The Cowboy Way. Maisey Yates
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Matt returned the handshake—and the solemn gaze. “I don’t suppose you allow dogs to come to school,” he ventured.
Elaine smiled at Steven as she straightened, but her expression was regretful when she looked at Matt again. “Only on show-and-tell days, I’m afraid,” she said. She held out her hand to Matt, and he took it. “Let’s have a look around.”
“Where is everybody?” Matt asked, not pulling away. “There are lots of cars in the lot, but I don’t see any kids around.”
Elaine tilted her head toward a closed door, opposite her desk. Through the glass window, Steven saw several heads moving around, most of them female, but it was the sign taped beneath that caught his attention:
PARADE COMMITTEE MEETING 3:00 P.M.
HELP US WELCOME MELISSA O’BALLIVAN TO OUR GROUP!
Steven smiled.
Guided by Elaine, he and Matt toured the day camp, checked out the mini-gym, the art room, the music room and the colorfully decorated classrooms.
The place was kid-heaven, and Steven was impressed, though part of his mind didn’t make the journey but stayed right there in front of that door with the sign on it, coming up with all kinds of ways to welcome Melissa O’Ballivan—to all kinds of places.
Like his bed, for instance.
It was an inappropriate train of thought, for sure, but there you go.
He was an adoptive father, settling his young son into a new community, introducing him to a new school.
He was also a man, one who’d been alone too long.
And Melissa was definitely a woman.
By the time they’d gone full circle, Elaine wanted to meet Zeke in person, so to speak, since he must be a pretty magnificent dog, given the way Matt sang his praises.
Elaine raised an eyebrow at Steven, who was lingering outside the community-room door. “Would that be all right?”
Steven nodded, handed her the keys to his truck, so she could open the door and meet Zeke face-to-face.
Matt, holding Elaine’s hand as he led the way outside, didn’t even look back at Steven. He was busy chattering on about life as he knew it. As they disappeared through the front doors, Matt was explaining how their barn had fallen down and there were rusty nails in it, and that it would mean a “titanic” shot if he stepped on one. As soon as the barn was fixed, he was saying, when the doors started to close behind him and Elaine, he was going to have his very own pony to ride.
Steven waited until the woman and the boy had vanished. Then he drew a deep breath, pushed open the door with the sign taped to it and walked into the community room.
Melissa was up front, clad in linen slacks and a matching top, her hair twisted and then clamped into a knot on top of her head with one of those plastic squeeze combs. She wore almost no makeup, but her toenails, peeking out of her simple sandals, were painted hot pink.
It was harder to think of her as the county prosecutor when she looked like that, so he silently reminded himself that there was surely another side to the lady. She might appear soft and sexy, but in court, pushing for a guilty verdict, she’d be ruthless and barracuda-tough.
Like Cindy.
Noticing Steven, Melissa widened her eyes for a moment, then turned her attention back to the people filling the rows of folding chairs, studiously ignoring him.
Steven took a seat in the back, watching her, struggling against a strange and not entirely unpleasant sensation that he was being reeled in, like a fish at the end of a line.
Mentally, he dug in his heels. But the truth was that even from that distance, he could see the pulse pounding at the hollow of her throat. He wanted—hell, needed—to kiss her there.
And a few other places.
This is crazy, he told himself, and shifted in the chair, but that didn’t help much.
He folded his hands loosely in his lap, as a camouflage maneuver, and listened to Ms. O’Ballivan as earnestly as if she’d been conducting a White House press conference.
“I’m counting on all of you to follow through with your original plans,” Melissa said, in the process of bringing the gathering to a close, it would seem. “We have less than a month until Rodeo Days start, but after reviewing all your presentations, I think we have a handle on the situation. Questions?”
A plump woman near the front raised a hand.
“Yes, Bea?” Melissa responded pleasantly.
“I’d just like to remind everyone about the rule we instituted last year, concerning the use of toilet tissue in place of crepe-paper streamers on some of the more—creative floats.” Bea stood and made a slow half turn, sweeping the spectators up in one ominous glance. “Toilet tissue is in very bad taste and it has been banned in favor of good old-fashioned crepe paper.”
No one argued the point, but when Bea faced front and sat down, there were a few subtle raspberries from the crowd.
Seeing the expression on Melissa’s face, Steven wanted to laugh out loud.
Talk about somebody who didn’t want to be where she was.
He raised his hand.
“Mr. Creed?” Melissa acknowledged, blushing slightly.
“Steven,” he corrected. “Are you still looking for volunteers?”
ARE YOU STILL looking for volunteers?
Melissa narrowed her eyes at Steven Creed for a moment, wondering what the heck he was up to. Wondering what he was even doing at the Parade Committee meeting in the first place.
Okay, sure, he was new in town, and he’d said something in her office the day before about helping out. Joining groups was a good way of getting acquainted with the locals, and all that, but, still. Could he really be all that concerned about whether or not toilet paper could be used to bedeck floats in the Fourth of July parade?
“I guess,” she said, well aware that her tone was lackluster.
A low, speculative murmur moved through the crowd.
Stone Creek liked to think of itself as a friendly place, extending a ready welcome to newcomers, and it was.
Mostly.
Steven Creed merely grinned, probably enjoying Melissa’s discomfort, though only in the kindest possible way, of course.
And he waited for the proverbial ball to bounce back into his court.
Melissa worked up a smile. “Sure,” she said. “We can always use another volunteer—can’t we, people?”
Everybody clapped.
“Okay,” Melissa went on, wobbly-smiled, ready to bring this thing in for a landing so she could go home, weed her tomato plants, dine on canned soup or something equally easy to prepare and curl up in the corner of her couch to read. “Remember—we’re doing a walk-through next Saturday afternoon, in the parking lot behind the high school. Nobody bring an actual float, though. We’ll be tweaking the marching order, that’s all.”
There were nods and comments, but the meeting was finally over.
Melissa collected her purse and her clipboard, hanging back while the dozen or so parade participants and general committee members meandered out.
Steven Creed didn’t leave with them.
He stood near the door now, watching her, his arms folded, a twinkle in those summer-blue eyes.
Hoping he’d just