The Texan

“Do we have to hear this story again?” Julia frowned.

Ilsa cut her off. “But it’s so romantic. Tell us again, Angela.”

“He fell in love with my great-grandmother the first time he laid eyes on her at the Governor’s Ball in New Orleans. He told her they would build a wonderful life together on his ranch west of San Antonio. She loved him, too, and married him the next month. She worked right alongside him every day of her life. They were never apart. Not even for a single night. Until the day they died, they were kind and considerate toward one another.”

“I do love this story,” Ilsa sighed.

“Men today are afraid of commitment. Afraid of working. Afraid of children. Afraid to live. So, why should I waste my precious time on any of them?”

Julia munched on the piece of lime in her margarita. “You have a point. However, this isn’t 1895. This is the Post Oak Ranch. It’s a bar. A meeting place. Not a real ranch, okay?”

“I’m not an idiot, you know,” Angela sniffed.

“No, you’re our best friend,” Ilsa chimed in while giving Julia a stabbing look.

Julia’s eyes filled with apology. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I want you to be happy. And I’m going to make up by finding you just the right dancing partner for tonight. Let’s see,” Julia’s eyes scrupulously examined every unattached man. “No, too old. That one is too cocky. And that blond, tall drink of water over there is... is... heading this way.”

“Oh, my God!” Angela blushed, then smiled at the handsome man who smiled back at her. At least that was what it seemed like he was doing.

The man walked up to their table and put his arm on the back of Julia’s chair. “Would you like to dance?” he asked.

Julia’s breath caught in her throat. “I—I—” She looked at Angela who nodded back. “I’d love to.”

Not five seconds later a dark-haired younger man wearing jeans, a plaid shirt and tennis shoes asked Ilsa to dance.

Angela was alone at last, which was just the way she liked it. “Now I can daydream all I want without feeling guilty,” she mumbled to herself as she let her mind wander.

She knew her friends meant well, but they simply didn’t understand her. Glaringly aware of all her past mistakes, Angela resolved that on this birthday, the beginning of a new decade in her life, she would never, ever fall in love again, though she really didn’t want to give up men all together.

If there ever was a “next time” in her life, she would be sensible. She would test his motives and learn to be friends first and lovers later. Integrity and loyalty in a man counted for more than just sexual attraction. She would never again settle for anyone who wasn’t the kind of man her great-grandfather had been.

“See? This isn’t so bad, is it, Rafe?” Matt asked as the bartender placed two long-necked beer bottles in front of them.

Rafe took a long draw on the beer as he looked around the room. It was the usual mesh of working girls looking for a man to take care of them and the even more usual ogling businessmen who wanted to do the caring...but only for one night. “Nothing changes much, does it?” Rafe scoffed and turned back to the bar.

Just then, out of the comer of his eye, Rafe caught a glimpse of bobbing black-and-white balloons. “I don’t believe it. It really is someone’s birthday,” he said with surprise.

Rafe was about to make another wisecrack when the softest pair of brown eyes set in the most ethereal face he’d ever seen looked straight at him.

His breath caught in his throat as her eyes settled on his face with a look of endearment he’d only previously seen in his mother’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if she was actually seeing him or looking through him. She didn’t appear to mind that he was staring back. Neither smiling nor acknowledging his presence, her face shone with an inner peace he wished he’d cultivated for himself.

Looking rather out of place amid the harshly made-up women around her, the “birthday girl” as he mentally referred to her, wore little makeup and her blond hair fell in soft, natural waves down the sides of her heart-shaped ivory-pale face to her shoulders. He wanted to believe she used very little hair spray and certainly would never entertain the thought of having her hair “woven” with acrylic strands, the way Cheryl had. Women had millions of beauty secrets from fake eyelashes to plastic nails, silicone breasts and dyed, false hair to make them beautiful. Rafe wanted to believe that just this once, he’d found someone whose beauty was natural. Maybe it was possible this “birthday girl” could restore his faith.

Matt started to respond to Rafe’s quip but stopped himself in time to watch his friend’s decidedly strong reaction to the pretty blonde who looked as if this birthday would be the one to truly bury her. Matt couldn’t figure out what held Rafe so spellbound. She wasn’t half the “looker” type Rafe usually preferred and she looked so utterly... sad. Matt thought his friend needed a cheerleader to zap him out of his depressed state. A quick fling would do the trick, Matt thought. This girl was too much peaches and cream and too much of a real person.

Rafe slid his beer bottle onto the bar.

“Where you goin’?” Matt asked.

