“What about you, cowboy? You’ve been here long enough to keep tabs on my dance card.”
He orchestrated a braiding of their arms and a complex turning maneuver, likely to keep from answering. January closed her eyes to the cool wind lifting her hair, the heady spin of being in his arms again. She felt…safe. Nat was that rare specimen of man able to suppress instincts and exalt the wellbeing of others. Muscles beneath his crisp shirt were larger, firmer, more defined than she remembered, no doubt due to the hours beyond ranching that he spent volunteering for the Marin County Fire Department. He has saved seven folks in that capacity—not that anyone is counting, wrote Mona in one of her letters. For January, after being solely responsible for her safety for so long, shifting the burden to another, even for the duration of a dance, felt liberating.
“Thank you...” said Nat, “for today. Cows looked good going up on the auction site. Should bring a higher starting bid.”
Until now, January assumed her day’s chore held little importance beyond keeping her off a horse and away from herding. Probably a good thing Mona talked her out of the Making Whoopee nail polish.
“You’re welcome.”
The polite between-space Nat had held onto as a gentleman at the dance’s opening all but disappeared. His freshly shaven jaw teased her temple.
“I’m surprised you’re here, with so much to do on the ranch,” she said.
“Willie threatened to quit if I didn’t show.”
“He does like to dance.” She recalled Willie’s instructions on her first dance of the night: I’ll bring the moves, you steer the car. Moves wasn’t quite what she would call them. He had perfected the perfect blend of the Texas two-step and the jitterbug, all with an infectious smile. If Willie started a religion, January would be his first disciple.
“Willie’s good for you. Keeps you light and spontaneous. The way you used to be.”
Their easy rhythm broke. Nat ended the dance before the band.
“When your decisions support ten families and a hundred years of family history, light and spontaneous doesn’t cut it.” Nat’s face flushed beneath his brim, nothing at all to do with the heat they had generated together. “We can’t all chase dreams, J. Some of us live in the real world.”
He mumbled out something close to an excuse me and headed for the trees. Even angry, Nat found his manners.
Her chest felt bruised. She shouldn’t have come. To Dietrich’s. To Close Call. All she ever seemed to do was spread hurt.
The song ended. Another up-tempo one began. Superman swooped in with a second offer.
January glanced at the tree line that had swallowed Nat.
“Knew I’d find you here.”
Where a tiny tributary of the Brazos River, barely more than a trickle most seasons, joined an oasis of cypress trees, grassy knolls, and sixty-eight-degree spring-fed water, Nat sat on a cluster of boulders known as Tull’s Teabags. Affectionately named after Colonel Ulysses Tull, who discovered the spot to water his volunteer Army-Corp-come-late-to-the-Texas-revolution, the rocks were smooth and abundant, which raised questions that rarely held January’s attention long enough to find out anything further about anomalies in the male anatomy or history. Or maybe—just maybe—the Colonel had a fondness for the hot beverage.
Knowing the locals of Close Call, not likely.
Nat didn’t answer her. He tended to stew, hold things inside, his granite, cowboy exterior on full display. She remembered that about him. Mostly, she remembered the best way to knock him loose was a strategic kiss to his neck. Her rabbit libido scampered down that fantasy trail before her turtle common sense kicked in. By the time she sat beside him on the rock, the air was the least of the dampness clinging to her skin.
“Eric Pickford isn’t used to being turned down. Twice, no less. I told him I have back problems that don’t allow me to dance with short men.”
Though the ful
l brilliance of the moon had come and gone the previous night, enough light reflected off the water for her to see the corner of Nat’s lips threaten a smile.
“I’m sorry, Nat. I didn’t mean anything—”
“It’s okay.”
Water beneath the rocks gurgled through their silence.
“You should really stop doing that,” said January.
“What?”
“Being so nice all the time. Filtering out what you really want to say.”
“Because hurting people is so much easier?”