Read One From The Heart Online
Authors: Cinda Richards,Cheryl Reavis
One From The Heart
“You’ve got freckles,” Ernie said.
Hannah frowned. His proximity and his clean male scent were calling up that dark, warm feeling again. Lord, what a nice face he had. Nice face, nice thighs …
“Yes, I know,” she said dryly. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to South Dakota.”
“So did I. I got to thinking about the kid—”
“We’re doing all right,” she interrupted.
“—and you,” he finished.
And me?
she almost said, the dark, warm feeling spreading, making her knees weak, making her heart pound. “You didn’t have to come back,” she said with as much conviction as she could muster.
“Yeah, that’s what I told myself the whole time I was getting my knee patched up, and all the way down I-35—in both directions. Somehow I just couldn’t make myself believe it …”
Writing as Cheryl Reavis her
Silhouette Special Edition, A CRIME OF THE HEART
, reached millions of readers in
GOOD HOUSEKEEPING
magazine and won the Romance Writers of America’s coveted RITA award for Best Long Contemporary the year it was published.
She also won the RITA for her Harlequin-Silhouette novels,
THE PRISONER, PATRICK GALLAGHER’S WIDOW,
and
THE BRIDE FAIR.
Three additional novels,
BLACKBERRY WINTER
,
PROMISE ME A RAINBOW,
and
THE BARTERED BRIDE
have been RITA finalists.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
described her
BERKLEY
single-title novel,
PROMISE ME A RAINBOW
as
“…an example of delicately crafted, eminently satisfying romantic fiction.”
From the
LIBRARY JOURNAL
regarding her
Harlequin Historical, THE CAPTIVE HEART: “…a study in cultural contrasts, this well-written, vividly descriptive tale skillfully juxtaposes the “savage” with the “civilized” and allows the reader to draw some occasionally unexpected conclusions. Realistic cultural detail, a sensitively handled romantic relationship, a heroine who strengthens with the story, and a hero who comes to terms with his two cultures, combine in a sensual, emotionally involving romance that is both brutal and tender and satisfying…”
Reavis’s award-winning literary short stories have appeared in a number of “little magazines” such as
The Crescent Review, The Bad Apple, The Emrys Journal,
and in
The Greensboro Group’s
statewide competition anthology,
WRITER’S CHOICE.
Visit Cheryl at
cherylreavis.blogspot.com
and on facebook!
Other Second Chance at Love books by
Cinda Richards
THIS SIDE OF PARADISE #237
SUCH ROUGH SPLENDOR #280
DILLON’S PROMISE #330
FIRE UNDER HEAVEN #382
ONE FROM THE HEART
First Published in the US by the Berkley Publishing Group
Copyright © 2011 Cheryl Reavis
CONTENTS
T
HE FIRST TIME
Hannah Rose Browne saw John Ernest Watson, she had two thoughts. The first was a passage from the Song of Solomon: “Turn away thine eyes from me, for they have overcome me”; the second was the certain knowledge that the compelling sadness she saw in this man’s eyes had something to do with her sister Elizabeth—no great piece of detective work on her part, because he was standing on her doorstep with Elizabeth’s sleeping child slung over his shoulder.
“Are you going to let us in or not?” he asked, turning around so she could see Petey’s face. He sounded tired and more than a little harassed.
“What are you doing with Elizabeth’s daughter?” Hannah demanded as he stepped inside. He paid her no attention whatsoever.
“Where’s the bedroom?” he asked, limping in the wrong direction. He was a tall man with dark eyes and a dark mustache. He needed a shave, and he was wearing faded jeans with a red plaid shirt and a denim jacket. His oversize black cowboy hat made him look as if he’d just dropped in from a smokeless tobacco ad or a dusty cattle drive of the last century.
“That’s the kitchen,” she said when he reached the kitchen door.
“Well, thanks a lot, lady. I’ve been driving for seven hours, I’m hungry, I got
no
sleep, I got a knee that needs sewing up, and somehow I got to get to Rapid City, South Dakota, by tomorrow afternoon. So go ahead—let me wander all over the dang place—it’s not like I’m in a hurry.”
“You didn’t answer me,” Hannah said, unimpressed by his troubles. “What are you doing with Petey?”
“I’m trying to give her to you if you’ll tell me where I can put her down!” he said loudly enough to cause the little girl over his shoulder to lift her head for a moment. “Go back to sleep now, Pete,” he whispered to her, rocking her back and forth. He glanced at Hannah and then back again, as if her physical appearance had only just registered. His eyes swept over her, face to breasts to hips and back to her breasts again before he finally met her eyes. Hannah stared at him calmly—hoping she looked much calmer than she felt. She had experienced—and enjoyed—many a lingering male appraisal in her time, but he was quite bold in assessing whatever he thought she might be hiding under the baggy sweat suit she was wearing, bold enough make her pulse quicken and her cheeks flush. The dark eyes that now probed hers offered no apology. If anything, he seemed more annoyed—as if he’d found her more physically attractive than he’d expected, sweat suit or not, and that was the last thing in the world he needed.
