Crockett's Seduction (11 page)

“W
AKE UP, SLEEPYHEADS
,” Valentine said. She put orange juice, pancakes and fruit on the table. “Anybody hungry?”

Annette hopped out of Crockett’s lap and went to the table. Valentine smiled at her daughter’s tousled head. Crockett followed her, his gaze showing his appreciation of the breakfast. “Mmm,” he said. He kissed her temple, and Valentine shivered.

“Actually, you’re my fave food, but I couldn’t say that in front of spud,” he whispered in her ear. “I like being your house husband.”

“You make it sound like sex slave,” she whispered back.

“House husband, sex slave—it’s all the same to me.”

She paused. She liked this new easiness between them, but she needed to know where they stood. She’d realized yesterday she couldn’t afford to be flighty in her relationships. “Crockett, do you remember proposing to me?”

“Yeah, I remember,” he said sheepishly, as if he hadn’t wanted her to bring it up just yet. “Now, we don’t have to call that a
proposal,
if you’re going to get all huffy on me. We can call it an agreement offer, if you like.”

“Agreement offer?” The man was a nut, she decided, and it wasn’t all drugs.

“Yeah.” He smiled at her. “Marriage is hardly a novel idea. It’s a contract between two parties who each need something, and who stand to benefit from—”

“Crockett, I am not hurting financially,” she said. “I am not pining for you or any other man. I’m doing fine on my own.”

He nodded. “I’m very proud of you.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Just for the record, you do remember my
No, thank you?
”

He glanced up at her. “I didn’t think you were serious about that. I was thinking the offer was still on the table. I wouldn’t have come here otherwise.”

“You seemed pretty out of your head when you asked,” she said, ignoring the fact that she really liked the look of him sitting at her table across from her happy child. “I rejected your offer outright, the second time you called.”

He looked puzzled, and she took a deep breath. “When you called the second time. I said that I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man—”

“Oh. I see,” Crockett said. He rose awkwardly, balancing himself on his crutch.

“You see what?”

He shrugged. “I only called you once.”

“If you remember proposing, you must remember the rejection,” Valentine said.

“No, I don’t,” he said, hopping to the door, “because I didn’t make that second call. Last must have called after I did. He received your rejection. Maybe that’s why he left. I don’t know. What I do know is how you really feel about marrying me.”

Valentine blinked. “Last never asked me to marry him, so he knows he wasn’t being rejected.”

Crockett opened the door. “But he knows you rejected my proposal. My guess is he thinks he’s standing in my way. We brothers tend to be very careful about stepping in each other’s business.”

“You
thrive
on getting into each other’s business,” Valentine said.

“But not where women we care about are concerned. So he left. However, apparently, I am the one in the way. You wouldn’t marry me if I was the last man in the world?”

“Crockett, wait,” Valentine said, but he headed out the door.

“I get it,” he said. “Now I get the
whole
picture.”

She watched as he crutched off toward the main house. Annette stood beside her, looking up, wondering why Crockett was leaving. Valentine
sighed. “Uncle Crockett is fussy because his leg hurts, sweetie.”

But Valentine knew the real reason Crockett left. She’d only been trying to clear the air between them and start fresh, but she had hurt his feelings and his pride, and as she saw him in the distance, she wished she could have him back again.

Nearly fourteen days later, on the day before the belated Father’s Day picnic, Crockett found himself still in a wounds-licking mood. His leg was itchy, though not sore. He was, in a word, bored.

Valentine’s outright rejection of any commitment where he was concerned had hurt him deeply. Why had she made love with him? How was a man supposed to react when a woman gave her body but not her trust?

He had been convinced that she would want to be with him…once she knew the magic of their shared togetherness.

Valentine stayed far away from their house.

He didn’t go to the bakery. Or her house.

He was feeling very disconnected.

The only way he knew to solve that problem was to face his other issue: artistic creation. If Last
could run away—blast him—then certainly Crockett could hide out, too.

“Hi,” Minnie said, appearing at his elbow as he sat in the barn pondering his boredom.

“Hi,” Kenny said. “Are you thinking, Uncle Crockett?”

“Or are you daydreaming?” Minnie asked. “Sometimes Grandpa Barley daydreams with his eyes open. Mom says he’s taking a nap, but Grandpa doesn’t like for her to call it that.”

Crockett could well imagine. “I need a couple of things from you two,” he said. “This is a top secret mission.”

“Cool,” Minnie said. “We’re very good at secrets.”

