One Hot Cowboy by Anne Marsh

to chat.
    After their last call, she’d added windows
    upstairs for Auntie Dee to look out at the
    ranch land where she’d grown up, and
    even more downstairs because Rose had
    had a sneaking suspicion that the stairs
    were finally becoming too much for Auntie
    Dee.
    The heart attack had been quick.
    Auntie Dee hadn’t had to leave the home
    she loved for too long. By the time Rose
    had got the message and understood there
    weren’t going to be any more phone calls
    ever again, Auntie Dee had been gone.
    “So, are you going to tell me?” Beside
    her, Cabe rested a booted foot on the
    bottom rail of the porch. He’d picked the
    sturdiest rail of the lot and probably the
    only one not likely to break from his
    weight. Most of the boards were rotted
    clear through.
    “Tell you what?”
    “Why you’re so sure you want to hang
    on to this place?” He nodded toward the
    sagging porch step she sat on and the
    drawings. “What your plans are?”
    “It’s just about a tear-down, isn’t it?”
    she asked, her voice rueful.
    “Yeah,” he drawled. “It’s safe to say
    that. We did what we could for Auntie
    Dee, but she wouldn’t let us help much.
    None of us realized the house was this bad,
    or we would have done something, Rose. I
    promise you that,” he said fiercely.
    “I can fix it.” It wasn’t as if she didn’t
    have the time. That was one advantage of
    being laid off and jobless. Too bad all
    those years of study and work hadn’t been
    enough to save her job as an architect’s
    assistant when the economy went south.
    “Maybe.” He looked down at her, his
    gaze guarded. “This place is going to take
    a whole lot of work, Rose, and it’s going
    to take even more money. Do you have
    that?”
    “I’ll find a way,” she said. All she had
    to do was come up with it.
    To her surprise, Cabe’s hand brushed
    her shoulder. He’d been full of those
    casual little touches today: threading his
    fingers briefly through hers to tug her in a
    particular direction, his hand cupping her
    foot as he gave her a leg up to check on a
    ceiling
    fan.
    Jumping
    up,
    suddenly
    desperate to get away, she perched on the
    porch swing, hoping to God it didn’t give
    way beneath her. Cabe was driving her
    crazy, and he didn’t even know it.
    “You ever just known a place was the
    right one?”
    “Sure.”
    He
    shrugged,
    powerful
    shoulders moving beneath the faded cotton
    of his T-shirt as he took a step toward her
    and the swing. “The ranch.”
    How close would he get? He was
    already close enough now to feel the heat
    coming off him. The V-neck of his shirt
    exposed the powerful column of his throat
    and had her thinking about something
    besides home repairs.
    “So how’d you feel if someone came
    along, wanted to buy you out, Cabe?
    Would you give up that land?”
    “Hell, no. That ranch has been in my
    family for generations. You don’t sell
    something like that.”
    There was no mistaking the fierceness
    that filled his voice, stamped his face.
    Cabe’s maternal ancestors had been the
    Spanish aristocracy who’d come to
    California to start a new life and then
    mixed with the fierce, free-spirited Native
    Americans. Those men had all been
    warriors. Men who held on to what they
    had taken and fought for every inch, every
    arroyo. Cabe Dawson was a possessive
    man.
    “It’s like that for me. I don’t want to sell
    this place.”
    “It’s not the same.”
    “How, Cabe? How is this any
    different?”
    “This isn’t a ranch. This land hasn’t
    been part of your blood, part of your
    family for more than a century.”
    “This was my home.”
    “Sure, Rose,” he said wearily. “And I
    suppose the whole time you were gone,
    when you were anywhere but here, you
    just couldn’t wait to come back.”
    He had the literal truth on his side.
    She’d run, and she’d run hard. She’d made
    one mistake after another, and now there
    was no way to fix the past. Maybe she’d
    fail at this, too. Maybe, she