“In here,” Hannah said after a moment, trying to ignore her response to whatever it was he thought he was doing. It wasn’t that her response was unpleasant so much as it was a surprise. She had always found the archaic keep-’em-barefoot-and-pregnant attitude men in this part of the country seemed to have unappealing, yet she couldn’t deny that in this case she
had
responded. In that one long look, he had suddenly changed from a generic cowboy to one who was most definitely individual—and male. She led the way to the bedroom, now intensely aware of that maleness. Clearly, Elizabeth wasn’t with them, and Hannah was going to have to take care of first things first. She had been working on several scripts for a furniture-outlet commercial, and she had to move a stack of papers and a bean-bag lap desk before he could put her niece down on the bed. He did so gently—after figuring out he had to first stand still so that Hannah, flustered now by his proximity, could get out of his way.
“Ernie?” Petey murmured sleepily as the two of them tucked Hannah’s patchwork quilt carefully around her.
“Yeah, Pete, what is it?” he said kindly.
And suddenly Hannah realized who John Ernest Watson was: Elizabeth’s childhood friend, Ernie, the famous bull-dodging clown on the professional rodeo circuit, or perhaps infamous was a better word. He was supposed to have become a hard-drinking womanizer in recent years—if she could believe Elizabeth. She felt a familiar pang of annoyance. Whatever else Elizabeth was, she was truthful—when it suited her. And God only knew what he was doing with Petey or what Elizabeth was up to now.
“You’re the rodeo clown,” Hannah said, feeling a little better about the situation and wondering why. She carefully avoided looking at him, because she could feel him looking at
her
. Again.
“Yeah, well, that’s the way I like to think of myself.
The
Rodeo Clown.”
“Ernie,” Petey murmured again, “don’t make it dark.”
“I won’t, baby. Go to sleep—she’s afraid of the dark,” he said to Hannah.
“I lost Cowpoke,” Petey said sleepily, feeling around under the quilt.
“Aw, we left him in the car,” Ernie said. “I’ll get him—unless Miss Hannah will do that for us so old Ernie doesn’t have to walk with his bad knee and everything.”
Hannah glanced at him. He gave her a warm, persuasive grin; she gave him an arch look, promptly losing the feeling of reassurance she’d just had. Any man who would use a child to manipulate a situation to his advantage was capable of anything, bad knee or not.
“Yes, please, Aunt Hannah,” her niece said politely.
“Petey, where’s your m—”
“Say hello to Aunt Hannah, Pete,” Ernie interrupted, giving Hannah a sharp dig in the ribs with his elbow.
“Hello, Aunt Hannah,” Petey said dutifully, briefly opening her eyes. “Are you surprised? Ernie said you’d be surprised.”
“Boy, am I ever,” Hannah said in all truthfulness. She wanted to bend down and kiss her niece on the forehead, but somehow, with Ernie Watson watching, she wasn’t quite at ease enough to do it. Petey was a sweet child, though not beautiful as children went, having a sort of Holly Hobby look, with her light brown braids and freckles. In fact, she looked more like her Aunt Hannah than her exquisitely blond and blue-eyed mother.
“So,” Hannah whispered to her. “What’s a—Cowpoke?”
“Brown,” Petey whispered back.
“I see,” Hannah teased. “I go out into the parking lot—and I keep looking until I find
brown
.” She punctuated the “brown” with an awkward little pat, glancing at Ernie and forcing herself not to ask questions about Elizabeth now.
“I’ll go get him,” he said. “I can do it faster than I can tell you what he is. Kiss,” he said to Petey, tapping the spot on his cheek where he wanted it. Petey obliged him while he shot a quelling look at Hannah. Whatever was going on, he didn’t want her to interrogate Petey about it. He limped away, coming back in a few minutes with an obviously homemade stuffed bear. It was indeed brown, and it was dressed in a sequined western suit with fringe that made it look like a poor man’s mascot for Porter Wagoner.
“Cowpoke,” he explained, holding up the bear as he came into the bedroom. “And don’t ask me why.” Petey had already gone back to sleep, and he quietly tucked the bear in beside her.
“Mr. Watson …” Hannah said as soon as they had moved into the hall.
“Ernie,” he corrected her, and he seemed to be looking for something.