Free Tempting the Cowboy by Elizabeth Otto

had wondered if Livy would pop back up at some point and what she’d want if she did.
    He knew only one thing—she’d never get her fake nails on his daughter again.
    “I’ll take care of it,” Cole grumbled, grabbing the letters off the desk and walking to the door. “Birdie’s in bed. You staying inside?” he called back to Tucker.
    “I’ll keep an eye on Sleeping Beauty. You go blow off some steam.”

    Cole walked to Rylan’s room, tapping the envelopes against his palm. He struggled with the desire to ask her what they were about—knew he had no right—and wrestled with himself to just shut up when she answered the door. Another knock later, she still hadn’t answered. It was nine thirty, and he doubted she was sleeping. He cranked the handle, his heart kicking up. It was unlocked.
    “Rylan?” he called through the crack, opening the door wide when no answer came. The room was empty. The space was tidy and completely without any of the personal touches he’d expected to see. No pictures or personal effects besides an iPad on the bedside table. Whatever her past held, she hadn’t brought reminders of it with her. At least nothing she wanted anyone else to see. He set the letters on her pillow and stormed from the room, needing the space and comfort only the open air could bring him.
    Out on the deck, he was met by the lively strains of fiddle. Each night during the summer, ranch guests were invited to a nightly campfire for s’mores and socializing. Some of the ranch hands would come by and tell stories or scare the kids with ghost tales. Cole usually had nothing to do with it, but the music tonight called to him. Some of the tension inside faded as the fiddle sped up, followed by a banjo. He meandered toward the guest cabins, a vibrant orange glow welcoming him from the fire. The log benches situated around the huge fire ring were packed with guests. Long sticks held sloppy, gooey marshmallows, and the rustle of candy wrappers betrayed that chocolate was near.
    Jaxon, Zane, and Don—three of Paint River’s cowboys—stood off to one side, Jaxon and Zane with their fiddles, Don with the banjo. The trio was unofficially called the Paint River Pickers, just three men who loved to play and took every opportunity to do so. The nightly campfire had become a preferred venue.
    Cole paused mid-step when he saw Rylan. She was bustling around helping guests with their s’mores and collecting candy wrappers and trash in a little bag. Her red shirt was untucked, her hair pulled over her shoulder in a messy braid. It bothered him that she was still working when it was well past the time she should have been done for the day. He wanted to talk to her about the Birdie-kitten incident anyway. Maybe he could get her to rest a minute in the process. Her back was to him when he started her way.
    “Cole!” He glanced around for the source of his name and was surprised to see his mother sitting across the fire, her arm looped through a man’s. He tilted his head to see who she was with, recognizing Jim Gilfoyle, a longtime family friend. A famous novelist, Gilfoyle spent three months of the summer in a private cabin on the property and had been like a surrogate uncle to the Haywood boys for as long as Cole could remember. He must have arrived sometime earlier that day, and given the huge grin on his mom’s face, she was pretty glad to have her friend around. He gave his mom a nod and resumed his path, intent on getting to Rylan.
    “Play me something!” Maeve called out. No sooner had she said the words than Jaxon was next to him, thrusting a fiddle into his hands.
    The cowboy tipped his hat back and waggled his eyebrows. “Play for your mama.” Cole was tempted to give the fiddle back; he hadn’t played since before Birdie was born. There had to be thirty people sitting around the fire, but it had been a while, and hell, why not…
    Jaxon raised his own fiddle to his chin and pulled a few introductory chords.