Crockett's Seduction

Mason was shocked. “Is that a first?”

Mimi laughed. “Hell, yes, so don’t be annoying and gloat.”

“Humph.” He thought about her capitulation and wondered aloud, “What else could I get out of you while you’re in this easy mood? One ought to grab all the candy while the store’s open and free, I think.”

“I’m not exactly candy,” Mimi said.

No, but she was being sweet. He frowned. “Mimi,” he said, “have you ever thought about the fact that sometimes you and I really get along?”

Chapter Four

Hidden in the attic that he had accepted as his artistic loft, Crockett stared at the clay lump in front of him. This was definitely a new playground. Clay didn’t have the color of paints, or the lightness of spirit that said, “Create freely!”

But the lump represented wonderful opportunities. It gave him a chance to think about the new him. Sculptor. Artist of a molding medium. He worked the clay between his fingers. He had eschewed white, opting to start with red clay. Would he enjoy making something without a brush? He hoped he didn’t become frustrated or miss the sensation of a brush sliding across canvas.

“I have a barn to clean out, so you and I better come to terms,” he told the lump. “Be beautiful.”

“Crockett?” a voice called up the stairs.

Valentine! Blast! “Yes?”

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

So much for having a secret lair. Had someone put out a sign when he wasn’t looking? This way to Crockett’s cave? But if someone had to bother him he was glad it was Valentine. She was worth a break.

“Sure. Come on up.”

She appeared at the top of the ladder, and he reached to help her into the room. “This space is nice.”

He glanced around. “Not really.”

“Oh, sure. This is the perfect place to read a book! Especially on a rainy day.” She smiled, giving a fake shiver. “A cold, rainy day.”

“It’s July. Hard to think about cold, rainy days.”

“Yeah. You know, you just need a window seat up here, a fresh coat of paint, and this place would be a wonderful studio.”

Of course, she was right, but he didn’t want her redecorating his hideout. Ugly and in some disarray, it suited his mood. “Hey, what’s up, anyway? What brings you to the dustiest part of the ranch?”

She turned to look out the window, which he appreciated, because he could now evaluate her curves. Yes, she was just as he remembered: full and feminine and made for a man who appreciated round, apple-shaped—

“You’re making me self-conscious, Crockett,” Valentine said, laughing. “You always seem to be staring at my fanny.”

“Your jeans fit good,” he said. “I’ve never known Wrangler jeans to fit anyone quite like yours fit you.”

“And you would be a connoisseur of fannies,” she teased.

“Purely a statement of truth.” Valentine was hotter than a pistol, in his book—but it was a book he wasn’t going to read, window seat and fresh paint or not. “So once again, what do you want?”

She took a deep breath. “I was going to see what you thought about me having a special little ‘do’ here for Father’s Day.”

He stopped fiddling with the lump of clay. “Father’s Day? That was last month.”

“Yes. Well there are rather a lot of fathers around here. And we didn’t have a real celebration for them. Last, the sheriff, Barley, Calhoun—”

He scowled at his brother’s names. “You’re doing this for Last.”

“I would like to do something for him,” Valentine admitted. “I think he would enjoy being celebrated as a father. He has really been good to Annette.”

He guessed late was better than never. “Have you mentioned this party idea to Mason?”

“Not yet. I thought I’d speak to you first.”

“Why me? I’m not a father.” A fact he hated to admit, for some reason. Why wasn’t he a father? Because he hadn’t gone on a hootenanny and gotten someone pregnant as Last had, he supposed. But that route to fatherhood seemed unappealing when there were other ways.

Like with Valentine.

The thought swept over him before he could stop it. Valentine made beautiful babies; she made beautiful everything.

“I like to talk to you about whatever’s on my mind,” she said simply. “You’re reasonable.”

Reasonable was the last thing he was feeling. “I’m not a father,” he repeated, “but it sounds like something my brothers, at least, would enjoy. Can I come if I’m not a father?”

She looked at him. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“I don’t know. It could be bothering me.”

They stared at each other for a long time, and the silence felt awkward.

“Do you want to be a father?” Valentine asked softly.

Crockett eased back on his stool. “You seem happy being a parent.”

She smiled. “Yes, I love being a mother. But I am a parent of one. I’m not having any more children, so the burden doesn’t seem overly large.”

His brows rose, and an uncomfortable feeling lodged in his stomach. “You’re never having any more kids?”

She shrugged. “I’m a single mother. It’s rewarding, but enough of a struggle that I know I don’t plan on having more children.”

“I think Annette would like a little brother to drag around.”

“I think she has plenty of people wrapped in the crook of her finger.” She sat down across from him. “So about the party.”

“Yeah,” Crockett said reluctantly, realizing he wouldn’t enjoy watching his brother get kudos for being a dad. “Sounds like a real wingding.”

He scratched his head. His brain disliked the notion of Valentine not having more children. It didn’t sit right with him. Why? He drummed his fingers, then cracked his knuckles—and then it hit him.

He really wanted a child.