There, Charlie thought. He’d suspected that the lady’s smile would warm up her pretty face, would bring that merry sparkle to her eyes, and darned if he hadn’t been right. “I sure could use that drink, ma’am. I spent the night in that shed behind your house, and there wasn’t any water that I could find.”

      “You slept in my garage?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      She bit the edge of her lip, but he could tell she wasn’t really upset anymore. She wore a long robe, one that outlined that cute little body of hers, letting him know that the curves he remembered from the night before were real. He wondered briefly if he was supposed to be noticing her body and the nice rasp of her voice, if that was part of his quest. But whether or not he was supposed to, he was a man, after all. Some things were not in his control.

      Folding her arms over her chest, she asked, but with a smile, “Okay, truth time. Who sent you?”

      Uh-oh. We’re back to that again. Charlie pushed his hat back and scratched his head, trying to tamp down the small spurt of irritation her question aroused. “I thought we got that straightened out last night,” he said, determined to be patient, even though his mouth felt like sawdust. “You did.”

      “Right.