The Cowboy Upstairs. Tanya Michaels

we’ll have guests.”

      That would be nice. It would be even better if whoever came to stay with them was as cool as Mr. Zeke.

      * * *

      BECCA HAD MIXED feelings about her son’s silence on the drive home. On the one hand, she’d had a very long day and appreciated the few minutes of peace. But she was worried; quiet reflection was not the seven-year-old’s natural state. Was he still in pain from his fall? More likely he’s still in pain from his father’s defection. The questions about when he would see his dad, followed by whether or not the general contractor would be back, made it pretty clear that he missed having a man to look up to in his life.

      Her throat burned. Nothing mattered more to her than her son, but she couldn’t be everything to him. The town’s upcoming centennial celebration was taking up her time for the next couple weeks. But maybe after that, she could invite Zeke, a widower in his late fifties, over for dinner—a home-cooked thank-you for a job well done.

      By the time they rolled into the driveway, the stillness in the minivan was becoming oppressive. This called for emergency measures. “How about I order pizza for dinner while you take your shower?”

      The excited whoop from the back seat made her smile. She’d barely pulled the keys from the ignition before her son flew out of the vehicle and up the three wide porch steps. There, he sat dutifully to remove his cleats. She took a minute to stare at the house, gleaming white in the Texas sunshine, and remembered the day she and Colin had moved in. It was a beautiful two-story home, complete with a porch swing, surrounding rosebushes and gorgeous maple trees in the yard. It had all symbolized how far she’d come from an overcrowded double-wide trailer on a gravel lot. To her, this house had been the castle at the end of the fairy tale.

      It still can be. She clenched her fists at her sides, summoning determination. Okay, yes, Colin had turned out to be more fraudulent frog than prince. But she didn’t need him for a happy ending. She would become mayor and raise a wonderful son.

      “Mama, I can’t get this knot out.”

      Joining Marc at the top of the steps, she knelt down over his shoe. Her promise of pizza must have really improved his mood, because by the time she’d unlaced both cleats, he was happily chatting away. She didn’t even register the sound of the vehicle at the bottom of the driveway until the door closed.

      “Excuse me,” a deep masculine voice called, “are you by any chance Becca J—”

      As she turned, the man stopped dead, recognition striking them both. The cowboy from the bar? What was he doing here? Stalking her?

      “You,” he breathed. His mouth curled in a slow, satisfied smile. “You’re the woman who was checking m—”

      “Marc, you run along and take your shower,” she instructed. She was about to throw this man off her property. It was probably better that her son didn’t witness it...or overhear any of the man’s lewd commentary on what she may have been “checking.” Unbelievable. She’d ogled a stranger once since her divorce, and he’d followed her home. What were the odds?

      “Uh, Mama? The door’s locked.”

      Right. She knew that. She fiddled with the key, but the dead bolt got only part of her attention. The sense that she could feel the man’s gaze on her was distracting. “There you go, champ.” She swung the main door wide open, expecting her son to reach for the handle on the inner screen door.

      Instead, he hesitated, waving at the approaching cowboy. “Hi, I’m Marc.”

      The cowboy smiled, his long-legged stride graceful and annoyingly mesmerizing to watch. “I’m Sawyer.”

      Marc’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the man’s gold belt buckle, etched with a cowboy on the back of a bucking horse; Becca read the word champion before realizing that she was staring in the direction of the man’s groin, and averted her eyes. “Did you win a rodeo?” her son asked.

      “Quite a few.”

      “That is so cool! Maybe I’ll ride in a rodeo someday,” Marc said, surprising Becca. He’d never expressed any interest in that. “I take riding lessons from Ms. Meredith. She’s nice, but I like Ms. Kate better. She’s my piano teacher. She gives me cookies.”

      Hearing him list his teachers out loud, Becca mentally kicked herself. She’d inadvertently surrounded him with women. Why hadn’t she checked to see if Jarrett Ross was taking on any more riding students over at his ranch? In Becca’s defense, Marc’s soccer coach was supposed to have been a man. But when he’d broken his leg the first week of the season, she’d stepped up to fill the void.

      Sawyer winked down at her son. “Keep at that piano practice. The ladies love musicians.”

      Yeah, that’s what her seven-year-old needed—advice on picking up women. From the cocky way Sawyer carried himself, she just bet he had plenty of experience in that area. “Ladies also love hygiene,” she said wryly. “Now about your shower...”

      Marc opened the screen door. “Back in a minute!”

      “Take your time and do the job right,” Becca cautioned. “There’s no rush.”

      “But I’m hungry. If I hurry, I get pizza faster. Mr. Sawyer, do you like pizza?”

      “As a matter of fact, I love it.”

      “Then you should—”

      “Marc! Scoot.”

      “—have dinner with us,” her son invited.

      Becca bit back a groan; Sawyer’s eyes glittered with humor as he met her gaze. He was amused by her discomfort, which did nothing to raise her opinion of him.

      “Well,” he said as Marc disappeared inside, “at least one of you likes me.”

      Now that he was on the step just below her, she could see his eyes were green, flecked with gold, and she hated herself for noticing. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” she said tightly, “I need to call in an order for pizza.” That would give her an opportunity to regain her composure.

      He smirked. Didn’t the man have any other expressions? “Want to know what toppings I like?”

      She shot him a look that should have vaporized him on the spot, leaving nothing but his memory and scorch marks on the sidewalk.

      “I’ll just wait here then,” he said, moving past her to make himself comfortable on the porch swing. He even took his hat off and ran a hand through his brown hair. In the sunlight, a few threads shone a deep coppery red, much darker than her own strawberry blond.

      His hair was thick, wavy, and she wondered errantly if it was soft to the touch. Rebecca Ruth Baker Johnston, pull yourself together. Just because she hadn’t had sex in the two years since Colin skipped town was no reason to become unhinged in hormonal desperation. She marched into the house, locking the door behind her. No matter how good-looking he was, Sawyer was a stranger; she was a single woman with a child to protect. She called the pizza place, but she was so preoccupied that there was no telling what she ordered. For all she knew, instead of a large pepperoni pie with extra olives, dinner tonight might be a piece of garlic bread and six liters of soda.

      Well, that’s what she got for stalling. Her philosophy had always been to tackle problems efficiently, then put them behind her. Time to figure out why this cowboy was here and send him on his way. She returned to the porch, her tone brisk as she asked, “So is Sawyer your first name or last?”

      “First. Sawyer McCall.” He extended a hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Officially.”

      Her fingers brushed over his in something too brief to qualify as a handshake before she pulled away. “Becca Johnston. What are you doing here?” Besides bonding with my son and trying to mooch free pizza.

      “Brody Davenport sent me. I don’t know if you happened to notice while you were undressing me with your eyes—”

      She