The Cowboy And The Debutante by Stella Bagwell Page A

I’ve got things to do. I’ll...see you in the morning.”
    Anna watched him head on out the door without giving her so much as a second glance. Well, that was the way she wanted him to be, she told herself. But her traitorous gaze flew to the windows and continued to watch him until his long strides carried him through the courtyard gate and out of her sight.
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    Miguel prepared himself a steak for supper, but he left half of it on the plate and refilled his wineglass instead. As he walked through the house, he couldn’t ever remember feeling so restless.
    He’d never been a man who needed much company other than his own. Usually he was content to switch on the television, prop his feet up and enjoy what was left of the evening before bedtime.
    But tonight thoughts of Anna kept pestering him, refusing to let him do anything but think about her. He was attracted to her. He’d be a fool to try to convince himself he wasn’t. Just looking at her was enough to make desire burn deep in his gut. Miguel knew firsthand what wanting a woman like Anna could do to a man. But he was beginning to think tonight he needed a reminder of the devastation.
    Tossing off the last of his wine, he set the empty glass on a low coffee table and walked into his bedroom. In a desk wedged in one corner was a locked drawer. He opened it with a small key, then pulled out a heavy manila envelope.
    The snapshots inside were all sizes. Some of them were clear, some fuzzy and many yellowed with time. He shuffled through them slowly, each one of them conjuring up a different memory. There was only one of the pompous wedding Charlene had insisted on. Miguel had wanted to be married in the same old church and by the same Catholic priest who’d baptized him as a child. But that would’ve been an insult to Charlene and her wealthy family, so Miguel had given in and endured a wedding in the Grant family mansion and a guest list of nameless people he’d never met in his life.
    A tight grimace on his face, he tossed the photo to one side. He should have thrown it in with all the rest Charlene had taken after they’d divorced. The frozen image meant nothing to him now.
    But there were many photos he did cherish like those of his parents and sister. And most of all there were those of his son, Carlos. The majority of them had been taken when he was a very young baby, before the divorce had separated them. Of course there were the yearly school photos right up to the sixth grade. But it was the early pictures of his son that Miguel related to the most. Back then he’d been able to see his son, to touch him, love him, father him. But that had all changed.
    To look at Carlos as a sixth-grader, a soon-to-be teenager, both saddened him and reminded him why he could not let himself love Anna Sanders.
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    Anna had thought she was hungry, but by the time she’d eaten two thirds of her supper, her appetite had vanished, along with her determination to finish everything on her plate.
    After scraping her plate, she cleaned off the countertop, then carried a cup of coffee with her into the living room. The house was as quiet as a tomb, and she tried to remember any other time she’d had the place to herself, but she couldn’t think of one.
    Instinctively she switched on the television, but after a quick run through the channels, she turned it off again. Eventually she wound up on the piano bench.
    She was staring at the closed lid, wondering why she had no urge to play, when a voice suddenly sounded behind her.
    Startled, her head whipped around, then a small breath rushed past her parted lips. “Miguel!”
    â€œI didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said as he walked into the room. “I knocked at the kitchen door, but you didn’t answer.”
    â€œIs something wrong?” she asked quickly.
    As far as Miguel was concerned everything was wrong. He could not eat, sleep, rest or work without