Chapter One
Ramiro almost made it out the door before Adela noticed the tip of a stick peeking from the side seam of his homespun trousers. She snagged his arm as he darted past.
“Un momento, mijo,”
she said, dragging the boy back into the house and turning him to face her.
He lowered his head and hid behind the brim of his floppy
straw hat. With her fingertips, she lifted his chin to find liquid innocence
gazing back. Long, dark lashes fluttered through two beguiling blinks. Only
eight, and already he knew the path to a woman’s heart. The early morning sun
lent a glow to fresh-scrubbed cheeks. Not even the Blessed Virgin could have
looked more angelic.
Adela suppressed a smile. “What is that in your pocket?”
“Nothing, Mamá.”
“Ramiro….” She glanced at the stick before fixing him with
motherly skepticism. “I can see it.”
He twisted at the waist, gazing down to examine the evidence
for himself. When he looked up again, the guilty grin of an unrepentant rascal
beamed in her direction. Little devil. So like his father.
Adela presented her hand, palm up. The grin fell from her
son’s lips. He gave an exaggerated huff, pulled the slingshot from his pocket,
and slapped the lopsided Y across her waiting fingers.
“Gracias.” She set
the slingshot on a shelf above his reach.
Ramiro chewed his lip while he contemplated the weapon’s
perch. His gaze darted to a ladder-back chair and then back to the shelf.
Adela retrieved the slingshot and deposited it in the pocket
of her skirt. A scowl pinching his face, Ramiro turned and stomped across the
threshold, giving the unpainted doorframe a fierce smack on his way through. He
stalked into the yard and stood there, his back to her, fists clenched at his
sides, kicking the dust. Javier made over in miniature.
A bittersweet smile stole upward from Adela's heart.
Disappointment built character, or so her mother often said. Maybe that was why
Javier became such an extraordinary man. Were he here, would he see himself in
his son as often as she did? Would he know what to say to ease the boy’s grief?
Of course, were he here, their son would have no reason to
grieve.
Adela smoothed her skirt before lifting her hat from a peg
beside the door. The flat-topped sombrero was far from fashionable, but Javier
had thought it suited her. “A hat of the people,” he called it. Practical, not
pretentious. She closed the door behind her and slid the bead on the rawhide
tie up under her chin. These days she was nothing if not practical.
Ramiro still stood in the center of the small yard, back
hunched and hands jammed into his pockets. Adela slipped an arm around his
shoulders. “We must hurry,” she said, drawing him against her side. “We
promised Señor Jameson you would not be late again.”
****
The part of Cole McCord that jumped on the needle’s second
pass through his flesh was on the opposite side of his body from the bullet
wound. Rosalita’s cool fingertips brushed his heated skin. “Lo siento, guapo. I did not mean to hurt
you.”
Through the gaps in the ornate brass headboard, his gaze
traced the fleur-de-lis pattern on the red-and-gold wallpaper. “Hurt me?
Darlin’, you’re not hurting me.”
Burning a hole in his dignity, maybe. But hurting him? Not
in the way she meant.
She bent to sever the thread with her teeth, and her silky
hair draped a wave of shivers across the small of his back. He sucked a quick
breath. Down boy. Not now.
Damn fancy pants gambler could have shot him anywhere but in
the ass. Cole would be the butt of jokes for a good long while if that tidbit
got out.
At least the injury was little more than a flesh wound. A derringer
didn’t possess enough kick to annoy a hummingbird. Stop a Texas Ranger? Hardly.
The slug had done significant damage to his pride, but it wouldn’t keep him
from duty.
Might make sitting uncomfortable for a spell, though.
Rosalita’s long nails trailed a path around the edge of the
wound, then swept down the back of his thigh. “Y ahora….”
Damn that husky voice of hers. Cole caught her wrist as he
rolled to his feet. “Not now, Rosie.”
He eased into clean britches and buttoned the placket while
she batted dark lashes above a provocative smile…and an even more provocative
cleavage. “You will be back, sí?”
Not soon. He wouldn’t be here now, except he suspected
Rosie’s painted lips were more easily sealed than the doc’s. Instead of
answering, he took a step toward the door.
She hopped to her feet and sashayed across the room ahead of
him, each exaggerated swish of her round backside calculated to change his
mind. The smoldering gaze that raked him top to bottom when she handed him his
hat almost worked.
The sheriff could wait a little longer.
On second thought, probably not. Cole hadn’t seen Ransom
Davis in more than a year, and the man didn’t like surprises. Sheriff Davis had
earned his reputation the hard way. He excelled at many things, but he
specialized in nursing a grudge.
Rosie draped her arms around Cole’s neck and stretched like
a jaguar sunning itself. His hands went to her hips to hold her at bay.
Nevertheless, the ample mounds of her bosom scraped his shirt, and he’d have
been willing to bet the premeditated maneuver left nothing between the two of
them except the khaki cambric he was wearing. She ran her tongue over her lower
lip, then captured one corner between her teeth.
Cole grinned and cocked a brow. Rosie claimed she didn’t
kiss the customers, but she’d kissed him more than once. In all the years he’d
known her, he’d never figured that out. “You’re tempting, darlin’, but I’m not
here to play.”
He unhooked her wrists from behind his neck and set her
away. Yep. He’d have won the bet. Damn. She was still one fine-looking woman.
Rosie pouted as she rearranged the sheer red silk she called
a lounging gown. “You are no fun anymore.”
That brought a chuckle. He took her hand and laid a double-eagle
in her palm. “Buy yourself some fun, Rosie. I’m much obliged for your help.”
She rose onto her toes and planted a soft peck on his cheek.
Then she ran a fingertip along the scar that traced his cheekbone. “Be careful,
guapo. I worry about you.”
“I’m always careful.” Right. And if that were true, he
wouldn’t have needed Rosie’s help in the first place.
