Counting On The Cowboy. Shannon Taylor Vannatter

      Her gaze darted to the glass display case hanging on the wall. “Could you do something with that?”

      “The fishhooks?”

      “Yes, please. If you laugh, I’ll die, but I’m terrified of them.”

      Seriously? But the terror in her eyes kept his humor at bay. He opened the case.

      “No!” She screeched. “Just take the whole thing.” She closed her eyes. “I mean, it would be awful if you lost one.”

      “Or if one fell out.”

      “Stop.” She pressed her face in the pillow again. “You’ll give me nightmares.”

      “Relax. I was only checking to see how it’s mounted. Have you been hooked?”

      She lowered the pillow. With a slow nod, she rubbed the skin between her thumb and forefinger on her right hand, a slight scar. “My father promised to take Landry and me fishing when we were little. But someone called in sick and he had to work in the Christian bookstore our parents own. I got a hook out and tried to put it on my line so we’d be ready when he got home.”

      “And hooked yourself.”

      She pinched the skin. “It went through right here. All the way through, barb and all. It had to be cut out in the emergency room. I can still feel it.”

      Her vulnerability tugged at him as he shut the display case, carefully lifted the brackets off the screws holding it up. “I’ll take it to the new house when I finish insulating. For now, how about I put it out of sight, maybe under the bed?”

      “Thanks.”

      “So, do you like to fish?”

      Her laugh came out ironic. “No. I’m afraid of hooks, worms are slimy and fish are stinky. I just wanted to be with my dad.”

      “Did you not get much time with him?”

      “He was great at setting up outings with us. But we’d have these awesome plans until someone called in sick and he’d end up at the store. Sometimes, I went to work with him, just to be with him.”

      She was way too charming when she showed this soft side. “My dad died when I was barely eight.”

      “I bet that was tough.” Her gaze met his.

      “It was. He was my hero.” The loss burned fresh in his heart. He tucked the display case under his arm and headed for the bedroom.

      “Thanks.”

      “Let me know if you need anything else.”

      “Thought your cape was at the dry cleaners. And I’ll remind you, that despite circumstances, I’m not a damsel.” A small smile slipped out. “Just slightly out of my element.”

      “Got my cape back this morning and we’re in dire straits here. Mice and traps and fishhooks! Oh, my!” He mimicked the classic Wizard of Oz chant and got a chuckle out of her. And coming to her rescue might have its perks. She certainly wasn’t a chore to look at.

      “Just for the record, I’m afraid of flying monkeys too.”

      “Let me know if you see any of those.” He shot her a wink and stashed the display box under the bed. “Typical city girl.”

      “I may be a city girl.” Her tone turned sharp. “But there’s nothing typical about me.”

      Definitely overly sensitive. And now he’d offended her. Maybe that was a good turn of events. The last thing he needed was to develop a soft spot for her.

      Besides, he wouldn’t be here long. And she wouldn’t either. They were just biding their time stuck here together. Both itching to get back to their real lives.

       Chapter Three

      Devree drove past the ranch house and pulled into the cabin parking lot. Maybe she could do this. Once the ranch hands had removed all the dead animal heads yesterday, ideas for the cabin’s decor took shape. A mix of rustic and shabby chic. This morning, her visit to Rustick’s Log Furnishings had been productive.

      Resa—store owner, neighbor and friend—had been extremely helpful. And, so Landry wouldn’t feel useless, Devree had texted her pictures of her choices. With her sister’s approval, she’d purchased a back seat full of curtains, pillows and a bedspread while the furniture would arrive next week.

      Arms laden with goodies, she stepped up on the porch and reached blindly to insert the key into the lock. But the door opened.

      Brock. “Here, let me help you.” He tugged the bags out of her hands.

      “Thanks.” Why did his accidental touch send a shiver through her? Even after he’d called her typical just yesterday.

      “You’ve been busy. Me too. I caulked all the plumbing and popped all the trim to seal the joints. Where do you want this stuff?”

      “On the couch. New furniture will arrive next week. Will it be in your way?”

      “I should be done with the messy stuff by then.” He stashed the bags, then grabbed a putty knife, scraped a spot on the log wall and wiped the area with a cloth. “What about the old furniture?”

      “Chase is sending ranch hands. Most of it will go in his man cave at the new house. What doesn’t will go to charities. Will you be doing any work in the bedroom or bathroom? I thought I’d put curtains up in there.”

      “Go for it. Need a screwdriver?”

      Why did he have to be so helpful? And appealing? “Come to think of it...”

      “Have you ever hung curtains?”

      “Hello? I have my own apartment.”

      “Just offering my help. And a step stool.”

      “That might be useful.”

      He picked up a small stool from the corner, dug around in his toolbox. “Flat or Phillips?”

      “Phillips.”

      “You know your way around a screwdriver.” He handed it to her.

      “I have a dad, you know.” When she saw his gaze drop, she wished she could take that back. She hadn’t meant to hurt him; it had just slipped out. “Thanks.” She grabbed the bag, hoofed it to the bedroom.

      Brock followed, carrying the stool. “Sure you don’t need any help?”

      “I’ve got this.” She turned to take the stool from him. Something scampered across her sandaled foot. She screamed, dropped the screwdriver and the stool.

      “What?”

      But she was too busy clambering onto the bed. Safely off the floor, she stood in the middle, scanning for movement.

      “What?” His tone exasperated.

      “I think—” she did a whole body shudder followed by a heebie-jeebies dance “—a mouse just ran across my foot.”

      “Okay.” He reached for her hand. “Just calm down. Sit and relax before you fall off there and break your neck.”

      “I’d really like to get out of here.” She gingerly sat down in the center of the bed, keeping her eyes on the edges, half expecting a mouse to come climbing up the bed skirt.

      “Maybe that’s best.” He gestured toward the door.

      “I’m afraid to put my feet on the floor.” She squeezed her eyes closed. Great. She’d just proven every city girl notion he had about her to be true.

      “Do I need to carry you?”

      Her eyes popped open, surveyed him for a moment. Feet on the floor with the