He knew they weren’t, but it wasn’t as though anybody really cared about his life, he thought, engaging in a moment of self-pity. “You remember when you found my painting?”

They nodded.

“Can you bring me my canvas and my paints without telling Mason or Helga or Calhoun or anybody else that I’m setting up my studio out here?”

Minnie looked around. “With the horses?”

“It’s quiet, and I can’t get up the stairs right now, you know.”

She grinned. “Not as easily as we can.”

“Precisely. That’s why I need you two agile children to get my canvas out here without dropping it down the stairs.” He frowned, rethinking his plan.

“I can do it,” Valentine said, walking into the barn.

“Uh-oh,” Minnie said. “You blew your own secret, Uncle Crockett.”

Crockett squelched the happiness he felt at seeing her and told himself she was the reason he was returning to the ol’ paintbox.

“I brought cookies,” Valentine said.

“Yay!” Minnie and Kenny peered into her basket. “Oh, this one has a broken leg,” Minnie said. “It must be yours, Uncle Crockett.”

She handed the cookie to him. He took it reluctantly after glancing Valentine’s way. She had baked a gingerbread man, with a frosting cast! He gave her a sour look. “No heart on this one.”

“I gave up hearts,” Valentine said. “They didn’t stay on very well.”

“Hmm.” Was she trying to tell him something? Whatever it was, he didn’t care, even if she did bake wonderful cookies. Eating his, he gave her a studied look. She was adorable as always, in a white skirt and a strapless top. Very summery, very cool. Very edible. “Where’s spud?”

“With Mimi. She said it was her turn to babysit.”

“Ah.”

“Have you heard from your brother?” she asked, making certain that Minnie and Kenny both received cookies from the basket.

“All I know is that he talked Hawk into picking him up from the hospital—that’s how he escaped. Since Hawk didn’t find much on his second Maverick-hunting trip, he was probably looking for a way to help. It should have occurred to me that Last would call Hawk, since he needed someone with some medical knowledge, banged up as he was.”

“We’re going to go get your canvas now,” Minnie said.

“Never mind,” Crockett said, not wanting Valentine to be involved in the setup of his new studio. “I’ve lost the urge to be creative.”

“All right. We’ll see you later, then. Thanks for the cookies, Aunt Valentine!”

The kids left, running happily across the fields. Crockett wished they’d stayed to protect him from Valentine.

“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings,” Valentine said. “You guys act all rough and ready on the outside, but inside you’re mushy cream fillings. I forgot that.”

“Not true. I’m tough as a rock.”

Valentine walked over and gave him a kiss that stole his breath. “Wow,” he said, “what was that for?”

“I’m sorry I’m not the woman for you,” she said. “It doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re a wonderful man. But what I want and what you want are two different things.”

“What do you want?”

“To be loved,” she said simply. And then she walked out of the barn.

He stared after her, his jaw slack. “What the hell was that?” She wanted to be loved? Love was a very big leap. He’d wanted to go more slowly, action and then emotion. Truthfully, he was confused.

“Hey,” Mason said, walking into the barn. “How’s the leg?”

“Is this Grand Central Station and someone forgot to hang the sign?” Crockett snapped.

“Cool your tail, rattler,” Mason said mildly. “It was just a simple question.”

“I know.” But he had his mind on Valentine, and there was nothing simple about her.

“Last will be home tomorrow,” Mason said. “He just called. Said he wanted to be here for Valentine’s Father’s Day picnic.”

“How nice.”

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

Crockett glared. “Did you become a shrink and didn’t tell me?”

“Wow,” Mason said. “I must have missed the early-afternoon horror show, Frankie.”

“Frankie?” He cocked a brow at his brother.

“Frankenstein?” Mason said sardonically.

“Oh. Whatever.”

“You’ve been quite a jackass ever since Bloodthirsty stomped you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. And it’s getting on my nerves.”

“I seem to be getting on everyone’s nerves.”

“Well, try not to tomorrow. Valentine has put a lot of effort into this for Last’s sake.”

Crockett frowned. “I’m partially a father.”

Mason laughed as he bent to toss some hay over a stall. “I don’t think so. You’re maintaining favored uncle status, barely. At the rate you’re going, your status will soon be lowered.”

Crockett sat, smoldering. He could have been elevated, if Valentine hadn’t rejected him. Her parting shot didn’t sit well with him.

“I thought I saw Valentine crossing the lawn,” Mason said.

“She brought me a cookie with a broken leg,” Crockett said.

