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

awkward, hauling that big picture over to my place on a horse, so I’m hoping you’ll be so kind as to deliver it for me.”

      She stiffened her spine. Raised her chin. “I’m sure Tricia would be happy to drop it off for you,” she said.

      “She can’t be carrying heavy things in her condition,” Brody answered, with a faint note of disapproval in his voice. He looked around. “Where’s that ladder?”

      Carolyn told him where the ladder was, and he went and fetched it.

      He came straight back, jackknifed that ladder open with a purposeful squeak of metal hinges and climbed nimbly up to the top rung. Lifted the framed batik off its hook and brought it down when he descended, the muscles in his back moving gracefully beneath the fabric of his shirt.

      Blood pulsed in Carolyn’s ears.

      Tricia and Conner were laughing now, their joy in life and in each other bursting out of them between silences. She heard the fridge door open and close, and plates clattering, as if from some great distance, or from fathoms under the sea.

      Carefully, almost reverently in fact, Brody laid the Weaver on the round table where Carolyn and Tricia normally displayed handmade papers. She watched his face as he studied the image and knew it would hang in his new house one day soon, a thing he was proud to own.

      “You’ll bring it by the lodge, then?” he asked, his voice hoarse, as if he’d gone a long time without speaking.

      “You could always stop by with your truck,” Carolyn said, because it seemed important—if pointless—to stand up to him.

      “I could,” Brody agreed. “But I’d like to show you my house, and you did seem taken with Moonshine’s friendly face. Here’s your chance to say howdy to him in person.”

      “Moonshine?”

      “My horse,” Brody said, with a ghost of a grin. “I think he gets pretty lonesome, out there in that unfinished barn. He’d probably like a visitor.”

      Carolyn thrust out a sigh. She might be able to resist Brody, albeit not with anything resembling ease, but she could not resist a horse. “All right,” she said. “I’ll bring the picture over. What’s a good time?”

      “I’m usually there in the evenings,” Brody replied.

      Of course you are. And what big teeth you have, Grandma.

      “I like to sew in the evenings,” she said.

      Brody was facing her again—and the counter between them wasn’t wide enough to suit Carolyn. The whole state of Colorado wouldn’t have been wide enough.

      He let his eyes drift over her, and she’d have sworn he left her clothes in smoldering rags, just by looking at her.

      “And then there’s that ride you owe me,” he said, his voice low.

      Carolyn’s face flamed—even after all the talk about horses she managed to misunderstand him right from the get-go—and then he laughed, the sound low again, and raspy.

      “The horseback ride,” he drawled.

      Carolyn gulped. “Why are you pushing this?” she whispered angrily, leaning toward him without thinking and then wishing she hadn’t.

      His mouth was within kissing distance of hers and she couldn’t pull back out of reach. She couldn’t move.

      “You said yes when I asked you to go riding with me,” Brody reminded her, very quietly, “and that makes it a matter of honor. Either your word is worth something, Carolyn Simmons, or it isn’t.”

      That freed her from the spell he’d cast over her.

      Carolyn snapped her head back and glared. She gripped the edges of the counter so tightly that her knuckles ached. “You’re a fine one to talk about honor,” she told him, her voice ragged with fury, “after what you did. Furthermore, my word has never been in question here. Yours, on the other hand—”

      He had the audacity to grin, to raise both hands, palms out, in an ingenuous bid for peace that made her want to slap him silly.

      “Carolyn,” he said slowly, “you are a hard woman. You are a stubborn woman. And you sure do know how to hold a grudge.”

      “Count on it,” Carolyn practically snarled.

      They glowered at each other for a long, silent moment.

      Then Tricia pushed open the kitchen door and poked out her head, like a turtle peering out of a shell.

      “Are you two joining us for lunch or not?” she asked sunnily.

      “I’m not hungry,” Carolyn said.

      “Me, either,” Brody agreed.

      “Okaaaaay,” Tricia replied, singing the word and ducking back into the kitchen.

      Carolyn rounded the counter, stormed past Brody toward the front window and dragged a lace curtain aside to look out at the street.

      Sure enough, there were two horses, a buckskin and a bay, saddled and standing untethered at the picket fence. They were systematically devouring the leaves of Natty McCall’s century-old lilac bush.

      Carolyn turned on Brody, full of challenge. And heat.

      And things it was better not to identify.

      “Two people, two horses,” she said tautly. “Let’s take that ride right now, Mr. Creed, and get it over with.”

      “‘Get it over with’?” Brody sounded amused—and a little insulted.

      “I didn’t promise to like it,” she reminded him. “All I said was that I’d go.” Carolyn indicated her jeans, boots and long-sleeved T-shirt. “And I want to go now.”

      “Fine,” Brody said, inclining his head toward the fence, where the horses waited. “We’ll go now.”

      Carolyn didn’t even pause to tell Tricia that she was leaving the shop, because then she’d have had to explain why she was leaving, and she wasn’t willing to do that. Steam would probably shoot out of her ears if she tried.

      So she strode to the door, wrenched it open and crossed the threshold, then the porch.

      “Take the bay,” Brody told her, when, reaching the gate, she finally hesitated. Ire had carried her this far, but now she was at a loss.

      “Great,” she bit out.

      She gathered the bay’s dangling reins, stuck one foot in the stirrup and mounted with an expertise born of outrage as much as long experience.

      Brody was standing on the sidewalk one moment, and sitting easy in the saddle the next. Holding the buckskin’s reins loosely across one palm, he said, “One hour, Carolyn. Anything less than that doesn’t amount to a ride, unless you’re on a pony at the carnival.”

      On the ground, Carolyn was uncertain about a great many things.

      In the saddle, she ruled. Her confidence, once she was on the back of a horse—any horse—was complete. Unshakable.

      This was something she knew, something that came as easily to her as her breathing or the beating of her heart.

      “Let’s go,” she said.

      “See if you can keep up,” Brody taunted, with another grin.

      “If I don’t, it will be this horse’s fault, not mine,” Carolyn replied, pressing the words through her teeth.

      Brody laughed, an exultant, whooping sound, and he turned that buckskin in the general direction of the ranch and took it from a trot to a gallop to a full run in the space of half a dozen strides. The animal fairly flew along that unpaved road, like a butter-colored Pegasus, with Brody bent low over its neck, the two of them melded into one magnificent creature.

      Pride