Montana by Debbie Macomber

lingered. Walking over to Sinbad’s stall, she stroked his neck, weaving her fingers through his long coarse mane. “Was there something I said earlier that offended you?” she said unexpectedly. Her voice was softer now, unsure. “Perhaps this afternoon while we were in town?”
    â€œYou think I was offended?” he asked, surprised.
    She slowly turned and looked at him. Sam had never seen a woman with more striking blue eyes; it was all he could do to avert his gaze.
    â€œGramps was concerned when you didn’t join us for dinner.”
    He wasn’t sure how to put his feelings into words. The simplest way, he decided, was to tell her the truth. “You’re family. I’m not.”
    â€œIt’s silly for you to cook for yourself when I’ve already made dinner.”
    â€œI don’t mind.”
    â€œI do,” she insisted, her voice flaring with anger. She tamed it quickly by inhaling and holding her breath. “Both Gramps and I would like you to join us for meals.” She paused. “It’d mean a lot to Gramps.”
    â€œWhat about you? Would it mean anything to you?” Sam had no idea what had prompted the question. He was practically inviting her to stomp all over his ego!
    â€œIt just makes more sense,” she said. “But—” she took another breath “—whether you come or not is up to you.”
    So that was it, Sam reasoned. She’d done her duty. No doubt Walt had asked her to issue the invitation.
    â€œWill you?” she asked, then added, “I need to know how much to cook.”
    â€œI haven’t decided yet.”
    â€œDon’t do me any favors, all right?”
    What Sam did next was born of pure instinct. It was what he’d been thinking of doing from the moment he first set eyes on her. What he’d wanted to do the instant he heard Russell Letson invite her to dinner.
    Without judging the wisdom—or the reasons—he stepped forward, clasped her shoulders and lowered his mouth to hers.
    Their lips met briefly, the contact so light Sam wasn’t sure they’d actually touched until he felt her stiffen. Taking advantage of her shock, he parted his lips and was about to wrap his arms around her when she pressed her hands against his chest and pushed him away.
    â€œDon’t ever do that again!” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “How dare you!”
    Sam wondered the same thing.
    â€œGramps would fire you in a heartbeat if I told him about this.”
    â€œTell him,” Sam urged. He didn’t know why he’d done anything so stupid, and he wasn’t proud of himself for giving in to the impulse. But he’d be selling snow cones in hell before he’d let her know that.
    â€œI should tell him—it’d serve you right!”
    â€œThen by all means mention it.” What Sam should do was apologize—again—and let it go at that, but the same craziness that had induced him to kiss Molly goaded him now. He might have continued with his flippant responses if not for the pain and uncertainty he read in her eyes.
    â€œI’d like your word of honor that it won’t happen again.”
    Without meaning to, he laughed outright. Honor? Ex-cons weren’t exactly known for their honor.
    â€œYou find this humorous, Mr. Dakota?” Her eyes narrowed and her voice rose in a quavery crescendo.
    If he hadn’t riled her earlier, he sure had now. Unintentionally. She whirled around and marched out of the barn. Sam sighed, leaned against the center post and rubbed one hand over his face, still wondering why he’d kissed her.
    Then again, maybe he knew. He didn’t like the idea of her dating Letson. His dislike of lawyers was instinctive, following the less than fair treatment he’d received from his own defense attorney. Which, to be honest, wasn’t Letson’s fault. In any case, it was more than that.
    Sam