Wish Upon a Cowboy by Maureen Child, Kathleen Kane Page A
Authors: Maureen Child, Kathleen Kane
Tags: Romance
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turning a blind eye to it, he'll change what is?"
The scratch of the cat's claws on the floor was her only answer. Hannah rubbed her upper arms and stared at the clean, lamplit kitchen. All around her, the empty house screamed with silence. Even the usual murmur of voices from the bunkhouse were gone tonight. All but two of the men had gone into town, Jonas with them. She'd hoped to have a moment with him before he left but again he'd outfoxed her.
"The man doesn't need magic," she said aloud, just to hear the company of a voice, even her own. "But just the same, he'll have it."
All she had to do was make him remember.
Picking up a spoon, Hannah dipped it into the pot on the stove, watching the bubbling pink liquid inside as she stirred carefully.
Hepzibah gave up her hunting to come and rub against her mistress's legs.
But Hannah focused her concentration on the mixture she'd placed her hopes on. Moving the wooden spoon through the potion, she chanted the spell she'd rehearsed earlier. "I've found him, but still he's lost. Return him now, whatever the cost."
She smiled faintly. Perhaps being near the Mackenzie was helping her own pitiful abilities. Her rhymes were much better now, she thought.
* * *
Whiskey didn't help.
Neither did the usually comforting noise and stench of the saloon. Jonas squinted into the gray-blue pall of cigar smoke hanging over the crowd, looking from one familiar face to the next. He'd been coming into saloon every Saturday night for years. But tonight, he wasn't finding the peace he usually did.
Jonas picked up his glass and stared thoughtfully at the amber liquid inside. He'd already drunk half a bottle and it hadn't done a thing to dim the image of Hannah that seemed to be permanently etched on his brain.
In the last few days, he'd done nothing but trip over her. Everywhere he turned, there she was. If he went into the barn to check on the mare, she showed up just a step or two behind him. Smiling that innocent smile. Looking up at him from those incredibly green eyes of hers.
She would stare at him as if waiting for him to kiss her again. Waiting for him to tell her she was right about him. But how could he do that?
For God's sake… a witch?
Warlock, his brain corrected, though it didn't matter a damn. Either way it was nonsense. Witches lived only in fairy tales or in minds far drunker than his at the moment.
He took a sip of the whiskey, savoring the liquid fire as it slid along his tongue and down into his belly. But he had a feeling that even if he drank a wagonload of the stuff tonight, it wouldn't bring him the oblivion he wanted.
Still it was worth a try. He grimaced tightly and tossed the whiskey down his throat. Before it had finÂished burning a trail down his throat, he was slamming the glass back onto the table and pouring himself another.
Should have gone to Jefferson tonight, he told himself in disgust. A few hours with one of Sal's girls would quench any man's fire. But even as he considered it, he knew it wasn't a solution this time. Not for him, anyway. Because none of Sal's girls was a blond-haired, green eyed… witch.
And none of them carried the power of a lightning bolt on their lips.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered thickly and reached for the bottle again. Even if the liquor wasn't helping, it couldn't hurt.
But before he could throw another drink into his already roiling stomach, one of his cowhands rushed up to him, looking back over his shoulder as if being chased by a ghost.
"What's the matter now?" Jonas grumbled. Had it only been a few days ago when he'd been congratulating himself on a long-standing string of good luck?
"Billy's in trouble." Stretch Jones leaned across his table and looked him dead in the eye.
Jonas blinked, bringing the blurry image of the tall skinny cowhand with an Adam's apple the size of a lemon into focus. "What kind of trouble?"
Stretch pushed his hair out of his eyes, leaned forward, and started talking again, his
The scratch of the cat's claws on the floor was her only answer. Hannah rubbed her upper arms and stared at the clean, lamplit kitchen. All around her, the empty house screamed with silence. Even the usual murmur of voices from the bunkhouse were gone tonight. All but two of the men had gone into town, Jonas with them. She'd hoped to have a moment with him before he left but again he'd outfoxed her.
"The man doesn't need magic," she said aloud, just to hear the company of a voice, even her own. "But just the same, he'll have it."
All she had to do was make him remember.
Picking up a spoon, Hannah dipped it into the pot on the stove, watching the bubbling pink liquid inside as she stirred carefully.
Hepzibah gave up her hunting to come and rub against her mistress's legs.
But Hannah focused her concentration on the mixture she'd placed her hopes on. Moving the wooden spoon through the potion, she chanted the spell she'd rehearsed earlier. "I've found him, but still he's lost. Return him now, whatever the cost."
She smiled faintly. Perhaps being near the Mackenzie was helping her own pitiful abilities. Her rhymes were much better now, she thought.
* * *
Whiskey didn't help.
Neither did the usually comforting noise and stench of the saloon. Jonas squinted into the gray-blue pall of cigar smoke hanging over the crowd, looking from one familiar face to the next. He'd been coming into saloon every Saturday night for years. But tonight, he wasn't finding the peace he usually did.
Jonas picked up his glass and stared thoughtfully at the amber liquid inside. He'd already drunk half a bottle and it hadn't done a thing to dim the image of Hannah that seemed to be permanently etched on his brain.
In the last few days, he'd done nothing but trip over her. Everywhere he turned, there she was. If he went into the barn to check on the mare, she showed up just a step or two behind him. Smiling that innocent smile. Looking up at him from those incredibly green eyes of hers.
She would stare at him as if waiting for him to kiss her again. Waiting for him to tell her she was right about him. But how could he do that?
For God's sake… a witch?
Warlock, his brain corrected, though it didn't matter a damn. Either way it was nonsense. Witches lived only in fairy tales or in minds far drunker than his at the moment.
He took a sip of the whiskey, savoring the liquid fire as it slid along his tongue and down into his belly. But he had a feeling that even if he drank a wagonload of the stuff tonight, it wouldn't bring him the oblivion he wanted.
Still it was worth a try. He grimaced tightly and tossed the whiskey down his throat. Before it had finÂished burning a trail down his throat, he was slamming the glass back onto the table and pouring himself another.
Should have gone to Jefferson tonight, he told himself in disgust. A few hours with one of Sal's girls would quench any man's fire. But even as he considered it, he knew it wasn't a solution this time. Not for him, anyway. Because none of Sal's girls was a blond-haired, green eyed… witch.
And none of them carried the power of a lightning bolt on their lips.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered thickly and reached for the bottle again. Even if the liquor wasn't helping, it couldn't hurt.
But before he could throw another drink into his already roiling stomach, one of his cowhands rushed up to him, looking back over his shoulder as if being chased by a ghost.
"What's the matter now?" Jonas grumbled. Had it only been a few days ago when he'd been congratulating himself on a long-standing string of good luck?
"Billy's in trouble." Stretch Jones leaned across his table and looked him dead in the eye.
Jonas blinked, bringing the blurry image of the tall skinny cowhand with an Adam's apple the size of a lemon into focus. "What kind of trouble?"
Stretch pushed his hair out of his eyes, leaned forward, and started talking again, his
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