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

time, or a partner for life?” he asked.

      There was nothing offensive in his tone or manner, and he positively radiated sincerity. Bottom line, Bill was easy to talk to, perhaps because he was a virtual stranger and, therefore, the two of them had no issues, no shared baggage, nothing to get in the way of friendship.

      “It’s not a new story,” she replied, quietly miserable. “I fell for the wrong man, I got hurt—fill in the blanks and you’ll probably have it just about right.”

      Bill arched an eyebrow, waited. On top of everything else working in his favor, the man was a good listener. And all she could drum up was a walloping case of like.

      He was the big brother she’d never had.

      The pal.

      And he wasn’t even gay, for Pete’s sake.

      Carolyn squirmed on her chair, not sure how much more she ought to say. This was their first meeting, after all, and as genuine as Bill Venable seemed, it certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that she was totally, completely, absolutely wrong about him.

      It had happened before, hadn’t it?

      Once, she’d been convinced that she knew Brody Creed, through and through. After a long string of shallow, going-nowhere-fast relationships, she’d believed in him, been convinced he was The One, taken the things he said and did at face value, only to be burned in the back draft of all that passion when he showed his true colors and lit out.

      And there was that other lapse in judgment, too—when she’d thought she’d hit her stride by becoming a nanny. She’d trusted her movie-star boss implicitly, admired his down-to-earth manner, his apparent devotion to his wife and small daughter.

      Until he’d come on to her, forcing her to abandon a job—and a child—she’d loved.

      Carolyn closed her eyes, remembering—pummeled by—the rearview mirror image of little Storm running behind her car, screaming for her to come back.

      Come back.

      Without saying a word, Bill reached across the table and took her hand in a brotherly way. Squeezed it lightly.

      Carolyn opened her eyes again, smiled weakly. Enough, she decided, was enough. For now, anyway.

      “I should be getting home,” she said, bending to fumble under the table for her purse. “My cat will be wondering where I am.”

      Bill sighed, glanced at his watch and nodded. “I’m sure Ellie’s perfectly happy at her grandparents’ house,” he said agreeably, “but it’ll be suppertime soon, and when I’m in town, I try to make sure we’re both sitting at the same table for at least one meal a day.”

      “That’s nice,” Carolyn said, feeling awkward now.

      Supper, for her, was usually a lonesome affair, something she did to stay alive.

      She and Bill rose from their chairs at the same moment.

      He walked her to the door, opened it for her, waited until she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

      It was a balmy May evening, shot through with the first faint lavender tinges of twilight, and there were lots of people out and about, just strolling, or talking to each other under streetlamps that would come on soon, glad to be outdoors.

      Winter was long in Lonesome Bend, and good weather was not only savored, it was also celebrated.

      Friends smiled and waved, their expressions both kindly and curious as they took note of Carolyn’s escort, a man few, if any of them, actually knew.

      By the time she went to bed that night, she thought, with a little smile, word would be all over town. Carolyn Simmons was seeing someone, and that someone wasn’t Brody Creed.

      Since her car was parked on the street, in plain view of at least a dozen fine citizens, she felt no compunction about letting Bill walk her to it and open the door for her.

      “I had a great time,” he said, his gaze direct as he waited for her to get settled behind the wheel.

      “Me, too,” Carolyn said, fastening her seat belt and sticking her key into the ignition.

      “Friends?” he asked, with a wry grin.

      “Friends,” Carolyn agreed.

      Bill stepped back, waved and watched from the sidewalk as she drove away.

      * * *

      “WHO IS HE?” Tricia demanded eagerly, when she entered the shop the next morning.

      She hadn’t even put away her purse yet.

      Carolyn, smiling to herself, pretended a keen interest in unpacking the most recent delivery of goat-milk soap.

      “And don’t say you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Tricia warned, waggling a finger. Her eyes sparkled with mischievous affection. “Three different people called the ranch last night to ask about the hunk you had coffee with.”

      Carolyn chuckled. “His name is Bill Venable,” she said, “and he fights forest fires for a living. Flies one of those airplanes that spray chemicals on the hot spots.”

      “Like in that old Richard Dreyfuss movie?” Tricia asked. She was having a hard time bending far enough to stow her purse on its usual under-the-counter shelf. The baby bump seemed to get visibly bigger from one day to the next. “What was it called?” She stopped to stretch her back, her hands resting on either side of what had once been her waist. “I remember. It was Always. And Dreyfuss’s character went out in a blaze of glory, didn’t he?”

      “I don’t recall,” Carolyn lied, still stacking neatly wrapped bars of soap on the counter. The truth was, being a classic movie buff, she’d long since picked up on the similarities.

      “Did you meet him through that website?” Tricia persisted. “Friendly Faces?”

      “Yes,” Carolyn said, making a production of removing the now-empty carton the soap had arrived in and heading toward the storage room. It was company policy to recycle cardboard boxes, among other things.

      Tricia was waiting when she came back. “Do you like him? Are you going to see him again?”

      Carolyn laughed. “Yes, I like him,” she said, with exaggerated patience, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if he asked me out at some point.”

      Tricia’s beautiful blue eyes widened. It was hard to tell if she was excited or alarmed by the prospect.

      Probably, she was both.

      “Will you go? If he does ask you, I mean?”

      “I haven’t really decided,” Carolyn said, with breezy nonchalance. She was looking up at the batik of the Weaver now, trying to absorb some of its serenity. “I must say, I was pleasantly surprised by how normal Bill turned out to be.”

      “Normal,” Tricia echoed, her tone making it clear that she wasn’t planning on dropping the subject anytime soon. “What did you expect him to be like, Carolyn?”

      Carolyn tilted her head to one side, studying the Weaver, wishing she could afford to buy the piece and keep it forever. There was something so soothing about the thing, about the figure of a woman drawn with indistinct lines, strokes of color and shapes that were hardly more than suggested.

      “Carolyn?” Tricia persisted, standing beside her now, giving her a poke with one elbow. Since just about everything on Tricia’s body was rounded into soft curves, it didn’t hurt. “Talk to me.”

      Carolyn sighed and turned to look at her friend. “I guess I thought there was the outside chance he might be another Ted Bundy,” she confessed.

      Tricia rolled her eyes, and then laughed, and then looked serious, all in the space of a few seconds. “Brody isn’t going to like this one bit,” she said. Tricia wasn’t normally given to mood swings, but there