Dakota Cowboy

His breath warmed her cheeks, filling her with a curious sense of longing.

She pushed away the idea. Only thing she longed for was her self-sufficiency. Life was meant to be lived, enjoyed, embraced, not spent clasping hopeless dreams based on empty promises from a man.

She would not be like her mother.

Wade still leaned close, his gaze warm as sun flashing on a quiet lake, his expression curiously watchful, as if wanting something from her.

She shifted away, turned to gather the remnants of their lunch into the basket. She knew what he wanted—for her to visit her father. But she wouldn’t do it. She’d already given her father too many chances, wasted too many hopes and dreams on him.

Lawrence, a young man who seemed to escort a different gal to the park every week, picked up his guitar and began to pluck out a tune. He had a liking for popular ballads, which made him a hit with both sexes. He began to sing “Oh! Susanna.” Soon, more young people crowded around, joining their voices to his as he went from one popular tune to another.

Lucy loved the songs and joined right in. She didn’t have to look directly at Wade to see he wasn’t singing. At first she thought he didn’t know the newer songs, but even when they sang some old hymns he didn’t join. She tried to remember if he’d sung at church, but she’d been too busy mentally kicking herself for agreeing to spend the afternoon with him to pay attention.

She focused on the next song, and tried not to think of Wade sitting there quietly. He shifted, stretched out his legs, and leaned back on his right elbow. Was he bored? Restless? Through some perverse idea that God wanted her to entertain this stranger, she’d volunteered her afternoon. If Wade chose to be not entertained by the music, that wasn’t her problem. She’d done all that could be expected of her.

He sat up straight and pulled his knees to his chin. She didn’t miss how he shuffled about so he could stare at her.

“An angel wouldn’t stare,” she whispered.

“You’ve known a few, have you?”

“No. But I know they wouldn’t.”

“Well, see, I’m not so sure. I think they watch us all the time.”

She rolled her eyes to signify how silly she considered this conversation.

“Let’s go for a walk.” He bounced to his feet and held out a hand before she could refuse. She automatically let him pull her to her feet but withdrew from his grasp before they had gone two steps.

They headed past Mr. and Mrs. Nolan. Mrs. Nolan was writing a letter. Mr. Nolan was lying in the shade, his hat pulled over his eyes.

Lucy waited until they were far enough away from the music to be able to converse easily before she spoke. “I noticed you didn’t sing.”

“If you heard me you’d know for sure I was no angel.” His tone carried a hint of self-mockery. “Cowboys normally sing to the cattle at night to calm them. I tried it once. The cows all signed a petition requesting I stop.”

She laughed at the idea of cows signing a piece of paper. “Did they read it for you, too?”

“Read it myself but the head cow stepped on my foot to emphasize the point.” He paused to rub at the toe of his boot as if his foot still hurt.

She laughed harder at his silliness. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, yes it can.”

Now she wanted nothing more than to hear and judge for herself. “Show me.”

He held up his hands as if warning her. “I don’t want the afternoon to end on a sour note. Or a flat one.”

“You think I’d run home if I heard you sing?”

“I know you would, with your ears covered, begging me to stop.”

He kept a deadpan expression so she couldn’t know for sure how serious he was but she couldn’t believe he meant all he said.

She held a hand up as if swearing honesty before a court of law. “I vow I would not run away if you sang.”

Their gazes locked and for one still moment, nothing existed apart from the two of them and the promise of something exciting between them.

“Would you run for some other reason?” His words were low and soft, teasing.

She tried to find an answer to his question. “I can’t say.” At that moment, she could think of nothing that would send her running. Not when her heart had developed a sudden ache to know more about him.

He took her hand.

She let him.

They reached the edge of the park but didn’t turn around. Instead, they crossed the street, walked the half block to the edge of town and continued along the dusty road bordered by yellowed grass swaying in the breeze.

“This country is as flat as pie dough rolled out,” he said.

“Great for farming, they say. Best number one hard wheat grown right here. Much of it on bonanza farms. Can you imagine one farm with thousands of acres under crop? I’d like to see that some day.” Why was she running over at the mouth about farming? Only thing she knew about it was what she overheard at the dining room where some of the big landowners met with bankers and investors to discuss things.

Wade made a dismissive noise. “Farming is okay. But for real pretty scenery you should see ranching country. When I see the hills and trees and vast stretches of grass, I just want to put down roots like a big old cottonwood tree and never leave.”

Lucy turned to stare at him. “I never knew a cowboy who wanted to settle down.”

Wade gave an embarrassed grin and shrugged. “Never thought about it like that but now you mention it, the idea sounds kind of nice. But the ranch I mean belongs to your father.”

She pulled her hand from his grasp.

“Lucy, he’s sick. Near death. All you have to do is visit him. How hard can that be?”

She backed away with every word he uttered. Her eyes felt overheated, the air too heavy to breathe. “I will never visit him.”

“Why not?”

“Because when my mother died I decided I would no longer allow him any part of my life. He hurt her time and again with empty promises. I won’t let him do the same thing to me.”

“Just a little visit.”

“Never.”

Wade’s jaw muscles flexed. “He’s very sick.”

“I’m sorry.” She headed back to town like she was trying to outrun a thunderstorm.

He easily caught up to her. “I’ll not leave until you change your mind.”

“It will never happen.” She mentally kicked herself all the way back to the dining room and slipped into her room. How many times had she vowed not to let her heart yearn for any man—not her father, and certainly not a run-of-the-mill cowboy? She wouldn’t let herself care if the King of Spain showed up to court her. No. Her heart belonged to no one. Ever. She’d witnessed the incredible pain and suffering in her mother’s life and would have no part of it.