The Third Daughter's Wish

Three evenings later, Josie stood in her own front doorway, chortling as Gabe reacted to her costume.

“You’re going to my mom and stepdad’s shindig as Doc Holliday?” he inquired through the screen.

His bewildered expression was priceless. When she’d told Gabe that she was going to tonight’s costume party as Wyatt Earp’s favorite sidekick, she’d known he’d make a big assumption. After all, the gunslinger’s third and favorite wife had been named Josephine Sarah, like her.

She might be laughing hardest at her own joke, but Gabe wasn’t exactly crying. His gaze had lingered a little too long on her flattened chest, and now he was growing an annoyingly large smirk.

“Gabe!” she scolded. “I’m dressed as a man!”

“So?”

“So stop staring at my chest!”

“Just wondering where you’d put ’em.”

She glanced down at her buttoned white shirt and vest. “I wore a tight body suit underneath, that’s all.”

The teasing glint in his baby blues warped his look of concern. “Does it hurt?”

“Of course not.”

“This party could go on until the wee hours. Who knows how you’ll feel after several hours of being squashed up like that? If you want me to help unbind or…”

“Gabe!”

“Fluff or reinflate anything later, I—”

Josie slammed the solid wood door shut between them.

Gabe promptly opened it. “Sheesh!” he said, shouldering his way inside. “Can’t a guy enjoy a good prank when it’s played on him?”

His Ropers clunked on the threshold, and the scent that wafted in ahead of him was a pleasing mixture of worn leather and expensive male cologne. “Are you really that mad?”

“I don’t get mad,” she insisted, then ignored his rude snort as they stood together in the entryway.

“Now that the shock has worn off, let me take a gander.” He waggled his index finger around in a circle.

Sucking her cheeks in, Josie bit down on them to exaggerate the famous dentist’s hollow cheeks. She turned slowly, allowing Gabe to see her full costume. She’d found a long, gray coat at the thrift store and scrounged a pair of ancient work boots from the attic. She hadn’t been able to get her hands on a wide-brimmed hat, so she’d parted and slicked down her hair in a masculine style.

Gabe shook his head. “You look like Doc Holliday.”

“Now you show me.”

Gabe’s pivot was smooth, but he added a healthy dose of male swagger. As well he should. Tall and tanned, he had magnificent muscle tone and a face that broke hearts on a regular basis. He could probably shave a labyrinth into his golden-brown curls, leave food fragments in his straight white teeth and trade clothes with his grungiest friend, and women would still offer him paper scraps with their phone numbers. The man was a bona fide hunk.

Another thing Josie would never tell him.

“Good job,” she said. “I especially like the vest and holster.” She reached up to yank at a few strands of his thick mustache. “This isn’t yours, is it?”

After slapping her hand away, he pressed a finger against the fake facial hair to keep it from peeling off. “Of course not. You saw me clean-shaven a couple of days ago.”

“Just checking,” she said, smiling as he worked to restick the edges.

He had to be sexier than the real Wyatt Earp. It might have been fun to play Josephine to his Wyatt tonight. To arrive at the party on the arm of a handsome good guy, to dance in his arms. Perhaps even enjoy a little old time smooching out behind the barn.

She couldn’t do that, of course.

Josie was no fool. Her longest intimate relationship had lasted eleven weeks. Her platonic connections were much more solid. She hung out with the guys over whichever sporting event was in season, and they swapped tales of work and romance wins and woes. She liked men, and her buddies were the best of the bunch.

She didn’t sleep with them, though. Sleeping with men led to departures of men. She wouldn’t lose a friend that way. Especially not Gabe.

“Really thought I’d dress as your wife, huh?” she asked as she crossed her living room.

“Would it be that bad?”

“Aw heck, Gabe. You want a wife? Just empty your pants pockets before you do your laundry.”

“Beg pardon?”

She laughed. “Dial the number on one of the business cards or napkin scraps you find in there.” She strode into the kitchen to grab a paper bag full of plastic-wrapped marshmallow and cereal treats. “Those women aren’t looking for job interviews, my friend,” she hollered back.

“I’m not looking for a wife and you know it,” he shouted. “I was merely surprised at your choice of costumes.”

“Just admit it, I got you.” She lowered her voice as she returned to Gabe to exit via the door behind him.

As if he were the real Wyatt Earp facing off some outlaw, Gabe remained in place, his hands low on his hips. “You about ready, then?” he asked when she finally stopped a short four inches from his chest.

Josie throttled a grin. She’d met Gabe when she was a college sophomore running the weekend registers at the hardware store and he was a hungry carpenter with a perpetual need for supplies. These days when the proud owner of Thomas Contracting landed jobs that required interior design work, he talked up her skills. Josie referred construction work to him.

She had a great deal of respect for Gabe’s talent and integrity, but he could be too serious. Too logical. When he was in an ornery mood, though, he was more fun than anyone.

Josie craved that distraction tonight. As she looked up into his gleaming eyes, she stepped squarely on his toe. “You’re the one who’s not moving.”

He yanked his boot from beneath hers, then swung around and offered her an elbow. She hooked a hand around it and they stepped outside. He waited on the porch while she locked her house, then offered his arm again as they approached the driveway.

Tonight should be a blast.

When Josie reached her truck, she stopped. Gabe kept going and nearly yanked her arm out of the socket.

“Ow!”

He mumbled an apology, but also untangled his arm and kept walking toward his pearl-white BMW, parked behind her truck in the drive. “We’re taking my car, kid.”

“Nope.” She lifted her keys to jingle them. “Move the overpriced status symbol. I’m driving.”

Gabe stopped and turned around near his car. He shoved his thumbs over his holster and leaned a hip against his fender, appearing as though he could wait all evening.

She sighed. He’d had that dang car just over a month. Every year when the new models came out, he traded up. She’d been driving the same Toyota pickup for ten years. It had heart, like her. Gabe’s cars were simply vehicles, and she told him so, often.