The Texas Rancher's Vow

“Then what do you want?”

She bent over to tug on her socks and boots. “To just take life as it comes. One day at a time. I don’t want this…hookup…to have any repercussions.”

“It won’t.”

Jen shot him a skeptical look. “I don’t want to think about it or talk about it or expect that it will happen again. Because…” she leaned against the wall, arms folded decisively in front of her “…it’s not going to, Matt.”

He couldn’t say he was surprised she was backing off, since she was no more inclined to let someone in than he was.

That didn’t mean they couldn’t react differently now. Especially when the chemistry was this good. “Why not?” He rose from the bed and began to dress, too. She caught his eye and went still.

He tracked the lift of her breasts as she held her breath. “It was good. “

“Very good,” she confirmed, jerking her gaze away. “And that’s where I want to leave it.”

* * *

“DID YOU GET EVERYTHING you needed?” Celia asked, via phone, later in the day.

Jen looked around the studio with satisfaction. Flexible wire, sculpting tools and measuring tape were laid out next to containers of clay. She had scanned into her laptop the pictures she was going to use as her models. Special software had converted those images into three dimensional models, complete with precise measurements, that she could translate to whatever scale she wanted. Jen still wanted to blow up those same photos to poster size so she could have them set up all around her, for further inspiration while she worked. But that, she figured, could wait until the following day.

Right now, she wanted to keep working on the sketches of the first proposed sculpture.

“Yes. I unpacked and set up this afternoon.” Jen sighed. After my colossal mistake.

“How are things with Matt Briscoe?”

Jen kept her tone noncommittal. “About as you’d expect.” Sexy. Difficult. Too fun. And way too confusing!

Celia chuckled. “Hmm. I thought I glimpsed a little attraction there, beneath all the guff.”

Good thing you can’t see us now, then, Jen thought, her body still thrilling at the reckless way they’d made love that afternoon.

What had gotten into her, anyway?

Why was Matt Briscoe able to get past her defenses so easily?

And when had she lost all common sense? Hadn’t she learned the last time not to fall for a rich guy?

If she wanted to know how far apart she and Matt were on that score, all she had to do was think about his casual attitude regarding the cost of her van repairs.

A sum that was ridiculously expensive to her meant nothing to him.

Lovemaking that—if she was honest—meant everything to her probably meant very little to him, as well.

And though Jen had acted as if she could have sex for the pure physical pleasure of it, she knew deep down that just wasn’t true. With her, feelings were always involved.

Her heart had already been crushed once, by someone out of her league financially. She didn’t need to have it trampled again.

So it was best to do what she had told Matt this afternoon, and just leave things as they were. Over. Done. Kaput.

“Jen?” Celia asked. “Are you still there?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She shook off all romantic notions and once again focused on her friend from childhood. “How are things with you and Cy?”

Celia groaned. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I saw my OB today. I’m three centimeters dilated. The doc said the baby can come any time now. She wants me to keep my bag packed.”

Jen smiled and tried not to feel a little pang of envy, since she’d likely never have a baby of her own. “That’s great, Celia. Cy must be so excited.”

“Oh, he is!”

They talked a little more about the upcoming birth and delivery, before getting down to gallery business, and then promised to talk again the next day.

Happy about the two sales that had transpired in her absence—and what that meant for the gallery books—Jen hung up.

Hearing the heavy thud of footsteps, she turned toward the door.

Emmett Briscoe appeared there. “Am I interrupting?”

Jen put her cell phone aside and rose to greet him, immediately concerned by how he looked. “Come in,” she urged gently.

Emmett shuffled toward her, clearly favoring one leg. He appeared tired and wan. Perspiration dotted his forehead.

“Are you all right? Did you fall?”

He shook his head and drew a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his face. “I think I got a little overheated when I was coming inside just now.”

It looked like a heck of a lot more than that. Jen slipped a hand beneath his elbow and guided him to a chair. “Forgive me for saying so,” she said carefully, “but you look ill. We should get you to a doctor.”

Grimly, Emmett shook his head again.

“At least call Matt.”

“Absolutely not,” he thundered, mopping his forehead once again. “Matt is the last person you should tell.”

Well, something wasn’t right. Emmett’s left leg was trembling, while his right seemed perfectly fine. As were his hands. Which, Jen recalled, was the opposite of what had been going on this morning. Then, one of his hands had been trembling, and his legs had been fine.

She pulled up a chair and sat facing him, clasping his hands. “You want to tell me what’s going on?” She waited for him to look her in the eye. “And don’t give me the hangover business again, because I know one when I see one and this is not it.”

His shoulders slumped in defeat. “You’re right. It isn’t.”

The raw emotion in his voice frightened her. Jen gripped his hands more tightly. “Then what is it?” she asked, trying not to sound upset.

Emmett swallowed. Moisture glistened in his faded blue eyes. “Parkinson’s, most likely.”

What did he mean, most likely? “Have you seen a doctor?” Jen asked quietly.

“No.” He mopped his forehead again, then he stared at her with steely determination. “And I’m not going to, either. Matt and I spent years watching his mother deteriorate, bit by bit. I’m not about to make the rest of my son’s life about being my nursemaid. And that’s what it would turn into. We both know that.”