A Cowboy In Shepherd's Crossing

“Let’s check them out.” He followed her up the stairs. She paused at the top and snapped a couple of pictures. She didn’t say anything.

That kind of unnerved him. A quiet woman was a rare bird in his experience, and as she tapped things into her tablet, he shoved his hands into his pockets. Then pulled them out again. He motioned downstairs. “I can make coffee. I’ve got a one-cup system so it’s always ready.”

“Coffee sounds great,” she told him. But she didn’t look up. She was perched against the short stair rail at the top of the stairs while her fingers flew.

“Okay.” He went downstairs. Made the coffee. When she didn’t come down, he called up to her. “Coffee’s ready.”

“Perfect.”

She hurried down the stairs, and came really close to sliding across the hardwoods like he’d done as a kid. “Is it in the kitchen?”

“On the counter. There’s milk, too. And sugar. Nothing fancy, though. Sorry.”

“Black’s fine. If it’s great coffee, why ruin it with all that other stuff?” She grabbed the coffee, took a seat at the table and sipped. Then she savored the moment, eyes round, before she lifted the mug like a salute. “Perfect blend.”

“Cowboy blend,” he told her.

“You made this?” That got her full attention. “Like the actual coffee beans and stuff?”

“No.” He didn’t sit. Not in the middle of the workday. There was too much stuff to do. “I order it from a place in Boise—White Cloud Coffee. This is one of their signature blends. Cowboy.”

She smiled at him, then took another sip of pure appreciation. “It’s ideal. Not bitter. Not weak. Great aroma.”

“You love coffee.” He did, too. Maybe too much.

“I love good coffee,” she corrected him. “I will admit to being a coffee snob. It’s a fault, I know.”

“Then it’s one I share because bad coffee shouldn’t be allowed.”

“Exactly.” She smiled up at him again. Did she know how inviting that was? Was she using that pretty smile to break him down before she gave him bad news about the house?

“I’m going to go take care of the horses while you nose around, all right?”

She lifted the ironstone mug. “I’ve got coffee in a great mug and the info I need. I’m good.”

“And cookies,” he reminded her. He set the little pack of Pine Ridge cookies on the table. “It’s like afternoon tea, ranch-style.”

“Way better,” she told him.

He went outside, conflicted.

She dressed upscale and talked hometown-friendly. Until she turned the drawl on to put him in his place.

He smiled, thinking of that, then stopped smiling because he was thinking of it. Thinking of her. That’s all he needed, to fall for another woman with big dreams of TV or stardom or anything that wasn’t down-home Idaho.

His phone buzzed a text from Justine. Can we talk? Soon? Because I can’t get my head around all this, Jace.