The Cowboy Upstairs

Hearing him list his teachers out loud, Becca mentally kicked herself. She’d inadvertently surrounded him with women. Why hadn’t she checked to see if Jarrett Ross was taking on any more riding students over at his ranch? In Becca’s defense, Marc’s soccer coach was supposed to have been a man. But when he’d broken his leg the first week of the season, she’d stepped up to fill the void.

Sawyer winked down at her son. “Keep at that piano practice. The ladies love musicians.”

Yeah, that’s what her seven-year-old needed—advice on picking up women. From the cocky way Sawyer carried himself, she just bet he had plenty of experience in that area. “Ladies also love hygiene,” she said wryly. “Now about your shower...”

Marc opened the screen door. “Back in a minute!”

“Take your time and do the job right,” Becca cautioned. “There’s no rush.”

“But I’m hungry. If I hurry, I get pizza faster. Mr. Sawyer, do you like pizza?”

“As a matter of fact, I love it.”

“Then you should—”

“Marc! Scoot.”

“—have dinner with us,” her son invited.

Becca bit back a groan; Sawyer’s eyes glittered with humor as he met her gaze. He was amused by her discomfort, which did nothing to raise her opinion of him.

“Well,” he said as Marc disappeared inside, “at least one of you likes me.”

Now that he was on the step just below her, she could see his eyes were green, flecked with gold, and she hated herself for noticing. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” she said tightly, “I need to call in an order for pizza.” That would give her an opportunity to regain her composure.

He smirked. Didn’t the man have any other expressions? “Want to know what toppings I like?”

She shot him a look that should have vaporized him on the spot, leaving nothing but his memory and scorch marks on the sidewalk.

“I’ll just wait here then,” he said, moving past her to make himself comfortable on the porch swing. He even took his hat off and ran a hand through his brown hair. In the sunlight, a few threads shone a deep coppery red, much darker than her own strawberry blond.

His hair was thick, wavy, and she wondered errantly if it was soft to the touch. Rebecca Ruth Baker Johnston, pull yourself together. Just because she hadn’t had sex in the two years since Colin skipped town was no reason to become unhinged in hormonal desperation. She marched into the house, locking the door behind her. No matter how good-looking he was, Sawyer was a stranger; she was a single woman with a child to protect. She called the pizza place, but she was so preoccupied that there was no telling what she ordered. For all she knew, instead of a large pepperoni pie with extra olives, dinner tonight might be a piece of garlic bread and six liters of soda.

Well, that’s what she got for stalling. Her philosophy had always been to tackle problems efficiently, then put them behind her. Time to figure out why this cowboy was here and send him on his way. She returned to the porch, her tone brisk as she asked, “So is Sawyer your first name or last?”

“First. Sawyer McCall.” He extended a hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Officially.”

Her fingers brushed over his in something too brief to qualify as a handshake before she pulled away. “Becca Johnston. What are you doing here?” Besides bonding with my son and trying to mooch free pizza.

“Brody Davenport sent me. I don’t know if you happened to notice while you were undressing me with your eyes—”

She exhaled in an outraged squeak.

“—but he’s who I was having lunch with. Brody and I are old friends. He contacted me a few months ago about coming to town to help with the centennial trail ride and to finally meet Jasmine. I need a place to stay.”

That place sure as hell wouldn’t be under her roof. “There are two motels in the Cupid’s Bow area,” she said. “I can draw you maps to both of them.”

He bobbed his head. “Yeah, Brody said you were pretty much an expert on this town—which would be useful to me, since I’m writing a travel piece. Brody also said that if I stayed here, the room would be spotlessly clean and the food would be excellent.”

She bit the inside of her lip. When she’d had the bright idea to rent out her attic, she’d been thinking more in terms of single women who might feel vulnerable staying alone at a hotel, or who would appreciate bubble baths in the spacious claw-foot tub. Maybe she could even rent the room as a long-term apartment to a woman like herself, divorced and needing to regroup. She certainly hadn’t considered giving the key to a smug, sexy stranger. “I think I would prefer female tenants,” she said. “At least until I get a guard dog.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a dog person.”

She wasn’t; training and grooming seemed like a lot of work when she was already stretched thin with limited hours in the day. But she resented being pigeonholed. “You don’t know anything about me, Mr. McCall.”

“No, but from what Brody said...” He cleared his throat, looking sheepish.

Ah. So there’d been more to the rancher’s characterization of her than the promise of a clean house and good food. All Sierra’s teasing about being a control freak echoed in Becca’s head.

“Do you currently have any female tenants scheduled?” Sawyer asked.

“Well, not yet.”

“I can pay up front. Cash. And I can give you a list of references, including Brody and his aunt Marie, to assure you I’m not some whack-job.”

She’d known Marie Davenport, a now-retired 911 operator, for years. And there was no denying Becca could use the money; her salary running the community center and her stipend as a town-council member were barely a full-time income. That’s why she’d decided to invest in renovating her attic to an apartment in the first place, so she could rent it to a paying customer. Yes, but...him?

