Free The Trouble With Cowboys by Denise Hunter

smooth dancer, after all, and John had been in the middle of a monologue on bilateral debt.
    Okay, maybe John wasn’t all that intriguing. Maybe his kisses didn’t leave her weak-kneed. He was responsible and faithful and . . . lots of other good things.
    If, when he’d kissed her good night, she’d imagined Dylan’s lips on hers for the tiniest little second, it was only a silly flight of fancy. Everyone had errant thoughts. Even so, when John had drawn away, her face had burned with shame.
    She looked up at Dylan now, realizing he’d gone quiet. Realizing her face burned again from the memory of her errant thought. Curses on her Irish skin.
    His lips turned up. “Something you wanna share with the class, Miss Wilkerson?”
    “No, there is not.”
    It was time to go, more than. The patter of rain grew louder as the storm picked up. But still, she began packing her things, because there was a more dangerous storm brewing inside.
    “Stay awhile, sugar, I don’t bite.”
    She seriously doubted that. “I have to get home.”
    “It’s pouring out there. I’ll freshen your coffee.”
    “That’s okay,” she called after him, but he had already left with her mug.
    She heard the coffee carafe sliding from its cubby, the splash of liquid, and then he returned, handing her the mug.
    “That was my grandpa’s favorite chair,” he said, nodding toward her seat before plopping on the sofa. “This used to be his place, you know.”
    Annie sipped the coffee, torn between her need to leave and her reluctance to be rude.
    “I remember. I was a senior when he passed, I think.”
    “I forget you’re several years younger than me. You’re so. . .”
    She crossed her arms, waiting. Stodgy? Old-spirited? Well, if he’d had the responsibilities she’d had, he wouldn’t be so— “Capable.”
    She was sure it wasn’t the first word that came to mind, especially when his eyes danced in the lamplight.
    She decided not to let him bait her. “Your grandpa was a good man. He got on well with my grandpa, I recall.”
    “They were childhood friends.”
    “They were?” How had she not known that? Then again, her grandfather hadn’t talked much about himself.
    “You didn’t know?”
    She shrugged. “Until Sierra and I came to live with him, we didn’t see him much. He and Mom didn’t get along.”
    “That’s too bad. My grandparents were a big part of my childhood. Me and my brother came up here every summer, and we thought we were in heaven.”
    “You have a brother?”
    “Luke. He’s a few years younger.”
    “You’re from Texas, like Wade. . .”
    He nodded. “Why didn’t your mom and grandpa get along?”
    She settled back into the chair, cupping her hands around the warm mug. “Too different, I guess. Mom didn’t make the best decisions—that was hard on my grandpa.”
    “Tell me about your sister.”
    “Sierra?” She gave a wry laugh. “What’s to tell? She pretty much lets it all hang out. She’s very much like our mother.”
    He templed his hands on his chest and rested his chin on his fingertips. “You’re more like your dad?”
    “I hope not. I guess I’m more like my grandpa.”
    “You were close.”
    “How can you tell?”
    “Your voice changes when you say his name, softens. I’ll bet you were the apple of his eye.”
    He was more perceptive than she’d given him credit for. “He took us in when Mom passed, without a second thought. He’s the reason I pursued horse training. He was a great vet, the best.”
    “My grandpa used to say he could talk a breech calf from her mama.”
    She found herself smiling. “That might be a slight exaggeration. But he was pretty amazing. A godly man too. Not that he was very vocal about it—but he lived it, you know?”
    Dylan nodded thoughtfully.
    A pause stretched out as the grin fell from her face. Still, she felt reluctant to go. He didn’t seem so dangerous when he wasn’t trying to flatter her.
    “Braveheart was a gift from my