Free Cowboy Come Home by judy christenberry

for and never found with her fiancé.
    “The psychologist told me over and over again that I wasn’t responsible for her accident or her happiness. And you weren’t, either,” she emphasized, slipping her arms around him.
    Instead of his being comforted, too, he broke away from her. “My situation was different.”
    “Why?”
    “It doesn’t matter. I think it’s getting colder. You’d better go on in.”
    Anger rose in her. He thought he could order her about? “I don’t want to go in. And I don’t want to be dismissed like I’m a child.”
    “It’s for your own good.”
    “I’m not going to catch a cold.”
    “Damn. I tried,” he muttered. Then she was swept back into his arms, and his lips covered hers.
    HE KNEW BETTER. Griffin had warned himself after the horse riding lessons. Touching her was a problem. He’d tried to tell her to go inside.
    His lips caressed hers. His arms traced her curves through the jacket and jeans. His mind was spinning out of control.
    Not that she was protesting. Her arms were around his neck, her fingers surging through his hair. She moved against him, as if afraid he’d go away.
    Not likely. No man could walk away from such a temptation. His hands settled on her hips, which fitted perfectly into his hold. He pressed her even more tightly against his arousal.
    “Hey, Camille,” Red called from the back door, “I—Oops!”
    Camille pulled away at once, her gaze flying to the back door. “Y-yes, Red? Did you need something?”
    “Naw. I thought you might be interested in a program on television, but—but I guess not,” he added, a low chuckle in his voice.
    Camille’s cheeks weren’t the only ones that reddened. Griffin was grateful for the shadowy darkness on the back porch.
    “I’ll go back to Mildred. Just forget I interrupted.”
    After Red disappeared as rapidly as he’d intruded, silence fell between them. Camille continued to stare at the back door, as if waiting for something.
    Griffin finally spoke. “Now do you want to go inside, like I suggested?” If she didn’t, he feared he’d sweep her back into his arms, and that wasn’t a good idea.
    She spun around and glared at him. “Don’t you dare pretend what happened was my fault, Mr. Griffin Randall. I didn’t invite you to—to...grab me!”
    “Ha! You put your arms around me.”
    “You already had your arms around me! I was only trying to reassure you that your mother’s unhappiness wasn’t your fault.”
    “Don’t pretend some sob story made you kiss me,” he grated, regretting his openness. Pity wasn’t what he wanted from her.
    “Me kiss you?” She shoved at his chest. “You kissed me!” Before he could protest—and he intended to—she admitted, “Okay, I kissed you back, but I’m not the one who started this.”
    He felt like beating his head against the post. “Shh! You’ll wake the kids,” he cautioned, “or at least have Red appearing again.” They’d both been yelling. Probably the entire county had heard their heated words.
    She drew a deep, angry breath. In a deadly whisper, she said, “I’ll be quiet. I’ll be so quiet you won’t even know I’m here.”
    The witch he still wanted to kiss swept around him like a grande dame in Victorian times, her nose in the air. If it were Victorian times, she’d be banned from society for her wantonness.
    And he wanted her back in his arms.
    He stood there in the cold, wishing he were anywhere but here, this close to temptation.
     
    GRIFF DREADED returning to the house the next evening. He hadn’t seen Camille at all that morning, but his night had been filled with dreams of her. In the dark loneliness of his bed, he’d carried their embrace to its logical, and in his opinion rightful, conclusion. In his mind.
    And woken up frustrated.
    When he came in for supper tonight, everything was calm efficiency. Camille avoided looking at him, but she accepted his help feeding the horde.
    Griffin was amazed at how well everything