Cherokee Baby

Kay rolled her eyes. “You and Grandma’s ancient suitcase. I can’t believe you brought that thing.”

“It’s my good luck charm.” And because it was nearly as old as she was, she wasn’t about to trade it in for a younger model. The ugly green case, with its temperamental clasps and scuffed exterior, wasn’t ready to be put out to pasture. It still had a few good years left.

And so do I, she thought as her happily married, thirtysomething cousins entered the lodge without her.

In spite of her dwindling bankbook and the job she’d just lost, Julianne had come here to have fun, to enjoy the amenities this Texas guest ranch had to offer.

She climbed the wraparound porch and caught sight of a cowboy exiting the building and heading in her direction.

She tried to appear unaffected by his presence, but as he moved closer, she stole several quick, curious glances. He was, after all, the first true cowboy she’d ever seen. He even walked with the stiff, rugged gait of a horseman.

Attired in varying shades of denim, he looked dark and exotic, rough around the edges, with a straw hat dipped low on his forehead and a silver buckle glinting at his waist. Broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, he stood tall and strong.

A man’s man. Or possibly a woman’s dangerous fantasy.

Not hers, of course. These days, she knew better than to fantasize about the Y-chromosome gender.

“Do you need some help?” he asked, casting a courteous glance at the pea-green monstrosity in her hand.

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure? I’d be glad to carry that for you. Or send a ranch-hop out here, if you prefer. We provide all the same services as a five-star hotel.”

“Honestly, I’m fine.” She knew Elk Ridge Ranch wasn’t designed to toughen up the city dweller. Supposedly their guests were encouraged to relax, to enjoy being pampered in a country setting. To dine on meals provided by a gourmet chef, to swim in a luxurious pool, to visit a masseuse after a day of hiking, riding or fishing. But she’d be damned if she was going to come across as a pint-size, Pennsylvania greenhorn who couldn’t handle her own luggage.

Trying to appear more competent than her travel-weary appearance allowed, she flashed a small, self-assured smile.

But a second later she lost her composure, as well as her footing. Julianne McKenzie, the fantasy-free, pretending-to-be-tough divorcée, tripped and stumbled, nearly landing flat on her almost-forty behind.

With a foolish little yelp, she managed to regain her balance, but not her dignity. She dropped the suitcase and it opened upon impact, spilling a small selection of clothes.

Right at the cowboy’s booted feet.

Mortified, she looked up at him and mumbled an apology. Suddenly he seemed taller, broader, bigger. And she felt small and stupid.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Julianne nodded. The only injured party was her pride.

“Did you slip on something?”

“No. I’m just clumsy, I guess.” She knelt to organize her mess.

“Let me help.”

He crouched down, and Julianne froze. Her new bustier—the slinky French number Kay and Mern had insisted would boost her breasts, as well as her morale—was wedged beneath his slanted heel.

Should she say, “Excuse me”? Or just sort of yank it back before he got a good look at the lace contraption wrapped around his boot?

Too late, she thought. He was already glancing down to see what he’d stepped on, already shifting his weight, moving his foot, reaching for her bustier.

A piece of intimate apparel that came with a sheer, lightly boned bodice, under-wire cups, hook-and-eye closures and adjustable garters.

He handed it over with a polite if not proper expression, but she still wanted to curl up and die. Somehow his gentlemanly behavior only managed to intensify the mind-numbing moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“That’s okay.” Avoiding eye contact, she jammed the bustier back into her toppled suitcase, burying it beneath a pile of folded T-shirts.

Should she tell him that she’d bought it on an emotional whim? That her cousins convinced her that every woman should own one? Not to seduce a man, but to make herself feel pretty?

Oh, yeah, she thought. Go ahead and discuss your insecurities with a stranger. Explain to this hunky cowboy why you’d purchased a see-through bustier and thigh-high stockings as a birthday gift to yourself.

He reached for another dislodged garment and together they worked in silence, clearing the porch of her belongings.

Finally she closed the green case and tried to latch it, but it wouldn’t budge. Some good luck charm, she thought, embarrassed by her incompetence once again.

“Would you like me to try?” He shifted from his crouched position, bending on one knee and keeping the other foot flat on the ground.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

He struggled with the clasps, too. But he didn’t give up. Determined to come to her rescue, he continued to fiddle with the case.

When he pushed his hat back, she took the opportunity to study him. And realized he was probably as old as she was. Maybe even a tad older. His long black hair, which he wore in a single braid down his back, was threaded with a distinguished hint of silver, marking his temples. And his eyes, those exotic-shaped eyes, were branded with tiny lines, crinkling at the corners.

Gray hair and crow’s-feet. And it looked damned good on him.

So did the rest of his features, she decided. The square jaw, the slightly aquiline nose, the razor-sharp cheekbones, the full, serious mouth.

“You’re—” She paused as he glanced up, suddenly aware that she’d voiced her next thought out loud. “Native American.”

His serious mouth tilted into a slightly amused smile. “And I’d bet my next pot of gold that you’re Irish.”

“Are you sure about that?” she asked, teasing him the way he teased her.

He reached out to smooth a strand of her hair away from her face. “Red hair, green eyes.” He brushed her cheek, rubbing his knuckles over her skin. “A scatter of freckles. To me, that’s Irish.”

She met his gaze, and they stared at each other.

So intimately, she had to force herself to breathe.

Footsteps sounded somewhere nearby. The cowboy dropped his hand, but he didn’t stop looking at her.

“Are you?” he asked.

She blinked. “Am I what?”