“To celebrate someone’s birthday,” Rafe said without looking back at Matt.

Angela was unaware of the soft dreamy look on her face as she mused about her fantasy hero. He would be tall, strong and good-looking, but he would have a gentleman’s manners and a code of ethics others would admire. He would be kind to children and animals. And when he spoke, he’d have a voice that sounded like...

“Happy birthday,” a velvety, sensual voice poured over her.

Angela was so entranced by her own reveries, she thought she had imagined the voice. She stared blankly at the tall, handsome dark-haired man with flashing blue-gray eyes.

“Tell me I’m the first to dance with the birthday girl,” he said.

“You are?” Suddenly, Angela realized she was not dreaming. “I mean, you are! Yes, I mean, I’d love to.”

His smile revealed perfectly white even teeth between full, sensual lips. His jawline was sharply hewn and his cheekbones were high as if he had Indian blood somewhere in his ancestry. His Western clothes were faded and snug on his lean, fit body.

Angela stood very close to him when she rose from her chair. She couldn’t help detecting the faint smell of leather, as if he’d ridden into town on his horse. She would have swooned, but modern women didn’t do such things.

His touch was gentle yet possessive as he took her hand and led the way through the crowd around the dance floor. It wasn’t until she was behind him that she noticed his massively wide shoulders and chest that looked as if he could carry the weight of the world on them. Surely, he was a man of great responsibility. He’s my kind of man.

Whoa! Slow down, Angela, she thought to herself. Get a grip, girl. He’s only asked you to dance.

Melancholy strains of the country-western song being played filled the room as couples clung to each other under the dim colored lights. Angela wished she’d paid more attention to Ilsa’s dance instructions, but the truth of the matter was that Angela was the first to volunteer for overtime and the last to frequent the clubs with her friends. The result was that she did not follow well. Nor did she line-dance or square-dance. None of that mattered because this man, who seemingly had walked out of her dreams and now held her body in a forceful yet graceful manner, had actually made her feel as if they were one of those dance teams in an old Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire movie.

“Do you think we fit well?” he asked with that maddeningly sensual voice.

“I’m not sure,” she replied coolly, wanting to prove to herself she was over men forever. This killer-looking hunk was not going to foul her newly planted resolution. If she could resist him, she could do anything.

The logical side of Angela’s personality was quite pleased with her performance, but it was her romantic and heretofore overly impetuous side that shouted: You idiot! Why don’t you tell him what you’re really feeling? Other girls would already have him wanting to take them home to bed. “I mean, I think we fit fine.” That’s being assertive? Angela, girl, no wonder you never get a real man.

His breath was like a lover’s caress on her neck. His hands were callused and no matter how she fought it, another image of him, on horseback, streaked across her mind. His chest was rock-hard and as she pressed her fingers into the tight muscles in his shoulders she could feel her body responding to him. She couldn’t help leaning into him a bit more.

His hand slipped from the middle of her back to her waist and with splayed fingers, he pressed her body to his. Then he began moving his hips in rhythm to the music.

All this time, she’d thought he was coming on to her, but instead he was showing her what it was like to feel the music with her body. It was an incredible experience. He taught her how to catch the melody with her head and translate it into body language. They glided, swayed, turned and dipped according to the beat, the pulse and soul of the music. When the crescendo exploded, he spun Angela around so many times she was dizzy. She lost eye contact with the people around the dance floor as the room seemed to disappear. In order not to lose her balance, she was forced to lean against him. She looked in his eyes.

He gazed at her with smoky blue pools that seemed to promise eternity.

Quit, Angela! Wasn’t it only moments ago you promised yourself not to ever fall under a man’s spell again?

That’s right, she thought. From now on she was going to be adult about all her relationships. She tried to look away from him, but his feet quick-stepped around hers so fast that she was no longer aware of touching the ground. She’d taken flight and he was the pilot.

The music fluttered into a second chorus and the tempo eased them back to gentler movements.

“And what’s the birthday girl’s name?” he asked, placing his slightly rough cheek against hers.

“Angela Morton,” she replied haltingly. It was tough pretending her heaving lungs and banging heart were from the exuberant dance and not from him. After all, she wasn’t affected by men anymore.

“Nice name,” he whispered. “You feel like an angel.” He hadn’t meant to say that aloud, he thought. Rafe had to shake his head to dispel the romantic images from his brain. What was he thinking?

God, I don’t think I can stand this much longer. He’s doing everything right! He would have to call her “angel,” just like her father and grandfather had. Not one person she’d ever dated had figured that much out.