like the Cole she remembered. A wave
of yearning swept over her, so intense that it almost brought her to her knees,
and she braced her hands against the Blazer. This was her man, her house, and
yet neither of them belonged to her. Nor would they ever. She had to keep
reminding herself of that fact.
Just as she took a deep, shaky breath, Cole
opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. She saw him stop, his
gaze searching her face.
“Would you like to come in?” His voice was
quiet, low and soothing. She’d heard ranchers use the same tone on a horse that
was trying to bolt. A hysterical giggle welled inside her, and it took every
ounce of her strength to keep it from bursting loose. After all, she had been
ready to bolt, and the fact that he still knew her so well after all this time,
could see what she was feeling, terrified her.
But she had laid the ground rules herself,
and she suddenly remembered why. For her own protection. If she could make them
both believe they were nothing but friends, he couldn’t hurt her again.
Unable to speak, she answered his question
with a nod and he stepped back, holding the door open for her. Praying her
wobbly legs would carry her, she moved around the Blazer, keeping her eyes down
as she walked by him and into the house. The door closing softly behind her sounded
preternaturally loud in the stillness emanating from the rest of the house. A
stillness that was abruptly broken by the crash of something metal and an
earsplitting curse.
All at once the world settled back into its
normal place and Charley glanced around at Cole in question.
“Mrs. Paulson.” He explained the noise with
a grin. “She’s still not thrilled with the new kitchen yet, but don’t let her
scare you. She’s a lot more harmless than she sounds.” He held out his hand.
“Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Charley’s hesitation was barely noticeable
as she lifted her hand and felt his fingers close firmly around it. The formal
dining room he led her through contained a huge, square table with a bowl of
white flowers centered in the middle. The chairs, while made alike, had seats
that were covered in a Navaho print, each a different color. Giant clay pots,
hand-painted with desert scenes, stood in two corners of the room, tall stalks
of dried yucca flowers rising from each pot. The only wall that wasn’t solid glass
was covered by a gigantic tapestry that mimicked the pattern on the chairs.
Just as they reached the door leading to
the kitchen, there was another crash, followed by more cursing, the voice raspy
and masculine sounding. Charley took one look and came to a screeching halt,
her free hand clapped over her mouth in surprise.
The tiniest woman she had ever seen was
wielding a broom handle like a sword, and her target was a stack of pots and
pans residing in a cabinet over her head. Several of the shiny cooking utensils
were already strewn around her on the floor.
At their entry, she spun to face them, the
broom swinging wildly as she glared at Cole.
“Are you the bonehead who put my pans up
there?” she growled.
“No, ma’am,” Cole said meekly. “Must have
been the movers.”
Charley stared at him in amazement, unable
to believe he would actually be cowed by the diminutive woman. Not until he
squeezed her hand did she see the amused twinkle in his eyes.
“Is there something you want me to get for
you?”
“A ladder,” the woman practically spit the
words.
“I’ll have one delivered in the morning,”
he promised, dropping Charley’s hand and moving toward the offending pots. He
took them all down and placed them within her reach on the countertop. “Mrs.
Paulson, this is Charley Hart. Charley, this is Mrs. Paulson, the best cook in
the United States.”
Suddenly she was pinned by the steely gray
eyes. “Do you carry a gun?”
Charley gaped at her. “Uh, no ma’am.”
“Then how do you protect yourself from the
wolves at night?”
Enlightenment dawned and
of yearning swept over her, so intense that it almost brought her to her knees,
and she braced her hands against the Blazer. This was her man, her house, and
yet neither of them belonged to her. Nor would they ever. She had to keep
reminding herself of that fact.
Just as she took a deep, shaky breath, Cole
opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. She saw him stop, his
gaze searching her face.
“Would you like to come in?” His voice was
quiet, low and soothing. She’d heard ranchers use the same tone on a horse that
was trying to bolt. A hysterical giggle welled inside her, and it took every
ounce of her strength to keep it from bursting loose. After all, she had been
ready to bolt, and the fact that he still knew her so well after all this time,
could see what she was feeling, terrified her.
But she had laid the ground rules herself,
and she suddenly remembered why. For her own protection. If she could make them
both believe they were nothing but friends, he couldn’t hurt her again.
Unable to speak, she answered his question
with a nod and he stepped back, holding the door open for her. Praying her
wobbly legs would carry her, she moved around the Blazer, keeping her eyes down
as she walked by him and into the house. The door closing softly behind her sounded
preternaturally loud in the stillness emanating from the rest of the house. A
stillness that was abruptly broken by the crash of something metal and an
earsplitting curse.
All at once the world settled back into its
normal place and Charley glanced around at Cole in question.
“Mrs. Paulson.” He explained the noise with
a grin. “She’s still not thrilled with the new kitchen yet, but don’t let her
scare you. She’s a lot more harmless than she sounds.” He held out his hand.
“Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Charley’s hesitation was barely noticeable
as she lifted her hand and felt his fingers close firmly around it. The formal
dining room he led her through contained a huge, square table with a bowl of
white flowers centered in the middle. The chairs, while made alike, had seats
that were covered in a Navaho print, each a different color. Giant clay pots,
hand-painted with desert scenes, stood in two corners of the room, tall stalks
of dried yucca flowers rising from each pot. The only wall that wasn’t solid glass
was covered by a gigantic tapestry that mimicked the pattern on the chairs.
Just as they reached the door leading to
the kitchen, there was another crash, followed by more cursing, the voice raspy
and masculine sounding. Charley took one look and came to a screeching halt,
her free hand clapped over her mouth in surprise.
The tiniest woman she had ever seen was
wielding a broom handle like a sword, and her target was a stack of pots and
pans residing in a cabinet over her head. Several of the shiny cooking utensils
were already strewn around her on the floor.
At their entry, she spun to face them, the
broom swinging wildly as she glared at Cole.
“Are you the bonehead who put my pans up
there?” she growled.
“No, ma’am,” Cole said meekly. “Must have
been the movers.”
Charley stared at him in amazement, unable
to believe he would actually be cowed by the diminutive woman. Not until he
squeezed her hand did she see the amused twinkle in his eyes.
“Is there something you want me to get for
you?”
“A ladder,” the woman practically spit the
words.
“I’ll have one delivered in the morning,”
he promised, dropping Charley’s hand and moving toward the offending pots. He
took them all down and placed them within her reach on the countertop. “Mrs.
Paulson, this is Charley Hart. Charley, this is Mrs. Paulson, the best cook in
the United States.”
Suddenly she was pinned by the steely gray
eyes. “Do you carry a gun?”
Charley gaped at her. “Uh, no ma’am.”
“Then how do you protect yourself from the
wolves at night?”
Enlightenment dawned and
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