The Last Real Cowboy. DONNA ALWARD
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lifted her chin. “Do you?”
A magpie chattered, breaking the angry silence. “From the look of the house, it needs more than a slap of paint. It needs a demolition order. You’ll never get it fixed by Saturday.” Sam adjusted the reins as his horse danced, impatient at being forced to stand.
Angela got close enough that she had to tilt her head to look up at Sam. She wanted him to see what was at stake. It wasn’t enough for him to sit atop his ivory tower of privilege—or his trusty steed—and bestow his beneficence. It was too easy. And the women she wanted to help hadn’t had it easy. Their lives couldn’t be fixed by a blank check.
“I have to. The house has been neglected, that’s all. It just needs some TLC.”
“Ms. Beck.” He sighed, looking down at her from beneath his hat. “Do you want me to do everything for you?”
She felt her cheeks heat. “Of course not. But, for example, I was going to look after the painting and minor renovations while your mother lent a hand with some of the aesthetic needs—like window fashions, linens. On Saturday she was not only going to represent your family to the community and press, but she was in charge of all the refreshments. That’s all fallen to me now. I do need to sleep sometime, Sam. And then there’s the issue of what to say to people on Saturday when they ask about our biggest sponsor and their conspicuous absence.”
“You tell them we’re busy running a ranch. You tell them we’re occupied with adding a new green facility to our operation. Or that we’re busy employing a number of the town residents. All true, by the way.”
“Have you heard of volunteering, Mr. Diamond?”
His dark eyes widened as his brows went up. “I beg your pardon?”
“Volunteering—offering one’s time with no expectation of reimbursement.”
“I know what volunteering is,” he replied, impatience saturating each word.
“Millions of people volunteer every day and still manage to work their day jobs. Most of them also have families of their own—and you don’t have a wife or children that I can see. You can spare Butterfly House the cash, but can you spare it the time?”
Angela swallowed, took a breath, and stepped forward, grabbing the reins of his horse with far more confidence than she felt. She stood in front of the stallion’s withers, her body only inches away from Sam’s denim-clad leg as it lengthened into the stirrup. “What are you so afraid of, Sam?”
He slid out of the saddle and snatched the reins from her hands, his movements impatient. “You can save the holier-than-thou routine. I’ve made up my mind.”
She could sense success slipping away from her and frustration bubbled. “You go to great lengths to avoid personal involvement. Why is that? Maybe it’s true what they say about you.”
“And what’s that?” He stood before her, all long legs and broad chest. She felt incredibly small and awkward next to his physicality, dumpy in her overalls next to his worn jeans and cotton shirt that seemed to hug his shoulders and chest. She felt a little bit awed, too, and it irritated her that she should be so susceptible to that because, despite the fact he was a pain in the behind, Sam Diamond was also drop-dead sexy. The sad thing was she was nearly thirty years old and had no idea what to do with these feelings. She’d gotten very good at presenting a certain image, but inside she knew the truth. She had no idea how to be close to anyone.
“Never mind.” She turned away, hating that he was able to provoke her without even trying.
He reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Not so fast. I think you’d better tell me.”
Her heart seemed to freeze as her breath caught for one horrible, chilling moment. Then, very carefully and deliberately, she reached down and removed his fingers from her wrist and stepped back. She wasn’t sure which emotion was taking over at the moment—anger or fear. But either one was enough to make the words that had been sitting on her tongue come out in a rush.
“That you’re a cold-hearted …” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word. She kept her gaze glued to his face for several seconds.
Finally the hard angle of his jaw bone softened a touch and he said quietly, “Where’d you hear that? Let me guess, Amy Wilson?”
She had, and her lack of response confirmed it.
“You shouldn’t judge someone by what you hear.”
“I don’t.” At his skeptical expression, she sniffed. “I don’t,” she insisted. “I form my own opinions. I deal with people all the time, you know. And I judge people by what I see them do.” And right now he wasn’t scoring many points. Her wrist still smarted from the strength of his fingers circling the soft flesh. She touched the spot with her fingers.
His gaze caught the movement and then lifted to meet hers. There was contrition there, she realized. He hadn’t really hurt her; he’d merely reached out to keep her from running away. It was her reaction that was out of proportion and she suspected they both knew it. Awkward silence stretched out as heat rose once again in her cheeks.
“And so you’ve judged me.” The horse got tired of standing and jerked his head, pulling on the reins. Sam tightened his grip, uttered a few soothing words as he gave the glistening neck a pat. “I suppose you won’t believe me if I say I’m sorry about that.” He nodded at her clasped hands.
It was a backward apology, and did nothing to change the situation. That was what she had to remember. “Sam, you give from your pocketbook if it means you don’t have to get involved. I just haven’t figured out why. Is the ugliness of real life too much for you?” She kissed her last hope of success goodbye, knowing she was crossing a line but needing to say it anyway. How many times over the years had people turned a blind eye to someone in trouble? How many people had avoided the nasty side of life because it made them uncomfortable? How many people had known what was happening in front of their faces and hadn’t had the courage to make the call? Angela’s life might have been very different. It was the only thing that kept her moving forward in spite of her own fears.
“That’s ridiculous.” He turned his back and started leading his horse across the barnyard.
“Then prove it. Try giving of yourself.” She went after him, desperately wanting to get through. “These women have been through it all, Sam. They’ve been beaten, degraded, raped …” She swallowed. “By the men who professed to love them. Despite it all, they got out. They sought help, often leaving everything they owned behind. This house will help bridge the gap between overcoming an old life and building a new, shiny one. What in your life is more important than that?”
He didn’t answer. But she sensed he was weakening, and she softened her voice. “All I’m asking for is a few hours here and there. You have a gorgeous house, food on the table, a purpose. I just want to give these women the same chance. If you show the people of Cadence Creek that you support these women, doors will open. They’ll have a chance to be a part of something. People look to you to lead. Lead now, Sam. For something really important.”
She took a step back, uncomfortable with how impassioned her voice had become. For a few seconds there was nothing but the sounds of the wind in the grass and the songbirds in the bushes.
“You realize how busy this ranch is, right? And that I’m going it alone now that Dad’s sick?”
“But you have a foreman, and hands. Surely they can spare you for a few hours?”
“You’re forgetting one important detail.”
“I am?”
“If I help you, we’re going to be seeing more of each other.” He made it sound like a prison sentence. “And I don’t mean to be rude, but we’re kind of like oil and water.”
She felt her vanity take a hit before locking it away. Her personal feelings weren’t important here. It shouldn’t matter if Sam