Cowboy Country: The Creed Legacy / Blame It on the Cowboy. Delores Fossen

Brody said dismissively, pushing back his chair—at long last—and rising. “You sure you’re all right?”

      “I’m sure,” Carolyn insisted, hugging herself and not looking at him.

      Funny, though. Even with her eyes averted, the man was an onslaught to her jangled senses. She was aware of Brody Creed in every part of her; he made everything pulse.

      She felt angry triumph at the prospect of his leaving and, underlying that, a certain quiet dejection.

      Go, she thought desperately. For God’s sake, Brody, just go.

      Instead of heading straight to the door, however, Brody stepped around the table, paused behind Carolyn’s chair and then leaned down to place the lightest of kisses on the top of her head.

      “See you around,” he said gruffly.

      Carolyn clamped her molars together, so she couldn’t ask him to stay.

      To cajole her about soup and hold her.

      She’d said and done enough stupid things for one day, met and exceeded the quota.

      A few seconds later, Brody was gone.

      The apartment, once her refuge, felt hollow without him.

      She sat still in her chair, listening to the sound of his boot heels on the outside stairs, waiting for the roar of his truck engine, the sounds of driving away.

      Only then, when she was sure he wasn’t coming back, did Carolyn push her teacup aside and bend forward to thump her forehead lightly against the table in frustration.

      Once, twice, a third time.

      Winston jumped down from the windowsill and padded over to wrap himself around her ankles, purring and offering general cat-comfort.

      She bent, scooped him onto her lap and petted his silky back.

      Since there was no one but the cat around to see, Carolyn finally gave in and allowed herself to cry.

      * * *

      “OKAY, SO I WAS a buttinski,” Kim allowed, with a sheepish glance at Brody.

      The two of them were standing in the ranch-house kitchen.

      “Ya think?” Brody retorted.

      In the time he’d been out, Tricia and Conner had gone back to their place—they were probably having slow, sleepy sex at that very moment—and Davis had retreated to his saddle shop, where he was working on a custom order.

      Little Bit and Smidgeon must have gone with him, because there was no sign of them.

      Except for the lingering scent of homemade tamales, all signs of supper were gone. Dishes washed, leftovers wrapped and put away, counters clear.

      Kim Creed ran a tight ship.

      Too bad she didn’t exercise the same control over her mouth.

      “I’m sorry,” Kim said, reaching into the laundry basket on the table and pulling out a towel to fold. “I just thought you should know that Carolyn is...well...looking.”

      “Why?” Brody asked. “In what universe is that my business, Kim? Or yours, for that matter? Carolyn was nervous in the first place—my guess is, that’s why she was swilling wine like she was. And then you had to make everything worse by blurting out something she probably told you in confidence.”

      Kim stopped folding, and tears brimmed in her eyes.

      Brody ached when any woman cried, but with Kim, it was the worst. She was, for all practical intents and purposes, his mom, and he loved her accordingly.

      “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she admitted with a sniffle. “I’ll apologize to Carolyn tomorrow.”

      Brody put his arms around Kim, gave her a brief squeeze. “Maybe you could lay off the matchmaking, too, for a while, anyway,” he suggested, taking a towel from the basket and folding it.

      “Trust me,” Kim said, “I’ve already had this entire lecture from Davis. If you and Carolyn are both too thickheaded and stubborn to see that you’re meant for each other, well, it’s out of my hands, that’s all. You’re on your own.”

      “Thank you,” Brody said, smiling. “I’ll take it from here.”

      Kim’s eyes widened, and her hands froze in mid towel-folding. “What do you mean, you’ll take it from here? Are you...?”

      Brody held up one index finger and shook his head, grinning as he turned to head for Davis’s shop to bid the man good-night before heading back to the cabin at River’s Bend.

      The spacious room smelled pleasantly of leather and saddle soap and the wood fire that crackled in the Franklin stove, the flames casting a dancing reflection on the worn planks in the floor. Davis stood at one of several worktables, tooling an intricate design into a strip of cowhide.

      At Brody’s entrance, he looked up and grinned. Set the rubber mallet and the awl aside and dusted off his hands on the sides of his jeans, a gesture of habit more than necessity.

      “Carolyn still feeling peaky?” Davis asked, evidently to get the conversational ball rolling.

      “She’ll be all right,” Brody replied, looking around and recalling when he and Conner were kids, always getting underfoot in their uncle’s first shop, a much smaller room than this one, connected to the barn at the other place. Back then, they’d believed nothing and no one could hurt them if Davis was around. They’d grown up feeling safe, and that had fostered self-confidence.

      Or arrogance, depending on how you looked at it.

      Davis tilted his head to one side, studied his nephew in silence for a few moments, then went back to his worktable, picked up a chamois and began polishing the piece he’d been tooling before.

      “How’s that fancy house of yours coming along?” Davis asked, at some length. He wasn’t a man for chatter.

      Brody spotted the little dogs under one of the tables, snuggled up in a bed made to look like a plush pink slipper, and smiled. Dragged back a wooden chair and sat astraddle of it, resting his forearms across the back.

      “Slowly,” he replied, eliciting a bass note of a chuckle from Davis.

      “Pretty big place for one cowboy and his dog,” Davis commented. Barney had wandered in behind Brody by then, and lay down at his feet.

      “Don’t start,” Brody warned, leaning to ruffle the dog’s floppy ears so the critter would know he was welcome.

      “Don’t start what?” Davis asked, though he knew damn well what.

      Brody merely sighed.

      Davis chuckled, shook his head. “My wife did stir something up at supper tonight, didn’t she?” he said, polishing away at that hunk of leather.

      “You might say that,” Brody said dryly.

      Davis paused in his work, gave Brody a mirthful assessment before going on. “Conner and Tricia turned out to be a good match,” he observed. “Kim put her foot in it, sure enough, but she just wants you to be as happy as your brother is, that’s all.”

      “I know,” Brody answered, on a long sigh. Then, presently, he added, “Here’s the thing, Davis. Something happened between Carolyn and me, a long time ago, and she’d sooner throw in with a polecat than with me. We’re never going to get together, she and I, no matter how much you and Kim want that.”

      “Is that right?” Davis asked, with his customary note of charitable skepticism. He’d finished with the polishing, and now he was wiping his hands off on a shop towel.

      “Take it from me,” Brody said. “If it came down to me or a polecat, the polecat would win, hands down. Carolyn wants no part of me, and I can’t really say I blame her for it.”

      Davis