Free Tempting the Cowboy by Elizabeth Otto Page A

Cole tipped his head back with a smile and a nod at the familiar notes. He watched his mother’s face burst into a smile, her hands eagerly waving Rylan over to sit down. His chest welled, sudden nerves making his skin prickly.
    Rylan would be watching.
    Cole put the fiddle into position and pulled the bow a few times, his brain and fingers immediately in sync as if he’d been playing faithfully all these years. He dared one quick look at Rylan. Her elbows were on her knees, hands cupped together, eyes fixed on him. He looked down at the strings, repositioned the bow, and pulled it in quick succession to start the first three cords. Once that little bit filled the air, excitement from the music’s promise flowed through him.
    “‘Morrison’s Jig,’ everyone!” Jaxon introduced. Strongly Irish, it was Maeve’s favorite song, and she wasn’t shy about poking her boys to play it once in a while. Fast and vibrant with complicated finger placement, it demanded perfect bow control and had taken Cole a year to learn to play flawlessly. Despite his not playing for so long, the song came to life on its own, filling the air with full-bodied Irish cheer. The timbre pounded his soul and reverberated into his core. The fiddle sat perfectly on his shoulder, the weight welcome and familiar. Damn if that didn’t feel good.
    Evenly paced in the beginning, “Morrison’s Jig” birthed a strain that compelled people to tap their feet or move in some way. It couldn’t be helped—the song demanded it. Low chords, high chords, and a blend of sounds in between revved up the soul. The music beat within him, washing away everything that had been wrong that day, replacing it with pure, high elation. He smiled, feeling it in his entire body.
    He suddenly stopped playing and held the bow above the strings, heard the soft murmuring of people wondering if it was over. Then he smiled wider, swung to the left, and started playing again doubly fast, drawing the tones and chords so rapidly that people cheered and leaped to their feet. Zane tapped on a log in accompaniment.
    It was a whirlwind of music, and it consumed him. Sneaking a look at Rylan, he saw an expression of pure joy and wonderment on her face. Firelight flickered across her hair as she tapped her foot to the music. Patrons were hopping and dancing around her, but she sat, absorbing everything, enjoying it all. Cole had the urge to drop the damn fiddle and run over to her, scoop her off the bench, and carry her off somewhere.
    His wrist and fingers were burning, but he kept it going, pulling the tones round and round as fast as he dared without losing the song’s substance, until he reached the end and raised the bow and fiddle high. The cheering and whooping made his face flush, but his heart raced with exhilaration. Good old Irish fiddle, he thought. Nothing like it.
    Cole handed Zane the fiddle, and the trio immediately dived into a new set.
    “Come sit,” Maeve called to him. Cole greeted Jim and Rylan as he walked over, flushed when Maeve took his hand and gave it a joyful squeeze. Cole lifted his mother’s hand to his lips, gave her a kiss and a squeeze back. He was hyperaware of Rylan sitting near his right leg. Her face tipped up to catch his eyes, her cheeks flushed a soft pink.
    “I don’t have words for how amazing that was,” she said. The urge to carry her off got worse, only now he was imagining hauling her away caveman-style. Over his shoulder with her ass in the air.
    Maeve patted Rylan’s arm. “He’s one of the best fiddlers I’ve ever heard, and I grew up with a whole lot of ’em. Natural talent. He takes after my dad, Paddy McBannon.”
    “True talent.” Rylan placed one graceful hand over her heart. “It made my chest thump!”
    Cole dipped his head and smiled. Her compliment spread over him like warm honey, and it was unnerving. He cared way too much that she’d liked his set. “Fiddle will do that to you.”
    Jim leaned over with a smile and