Then she opened them.
“Kiss me.”
He went completely still.
She repeated it.
“Kiss me.”
The cowboy lowered his hand.
“No.”
The ranch woman blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“No.”
“Why?”
He turned away.
She caught his suspenders from behind.
He stopped.
She pulled.
He barely moved.
That annoyed her.
“You cannot confess wanting to kiss me and then refuse when I ask.”
“Yes, I can.”
“That is absurd.”
“Probably.”
“Turn around.”
He did.
Slowly.
She stood with both hands on her hips.
Rain hammered the roof.
“Why not?”
His expression was serious now.
“Because you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You are.”
“I’m frustrated.”
“Same family.”
She nearly laughed despite herself.
He continued.
“When I kiss you, I want you to mean it tomorrow.”
The ranch woman’s anger dissolved.
The cowboy walked toward the door.
She did not stop him.
He crossed the rain anyway.
By the time he reached the house, his shirt was soaked through.
The ranch woman watched him from the barn.
Then whispered to herself:
“Stupid decent man.”
The next weeks became unbearable.
Not because nothing happened.
Because everything almost happened.
A glance across supper.
His fingers brushing hers over a ledger.
Her body pressed briefly against his back on horseback when they crossed a creek.
A hand at her waist when she nearly slipped climbing into the wagon.
Each moment ended too soon.
The cowboy always withdrew first.
The ranch woman became increasingly convinced she would have to do something dramatic.
The opportunity arrived in August.
A heat wave settled over the valley.
Work slowed during midday.
The barn became the coolest place on the property.
The ranch woman began spending afternoons there with account books because the house office felt like an oven.
One day, she finished the ledgers early.
She had brought a novel downstairs.
A ridiculous romantic adventure borrowed from a ranch hand’s sister.
She sat on stacked hay reading.
The cowboy entered half an hour later.
He was dusty from moving cattle.
Shirt damp at the collar.
Suspenders hanging against his torso.
He saw her.
Stopped.
She looked over the book.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You keep saying that.”
He moved toward a saddle rack.
The ranch woman returned to reading.
Or pretended to.
She watched him through her lashes.
He removed his hat.
Ran one hand through his hair.
Rolled his shoulders.
She lost her place in the book.
The cowboy sat against the hay several feet away.
He closed his eyes.
The ranch woman stared openly now.
His long legs stretched across the straw.
One arm rested over a bent knee.
The other lay beside him.
He looked exhausted.
And beautiful.
That annoyed her.
She closed the book.
He opened one eye.
“Finished?”
“No.”
“Then why close it?”
She stood.
The cowboy watched.
She walked toward him.
His second eye opened.
“What are you doing?”
“Moving.”
“I can see that.”
She stopped directly beside his boots.
“Move your leg.”
He frowned.
“Why?”