The Triplets' Rodeo Man. Tina Leonard

be close by enough—”

      She stopped and turned on the staircase, not a hairs-breadth away from him since he’d been following her, his eyes on her rump, if she had Jack Morgan figured correctly. “I can’t see myself calling for you to rescue me from anything.”

      “Not even a mouse?” he asked, his eyes dancing with mischief.

      “Mice?” she repeated faintly. “Do you have them?”

      He shrugged. “I can’t speak to the quality of the upkeep at the ranch. There were many months when no one was here, so I suppose there could be some furry residents.”

      “You’re horrible,” she told him. “You’re trying to give me the shivers.”

      “You wouldn’t be afraid of a tiny furry rodent, would you, Deacon?”

      She snapped back around and marched up the last couple of stairs, heading into the first room she saw. It was empty except for a dresser and a bed, it had its own bathroom, and best of all, the door locked with a satisfying click when she shut it in Jack’s face. “Jerk,” she muttered. “What woman loves a mouse?”

      “Good night,” he called through the door.

      “Good riddance,” she replied, hugging the flashlight.

      J ACK WENT DOWNSTAIRS , moving around skillfully in the darkness, and clicked on the TV as he tossed himself into his father’s recliner. Then he realized the TV didn’t work at the moment. There was nothing for him to do, and that made him miss Cricket’s lively banter, even if she was a bit vinegary for his taste. He liked his women a bit more sweet and willing, and if they threw in a little hero worship, that was even better. Yet Cricket didn’t seem to feel any inclination to adore him, in spite of the fact he was willing to give his father a lifesaving kidney.

      Cricket probably wouldn’t be easy to seduce at all. He could spend months wooing her and she’d likely remain cold to his advances.

      Why was he even thinking about sex with the deacon? He had as much chance of that as…well, as finding Pop tonight.

      He was forced to admit that he was worried about his father. The crusty old man was going to die for his independence. Secretly, Jack admired that. He understood the desire to go down fighting.

      Suddenly there was a flashlight beam at his elbow and a tap on his shoulder. “Holy smokes!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “Cricket! I didn’t hear you leave your room!” How she’d made it down the stairs without even a creak, he couldn’t imagine, but maybe thin frames like hers didn’t put pressure on the floor-boards like four rowdy boys could.

      “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.

      He took a deep breath to calm his racing heartbeat and sat down in the chair again. “Is there something you need? If there are no towels in the bath, you can probably—”

      “I want to apologize for my behavior,” Cricket said. “I’ve not been very nice to you, and you have a lot on your mind. I should be more considerate of your feelings.”

      Great. Now he was a pansy. “I’m fine.”

      “I think…I think I’d feel better if I sat down here with you for a while.”

      “I was just kidding about the mouse,” Jack said, feeling bad for taunting her.

      “I know. But if you wouldn’t mind company—”

      “Oh, sure, sure.” Jack waved at the sofa. “Help yourself. Nothing good on TV, anyway.” He winced at his weak joke.

      She hesitated, and then to his great surprise—astonishment—Cricket reached out a hand toward him, the hand not holding the flashlight. Was she going to conk him with it? Jack stared up at her, perplexed by her actions.

      She didn’t say anything, just looked at him.

      Then he got it.

      Cricket wanted him. Or at least she didn’t seem to want to sleep alone.

      He took half a second to consider whether he should do this to the deacon—perhaps she was afraid of the dark, lonely, having a bad-girl fantasy, whatever—then threw any guilt out of his mind. Pulling her down into his lap, Jack kissed her the way he rode bulls, full out and with every intention of staying in the saddle for as long as he possibly could.

      W HEN C RICKET AWAKENED the next morning, she blushed at the memory of the wild night she’d shared with Jack. If anyone had ever told her that lovemaking was such a fabulous, heart-pounding, please-don’t-stop experience, maybe she wouldn’t have waited so long. But she had, she’d always been waiting for Mr. Right. Last night, although she knew Jack was no Mr. Right, she’d decided she was tired of waiting for the prince who might never ride into her life.

      It had been worth it. It could even be addictive, which was not a healthy thought. She slipped away from the sleeping cowboy on the floor in front of the fireplace. The fire had burned low now, mostly just embers, but outside, the sky was dawning clear and crisp. The roads, though still muddy, would be passable.

      She tried to figure out how to escape without waking Jack. The last thing he would want was a girlfriend, and most people who made love together might assume there could be some kind of ongoing relationship. She didn’t relish him thinking that’s what she wanted from him. At least she’d accomplished her goal, which was to understand what other women who fell in love were so happy about. It was hard to understand the giddy excitement over men and sensual pleasures when she’d never experienced it. Now she had, and she totally understood why women could fall so hard for the wrong man, and also why they could love one man all their lives. If she could enjoy the giggling, the excitement, the tears of joy and rapture, the feeling of living outside of her body that she’d experienced with Jack, she’d love the man she married with devotion all her life, too.

      So if she never saw Jack Morgan again, she’d be okay with that. A practical girl understood the cards she was dealt. She’d counseled plenty of women who’d had their hearts broken by Mr. Wrong, all the while hoping he was Mr. Right. Cricket would never fall victim to a lack of common sense.

      Today it was back to her church for her, and no more mooning over the dashing cowboy who’d no doubt broken a hundred hearts. She gathered her clothes and crept into the hall to quickly dress, glancing back over her shoulder at Jack partially wrapped in the blanket. She prayed the front door would open and close without him hearing—it did—and ran to her VW. The car vroomed to life, and she headed toward Fort Wylie with only a slight regret that she wouldn’t see Jack again, at least not the way she’d seen him last night.

      Last night’s indiscretion was the only time she was going to allow herself to live outside the bounds of good moral direction, she promised herself firmly.

      J ACK HAD SLEPT with enough women to know that it was a good thing if they didn’t stick around for the difficult details of goodbye. Still, he was disappointed, and even ego-bruised, when he found Cricket had departed. Had she regretted last night? Wasn’t he the lover she’d wanted? Doubts assailed him, a rare occurrence. He didn’t like wondering about his performance. It was much more fun when women made him feel as if he was the greatest stud on earth.

      In fact, Jack almost felt as if he’d been dumped. Dumped by the deacon, and refused by his father.

      His father was understandable. They’d never been close, even though it was a reasonable assumption that a man who had so much to live for would be grateful for a kidney. After all, Josiah had given him life; Jack felt that returning the favor was good for his heavenly record. But no, neither Josiah nor Cricket seemed to feel the need to give Jack a little reciprocal gratitude.

      He didn’t feel it would have been too much to ask of Cricket to hang around, make him some eggs, act appreciative, maybe even slightly worshipful. She was very difficult to understand, and he didn’t like that. Women shouldn’t make a man think too long and too hard; otherwise it took all the fun out of the pursuit.

      Her