The Cowboy's Texas Rose (The Dixons of Legacy Ranch 1)

“You don’t like it anymore? I thought you had some ‘moves.’”

“I used to love dancing, but I haven’t been out in years, since Sage—” She cut herself off, mortified. This was the second time in a day she was getting heavy about her past, when normally she lived life with a smile, keeping her blinders aimed at the future. But Toby was making her think about everything that hurt. That needed to stop. She felt him pause beside her, and she smiled. “I love dancing. I’m just out of practice. When you teach, grade, research, cook, clean, raise a kid, wash, rinse, repeat, you kind of…” She trailed off pensively. “Life is different than I thought it would be, but it’s still good.”

He turned his attention to paper-clipping and stacking, and started tapping his foot again, then muttered under his breath. “Sounds kind of lonely to me.”

“It is what it is. It could be worse.” She punched the stapler.

“Having a kid don’t mean you’re dead inside,” he pressed. “Don’t you matter, too?”

Why was he prying beneath the surface? She hit the stapler again, handing him another packet. “What else can I do?”

“And I’m hungry like the wolf…”

He grabbed her hands and swiveled her to face him, moving side to side to the music. “You can start by doing that cute thing with your tail that you were doing when you thought you were alone.”

She laughed and closed her eyes. “I can’t.”

His grip tightened, sending sparks shooting up her arms that made awareness zing through her belly.

“Sure you can. Your boy’s in good hands—you’ve got a break. You’re really going to waste three weeks stapling packets alone in your camper? With a sweet tea? Party animal.”

A chuckle swelled in her throat as he sang the pop lyrics to her, his Stetson lopsided and that dimpled smile creasing his face. The words, when sung in his twangy, baritone voice, were almost comical. He probably liked to crank modern country. Yet he was ever so slightly grooving along to the rhythm, the pulse of the music and his carefree spirt infectious. She tapped her toe.

“That’s it, Doctor R,” he encouraged, turning back to his paper-clipping. He bumped her shoulder with his arm, this time deliberately.

She glanced sidelong. He was grinning as he clipped the papers, the casual comfort of the moment taking root and giving her another inch to let loose. She sang the lyrics under her breath, dipping a little more noticeably to the music, humored by the thought of this man, country born and bred, singing ’80s pop in her kitchenette in a Stetson and shit-kickers. The papers were done shortly afterward, and as she handed him the final stapled packet, he snagged her hand, hit Pause on her phone screen, and tugged her out the door and down the steps.

“Where are we going?”

His Bronco was still running, the driver door open and the headlights blazing onto the dormant fire pit. He’d probably gotten out thinking he’d only be a minute while he checked on her.

“Are you taking me up to the movie?” she asked. “Hang on, let me grab my keys and a sweatshirt—”

“Naw, baby, we’re gonna tear up some dirt.”

“What?” Her feet halted mid-step.

“You got any beer?” he asked.

She folded her arms and popped her hip, frowning like a schoolmarm. “Two and a half words: university-sponsored trip. No alcohol. I’ve got herbal tea, green tea, and sweet tea. But I can’t—”

“No matter.” He smiled, leaned into his driver door, and turned up his music, drowning out her protest. “Let’s get you back into practice!”