Reclaiming the Cowboy. Kathleen O'Brien
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Edna turned, Bonnie called out impulsively. “What’s the weather report, do you know? Are they calling for any snow this week?”
Edna shrugged. “Don’t think so. But you know March. At least if you’re from around here, you do.”
Her curious eyes invited Bonnie to share, but no amount of tired could ever make Bonnie be that foolish.
“Good,” Bonnie said. She wondered how crazy Edna would think her if she knew she was worrying about those vulnerable forsythia and crocus across the street. “I hate driving in the snow.”
Edna laughed and, giving up, moved on. Bonnie transferred her gaze back to the window. She’d hoped to get farther away before she hunkered down to serve her remaining days. Ohio, maybe. Or, even better, New England. Every mile was safety, another layer of protection.
But Colorado Springs was a decent-size town. Sacramento was already eighteen hours behind her, and even if Jacob was looking for her, he couldn’t be sure which direction she’d headed.
She stopped herself. If he was looking for her? There was no “if” about it. Her mother’s death had lit the fuse. The end would come, one way or another, in thirty days. Jacob knew that just as well as she did.
But maybe sprinting to the other edge of the map was the chess move he expected her to make and paradoxically would be the least secure.
Oh, God. She rubbed her face hard with both hands, unable to bear the twisted, looping logic. For two years, she’d second-guessed every decision this way.
She couldn’t think straight anymore. Her brain was dazed, as if the pain of the past few days were the equivalent of blunt force trauma.
She folded her place-mat calendar into a neat rectangle small enough to fit in her purse. Picking up her check, she slid her chair back and headed for the register. As she paid—cash, of course—she kept her eyes on the landscape boulders and evergreens in the Eden across the street.
Someone opened the door, and she heard a wind chime blow in the breeze, its notes wafting easily across the clean, crisp air. The sound reminded her piercingly of Bell River—though she couldn’t quite say why.
But suddenly she had her answer. She was tired of running. Every mile took her farther from Mitch. Whether he wanted her or not, he would always be the fixed foot of her life’s compass. Everywhere she went, forevermore, she would measure it in terms of how far it was from Mitch.
This was far enough. Any farther and she might not be able to breathe. If she could get a job, she’d stay.
“YOU’RE JOKING.” Mitch stared down at the dense paragraphs of legal mumbo jumbo, knowing he should be trying to read the document he held but unable to register anything except the ludicrously large number. It was such a big number it seemed to pulse and glow slightly on the page.
“You’re trying to tell me somebody already wants to buy and make the stupid thing? And they want to pay...”
He couldn’t even say the number out loud. This absolutely had to be a joke. He wasn’t an inventor or an overnight success story. He was the younger Garwood boy. The party boy. The goof. The one who had resisted growing up so long his big brother, Dallas, secretly feared he never would.
Surely this was a prank. If he fell for it, Dallas would jump out from behind the door and die laughing.
But Indiana Dunchik, Mitch’s well-respected patent lawyer—also known as Ana, though not to Mitch—hadn’t cracked a smile. She was a gorgeous blonde he’d hired because she worked out of Grand Junction, not Silverdell. Therefore, she was less likely to think it was by definition preposterous that Mitch Garwood, screwup extraordinaire, might’ve invented something worthwhile.
Okay, that, and she was a gorgeous blonde.
Obviously, he hadn’t hired her for her sense of humor. She seemed bewildered that he was chuckling.
“Of course it’s not a jest, Mr. Garwood. Nor is it, in my opinion, a stupid thing.” She laid her slim pink-tipped fingers flat on her desk. “We’ve spent months getting these patents because we believed your jacket was a marketable and useful product. I’m not surprised we have an offer. In fact, I’ll be surprised if this is the only offer we receive.”
Ordinarily, he disliked the royal “we,” but the truth was, this patent-application process had been such a drawn-out bore, and Ms. Dunchik had wrestled with so many searches, claims, actions and appeals, that he knew full well it had been a joint effort. In fact, she’d had the more difficult half, because when he’d designed the Garwood Chore Jacket he’d mostly been—what else?—screwing around and having fun.
It had all started almost two years ago, when he’d said, “These coats should come with a cheat sheet for the feed formulas. And somewhere to put my phone that I can actually reach it.”
Dallas had rolled his eyes—Mitch was always trying to find a way to do less work. His last “invention” had been a gravity feeder to eliminate all those trips from the loft with buckets. Dallas had laughed at that, too, but it worked.
However, Alec, Mitch’s nephew, had agreed about the jacket wholeheartedly. “We need somewhere to put Tootsie Rolls, too,” he’d added with feeling.
That really got everyone laughing. Bell River Ranch was a family venture—and not even Mitch’s family, except by marriage. Dallas had married Rowena Wright, the oldest of the Wright sisters, who had inherited the gorgeous spread and decided to turn it into a dude ranch.
So everyone assumed that Mitch was just hanging on, working with the horses, his first love, while he decided what to do when he grew up. But, later, Mitch kept thinking about the jacket. He had another idea, for a more comfortable back vent. And then some thoughts about a better, warmer lining.
Still, he’d just been fooling around—as evidenced by the fact that Alec, a ten-year-old, was his only cheerleader.
Well, Alec and Bonnie.
Reflexively, Mitch thought about how thrilled Bonnie would be to hear that he’d actually followed through and applied for the patent.
And now this offer. She’d squeal and leap into his arms and say “I told you so” a thousand times, between kisses. She’d always insisted his ideas were genius, and, though he knew she was blowing sunshine, it would be pretty nice to tell someone who wouldn’t be insultingly shocked.
But then he remembered. He wouldn’t be telling Bonnie anything anymore. Two weeks ago, he’d put paid to that possibility, once and for all. Even if she ever stopped running, she wouldn’t come back to him.
He glanced down at the contract again, and the number no longer glowed. It didn’t represent freedom or validation or kisses in the romantic places he’d promised to take her someday, places like Ireland or Spain. It was just money. And Mitch hadn’t ever really cared much about money.
He glanced at the woman behind the desk. “So what do we do now?”
The lawyer tightened her lips, which Mitch had learned was her thinking face. “In my opinion, we should wait. Of course, if you would like to have the cash in hand sooner, we can have our contracts department look this over and make recommendations. But...unless you need capitalization now...I think waiting will be fruitful.”
Fruitful. He almost smiled, thinking of his preacher father, a fire-and-brimstone bastard, and how often the old man had reminded Mitch and Dallas that the line about being fruitful and multiplying wasn’t a mandate to go around making babies all over Silverdell. The brothers had wasted an absurd amount of time creating other comic interpretations of the quote.
Suck lemons in math class, my son. Stuff like that. Mitch had thought it was hilarious. No wonder his father had always warned him he’d never amount to anything.
For