Christmas Cowboy: Will of Steel / Winter Roses

“That’s better,” he said, and grinned. He cocked his head and gave her a very male appraisal. “You really do look nice.” He pursed his lips as he contemplated the ensemble and its probable cost.

“They’re loaners,” she blurted out.

His black eyes sparkled with unholy glee. “Loaners?”

She nodded. “Sassy Callister.”

“I see.”

She grinned. “She said that she had a whole closet of stuff she never wore. I didn’t want to, but she sort of bulldozed me into it. She’s a lot like her new husband.”

“He wears petticoats?” he asked outrageously.

She glared at him. “Women don’t wear petticoats or hoop skirts these days, Theodore.”

“Sorry. Wrong era.”

She grinned. “Talk about living in the dark ages!”

He shrugged. “I was raised by my grandmother and my uncle. They weren’t forthcoming about women’s intimate apparel.”

“Well, I guess not!”

“Your uncle John was the same sort of throwback,” he remarked.

“So we both come by it honestly, I suppose.” She noted his immaculate dark suit and the spotless white shirt and blue patterned tie he was wearing with it. “You look nice, too.”

“I bought the suit to wear to John Callister’s wedding,” he replied. “I don’t often have the occasion to dress up.”

“Me, neither,” she sighed.

“I guess we could go a few places together,” he commented. “I like to hunt and fish.”

“I do not like guns,” she said flatly.

“Well, in my profession, they’re sort of a necessity, Jake,” he commented.

“I suppose so. Sorry.”

“No problem. You used to like fishing.”

“It’s been a while since I dipped a poor, helpless worm into the water.”

He chuckled. “Everything in life has a purpose. A worm’s is to help people catch delicious fish.”

“The worm might not share your point of view.”

“I’ll ask, the next time I see one.”

She laughed, and her whole face changed. She felt better than she had in ages. Theodore didn’t think she was a lost cause. He wasn’t even angry that she’d gone cold at his kiss. Maybe, she thought, just maybe, there was still hope for her.

His black eyes were kind. “I’m glad you aren’t wearing high heels,” he commented.

“Why?”

He glanced down at his big feet in soft black leather boots. “Well, these aren’t as tough as the boots I wear on the job. I’d hate to have holes in them from spiked heels, when you step on my feet on the dance floor.”

“I will not step on your feet,” she said with mock indignation. She grinned. “I might trip over them and land in a flowerpot, of course.”

“I heard about that,” he replied, chuckling. “Poor old Harris Twain. I’ll bet he’ll never stick his legs out into the walkway of a restaurant again. He said you were pretty liberally covered with potting soil. You went in headfirst, I believe …?”

She sighed. “Most people have talents. Mine is lack of coordination. I can trip over my own feet, much less someone else’s.”

He wondered about that clumsiness. She was very capable, in her own way, but she often fell. He frowned.

“Now, see, you’re thinking that I’m a klutz, and you’re absolutely right.”

“I was wondering more about your balance,” he said. “Do you have inner ear problems?”

She blinked. “What do my ears have to do with that?”

“A lot. If you have an inner ear disturbance, it can affect balance.”

“And where did you get your medical training?” she queried.

“I spend some time in emergency rooms, with victims and perps alike. I learn a lot about medical problems that way.”

“I forgot.”

He shrugged. “It goes with the job.”

“I don’t have earaches,” she said, and averted her eyes. “Shouldn’t we get going?”

She was hiding something. A lot, maybe. He let it go. “I guess we should.”

“A Latin dance club in Billings.” She grinned. “How exotic! ”

“The owner’s even more exotic. You’ll like him.” He leaned closer. “He was a gun runner in his wild youth.”

“Wow!”

“I thought you’d be impressed. So was I.”

“You have an interesting collection of strange people in your life,” she commented on the way to his truck.

“Goes with the—”

“Job. I guess.” She grinned when she saw the truck. “Washed and waxed it, huh?” she teased.