To Kiss A Cowgirl. Jeannie Watt

yes,” Jolie said as she dished out the kibble. “You are a cool customer, aren’t you?” The cat brushed past her. He didn’t tolerate being touched, but when she fed him, he always managed to throw his body against her leg at least once in a fly-by show of gratitude.

      Jolie replaced the container on the shelf, then stood there taking in the stillness of the warehouse. Whenever she had to venture out there during the day, Dylan had his radio playing, a local station with a mix of old rock-and-roll and country standbys. He never plugged in headphones, almost as if he wanted to be on the alert.

      Well, he had been a cop. It was probably a survival thing.

      Jolie strolled over to the forklift, giving the cat his space so that he could eat without worrying that she might try to touch him or something. How many times had Dylan dissembled the thing since he’d been back? At least twice. But the last time he’d used it she’d noticed that the nasty miss in the engine had been fixed.

      After checking for grease, she eased up into the driver’s seat and put her hands on the wheel. Finn had taught her to operate the thing, in case he was unavailable, but she’d only had to load a couple of times. Truth be told, she wasn’t that anxious to drive the forklift on a regular basis. She was good with a tractor, had done her time on the swather and baler during her teens, but she had the oddest feeling that she and forklifts were not meant to be. Maybe something about the ability to skewer anything in her path.

      The sound of a truck pulling in from the rear entrance brought her head up. Dylan.

       Please don’t ask how many artisans I’ve booked.

      She got off the forklift and started for the door, but Dylan walked in before she got there. The cat took one look at the intruder and shot across the warehouse, disappearing behind some grain bags. Dylan looked down at the half-eaten bowl of cat kibble, then back up at Jolie.

      “Marcel was eating while you were in here?”

      Jolie frowned back at him. “Obviously.”

      “Huh.”

      “Huh what?”

      “Marcel doesn’t like people.”

      “He does if you feed him. A few days after Finn left, he came to tell me that his bowl hadn’t been filled for a day or two. After I fed him, he decided I was okay.” The phone rang, sounding over a loudspeaker. Dylan picked up the warehouse extension.

      “Culver Ranch and Feed. Marti...of course I remember. What can I do for you?”

      He listened for a moment then held the phone out to Jolie, watching her curiously as she said, “Hi, Marti.”

      “I can bring in eight pieces, but after giving the matter a bit of thought, I think I’d like an 80-20 split instead of 70-30.”

      Jolie shifted her gaze to the far side of the warehouse. She very much wanted to say, “No, that’s not fair to the other artists.” Except there was only one other artist, so instead she said, “How about 75-25?”

      A long silence followed and Jolie wondered if she was going to have to do without watercolors. Then Marti said, “For the first month. After that, we can renegotiate.”

      “Sounds fair. I’ll have the agreement ready when you stop by.”

      “A week from this Friday.”

      “That’s right,” Jolie said brightly.

      “See you then.”

      Dylan hadn’t moved during the conversation and when Jolie hung up the phone, she found herself standing a little closer to him than she’d expected. She didn’t step back. Stepping back simply wasn’t her way.

      “Marti Kendall is one of your artists?”

      “She does beautiful watercolors of horses.” Jolie got the distinct feeling that Dylan was also very aware they were standing too close and he wasn’t going to be the one to back off.

      “Do you have anyone else interested besides Marti?”

      “One potter.”

      “Only one other artist?”

      “I’ve been kind of busy doing my job,” Jolie said dryly.

      “How many people did you ask?”

      “Look,” she said, forcing herself to focus on coming up with an answer rather than the man standing too close to her because they were both too stubborn to back off. He smelled...good. “I just started this process and there was nothing in our agreement about reporting my progress to you.”

      “Let’s make an addendum.”

      “I called nine people.”

      “And got one.”

      “It’s a feed store, Dylan.”

      “That is exactly why this probably isn’t going to work.”

      “Do you always give up this easily?” she blurted.

      Dylan looked surprised. “I never give up easily.”

      “Then why do you expect me to?”

      He opened his mouth and abruptly closed it again. The cat peeked out from behind a row of shovels and Dylan jerked his head toward the door. “Maybe we should get out of here so Marcel can finish eating.”

      “Sure.” It was the perfect excuse to put some physical distance between them and she was glad that he’d been the one to suggest it. She also had the strong feeling that she would not have liked whatever he’d been about to say.

      They’d just stepped outside when the phone rang. Jolie forced a smile. “Ah. Probably an artisan calling back.” She gave him a smug nod then headed back into the warehouse to the extension phone.

      * * *

      DYLAN WATCHED JOLIE GO, fairly certain it was not an artist on the phone. Why would an artist display their stuff in a feed store? It made no sense. He had to admit, though, that Jolie wasn’t rolling over in the face of adversity—not yet anyway—but he had a feeling it was because she knew he expected her to fail. He did, but he didn’t need to harp on the matter.

      So, in the interest of maintaining a peaceful work environment—and also because he seemed to be noticing a few too many things about his bookkeeper, like the way she wore her jeans—Dylan would keep their relationship briskly businesslike.

      For the remaining days of the week, he did not mention the gift boutique and Jolie kept quiet on the matter, too, which made him believe that the project was indeed falling by the wayside.

      At least she had given it a shot. And he had to admit that he kind of felt bad when he walked through the store and heard her talking earnestly on the phone to someone who was probably in the process of telling her no dice. He didn’t say anything. Why rub salt into the wound?

      That night after dinner, Dylan went for a slow jog around the neighborhood. His bone had mended—it was the injured muscles and ligaments that still had a way to go. But he was healing. He was running farther, faster, and he no longer limped when his leg got tired.

      He’d thought about calling Pat Michaels, his ex-partner, to see how things were going at the precinct, but hadn’t been able to bring himself to make the call. After the accident, he and Pat had naturally seen less of one another but he also had the strangest feeling that his partner was distancing himself from him and he didn’t know why. He hadn’t been culpable in the accident and he was unaware of being on the wrong side of any precinct politics, so he’d finally decided that something outside of the job was eating at Pat. It happened. It also made him hesitant to call.

      Hell, his life in Montana was so far removed from his life in Lanesburg, maybe it was better to focus on the here and now instead of worrying about things he was no longer part of—at least for the time being. He’d bring himself up to speed once he got his medical clearance and sat for the detective exam.