Not Just a Cowboy

“Doesn’t trust us to put up a tent,” Murphy grumbled.

Patricia was a perfectionist, Luke supposed, a usually negative personality trait, but if she wanted a job done just right, it seemed to him she had good reason for it. When she’d told him rain was in the forecast, she hadn’t needed to say anything else. A tent that sagged could hold water and then collapse, injuring those it was supposed to shelter. Luke understood that kind of perfectionism.

He stepped closer to her. “Just take care of your other business. Don’t worry about this shelter. That roof will be stretched as tight as a drum. I’ll check all the guy lines before we go.”

She looked at him, perhaps a bit surprised.

“In other words,” he said, “I’ll fix Murphy’s knots.”

She almost smiled. Luke decided it counted as a smile, because it started at her eyes, the corners crinkling at their shared joke, even if it didn’t quite reach her perfect, passive lips.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and she started to walk away.

“I know it’s been more than twenty minutes,” Luke called after her, “but you could still eat dinner with me.”

She kept walking, but tossed him a look over her shoulder that included—hallelujah—a full smile, complete with a flash of her pearly whites. “A deal is a deal. No welching, no cheating, no changing the terms.”

Zach interrupted Luke’s appreciation of the view as Patricia walked away. “Hey, Romeo. It’s not getting any cooler out here. How about we finish this up?”

Luke peeled his shirt off to appreciative cheers from the almost entirely female crowd that had gathered, then spread it on the ground to dry. Without cell phones, TVs or radios, Luke supposed he and Zach and Murphy were the best entertainment around.

For all his talk about hurrying, Zach was going all out for the onlookers, striking body-builder poses and hamming it up for the ladies for the next quarter hour as they finished the job.

Luke double-checked the last line, then bent to swipe his shirt off the ground. The sun had dried it completely. He stuck his fists through the sleeves, then raised his arms overhead to pull the shirt on. Some sixth sense made him look a little distance away. Patricia was leaning against a tree, eyes on him, watching him dress, not even trying to pretend she was looking at anything else.

She was caught in the act, but long, gratifying seconds ticked by before she realized it. She was so busy looking at his abs and his chest, she didn’t realize he was looking back until her eyes traveled up to his face.

Bam. Busted.

She ducked her head and stuck her nose in her clipboard instantly, as if the papers there had become absolutely fascinating.

Luke pulled on his shirt, tucked it into his waistband, picked up his sledgehammer and walked toward Patricia, who was conveniently standing in the path he needed to take to get back to the fire engine. Her paperwork was so incredibly absorbing, she apparently didn’t notice that a two-hundred pound man had come close enough to practically whisper in her ear.

“That’s all right, darlin’,” Luke said, giving her a casual pat on the arm as he continued past her. “I enjoy looking at you, too.”

* * *

Patricia could not look up from her clipboard. She was simply incapable of it. A coward of the first degree, humiliated by her own weakness. She was so grateful she could have wept when Luke kept walking after telling her it was all right.

It wasn’t all right.

He’d caught her looking. Caught her, and loved it, no doubt, as much as he’d undoubtedly loved that crowd of women feasting their eyes on him with his shirt off. Was every man on earth a show-off, so eager to be adored that they had to flash their cash or their fame or their looks—whatever they had that foolish women might want?

She forced herself to look up from the clipboard. The other two firemen had their shirts on now, too. Their little audience had dispersed and the men were headed her way, following Luke. She smiled thinly at them and said her thanks as they passed her.

Every man in her world certainly was after as much female attention as he could get, even her father, who’d long ago let himself go to flab once he’d realized his money would keep women hanging around. He wore tacky jewelry encrusted with diamonds as he drove a classic Cadillac convertible with a set of longhorns, actual longhorns, attached to the front. The sweet young things of Austin fell all over themselves to hitch a ride around town in that infamous Cadillac. It was revolting.

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