“She’s such a nice girl,” Mason said. “I heard Widow Fancy’s grandson wants to go out with her. He mentioned it to Lily at the Union Junction Salon.”

Crockett blinked at the instant
whoosh!
inside his skull. He pressed on his head, willing it to stay in one piece, but it sure felt as if part of it had popped off. Never had he thought Valentine might date someone other than him or Last! He or Last was fine—well, not Last. But definitely not someone outside of the family!

“What a mess that would be,” Crockett said, more gloomy than ever.

“I think you’re right. Last probably wouldn’t like it a bit.”

“Well, then Last better get his troublemaking tail home and defend his territory,” Crockett said. “Everything was going along just fine until he decided to prove his manhood on Bloodthirsty. That is when this whole matter began to seriously deteriorate.”

Mason glanced at him. “You sound rather disturbed.”

“I am!”

“Because of Last, or because of Valentine?”

“I don’t know. How’s that for an answer? Both, and maybe neither.”

“Whew. You do have your britches in a twist.”

Crockett grunted. “Identical to yours. You know, Mason, you might have a little sympathy. Your britches were twisted long before any of us wore long jeans, and they’re still twisted. Don’t act like you have all the answers.”

Before Mason could answer Crockett stumped off, wheeling his crutch in a righteous snit. If he could get through the picnic without blowing his cool, he’d be as proud of himself as when he’d ridden Bloodthirsty to the bell.

V
ALENTINE WAS SITTING
in the kitchen at the main ranch house with Helga when Crockett slammed the front door, startling both the women.

“Tsk,” Helga said.

“Sorry,” Crockett said. “You’re still here,” he said to Valentine.

“Yes. We’re having woman-chat.”

“Glad it’s not catching,” he said.

Valentine frowned. “You’re safe.”

He hovered in the doorway, apparently not sure if he should interrupt.

“I’ve been looking at this woman you sculpted,” she said, hoping to keep him there a moment longer.

“Yeah?”

“I think she’s beautiful.”

He hesitated. “I think she’s beautiful, too.”

“Are you going to do any more?” Valentine allowed her gaze to roam over his stiffly set shoulders.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “One’s best efforts come from the most difficult things one faces. That wasn’t difficult. Painting is.”

She set the curved feminine sculpture down. “It’s too bad. I think you have a calling for nudes.”

“Probably. I like them very much.”

“All men love nudes. But this one,” she said, picking up the sculpture again, “seems like she had a lot of love and thought lavished on her.”

He shrugged. “I’m that kind of man. Good to my girls.” Then he stomped away.

Trying not to watch him leave, she stood, picking up her now-empty basket. Giving Helga a hug, she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you for helping me with the picnic.”

Helga nodded, her smile happy.

Valentine walked to her car, and before she could get in, Crockett was at her side.

“I just have one question,” he said.

“Yes?” Valentine looked up, admiring the glint in his eyes and the mahogany of his sun-touched hair.

“Why are you having a special Father’s Day picnic for Last? More than a month after the holiday.”

“Because,” Valentine said, opening her truck door. “He is Annette’s father, and she loves him, and I want her to grow up knowing how to love and respect her father. It’s not just for Last—it’s for Barley and the sheriff and all the fathers in the family who can be here.” She looked up at him. “Being a father should be celebrated.”

“But see, therein lies my issue.”

His hand crept up the back of her neck, and Valentine froze, her heart beating faster, her body softening in all the right places. Her emotional resolve melted away. “Issue?”

“I’m not a father.”

“Well—” Valentine didn’t really know what to say to that. “Did you want to be one?”

“Not last year.”

She didn’t know what to make of his soft words so she retreated to familiar territory. “Are you jealous of Last?”

He shook his head, squeezing the back of her neck. It felt so good to have him touch her.

“I am not jealous of my brother in any way.”

Suddenly worried, she said, “You are going to be at the picnic tomorrow?”

“You wouldn’t go out with Widow Fancy’s grandson?” he asked, surprising her.

“No. Why do you ask such a thing?”

“It’s just gossip I heard.”

Valentine shook her head. “I own a business. I raise a child, now mainly alone because your brother thinks if he’s out of the way you’ll romance me.”

He didn’t say anything.

She sighed. “I don’t have time for dating. So I don’t know why anybody would be gossiping. Not that it’s any of your business.”

He kissed her, and Valentine melted against him, grateful that they weren’t speaking anymore. It was much better, and easier, to touch him and hold him, rather than try to figure things out.

To her surprise, he pulled away. She looked at him.

“You are the statue,” he said, then he walked away.