Becca had spent her life mastering the art of structure. During the happier moments of her marriage, she’d relaxed, grown complacent, and she’d paid for it with scandal and divorce. Now, she was more determined than ever to keep her life smooth and orderly. Sawyer McCall might be smooth, with his glib manner and roguish smile, but instinct screamed that life would be anything but orderly with this cowboy living upstairs.

“Mr. McCall, I really don’t think—”

The screen door banged open and a mini tornado gusted across the porch in the form of her son, his green dinosaur pajamas plastered to the wet chest and limbs he hadn’t bothered to dry. “You’re still here! Are you staying for pizza? Mama, can I show him my space cowboys and robot horses?”

Becca studied her son’s eager face and tried to recall the last time she’d seen him look so purely happy. “Mr. McCall and I aren’t finished talking yet, champ. Why don’t you go set the table for three?” She wasn’t convinced she would rent the room to Sawyer, but a slice of pizza was a small price to pay for her son’s beaming smile.

Marc disappeared back inside as quickly as he’d come.

She took a deep breath. “The attic apartment has its own back stair entrance and a private bathroom. No kitchen, although there’s a small refrigerator up there for beverages and snacks. Whoever I rent the room to is welcome to join Marc and me for meals—but in exchange, I was hoping to find someone with a bit of child-care experience. Occasional babysitting in trade for my cooking.” She’d only just now had that brainstorm, realizing how much it would mean to Marc to be around a man, but it sounded plausible. And if Sawyer said no, it would help justify turning him away.

He shrugged. “Sounds reasonable. I’m no child-care expert, but I’ve worked with kids at equestrian camps and on family trail rides.”

She sighed, regretting what she was about to say before it even left her mouth. “Then, assuming your references check out, you’ve got a deal, Mr. McCall.”

His grin, boldly triumphant and male, sent tiny shivers up her arms. “When do I get to see my room?”

Chapter Three

Sawyer braved his landlady’s glare, her blue eyes like the center of a flame. Fiery was a good description for her—hot, but projecting the aura that a man should stay back for his own safety. At the restaurant earlier, he’d seen her sitting down. She was a lot taller than he’d expected, trim and shapely in her polo shirt and shorts. When he first drove up, her kid had been wearing a numbered practice jersey; Becca wore a whistle on the cord around her neck. Team coach, maybe? She seemed like the kind of person who wanted to be in charge.

And not at all like a woman who changed her mind easily. Despite his claims at lunch that he was charming and likable, Sawyer was almost surprised she’d agreed to rent him the room. Her expression when she’d first seen him in the driveway had suggested she was more likely to back over him than take him in as a guest.

“Come on,” she said irritably. “We might have enough time before the pizza comes for you to see the room.” She opened the door, but stood there, barring his entrance as she studied his boots. “You can leave those on the porch.”

Her tone rankled. He wasn’t her damn kid. “Yes, ma’am. I promise to wash my hands before eating, too.”

She gave him another narrow-eyed glare. Probably deserved that one. Instead of halfheartedly apologizing for his sarcasm, he gave her a winning smile. She pressed a finger to her forehead as if physically pained.

Maybe he should stay at a hotel, after all. Brody was right about him—Sawyer had a habit of provoking bossy people. Wouldn’t sharing a house with a woman who already disliked him needlessly complicate life?

Nah. In only a matter of minutes, he’d convinced her to change her mind about renting to him. In a matter of weeks, he could win her over entirely. Sawyer liked a challenge. Besides, in the unlikely event that he failed, it was just a few weeks out of his life. After that, he’d be putting Cupid’s Bow behind him.

He placed the boots neatly by the front door. “After you.”

Brody hadn’t exaggerated when he predicted the place would be spotless. The hardwood floors gleamed; the creamy walls looked freshly painted. There were no toys scattered about or fingerprint smudges. If he hadn’t seen Marc with his own eyes, Sawyer never would have believed a little boy lived here.

The narrow hallway opened up into a living room and Sawyer winced. “Is my room this...pink?” The low-backed sofa and two armchairs were all the same shade, coordinating with a striped circular rug that took up most of the floor.

“Mauve,” she corrected, studying the furniture with him. “With cranberry accents.”

Cranberry? An Aggies football fan, he would have called the dark throw pillows and decorative candles “maroon.” At least then it would be showing team support for Texas A&M.

Her tone was defensive. “I think it looks nice, but to answer your question, no, this isn’t the color scheme I used in the attic.” She suddenly brightened. “Still, I completely understand if the accommodations here aren’t to your liking. I can still give you directions to either of those hotels.”

He should probably be insulted that she was so eager to get rid of him. “I’m sure the room will be just fine. Even if the bed’s lumpy, with mismatched sheets, it’ll be better than all the times I’ve slept on the ground during a trail ride or stayed in a crappy motel room.” He’d been to rodeos in luxury Vegas settings and tourist-destination stockyards, but those weren’t the norm.

“Mr. McCall, I do not make up beds with mismatched sheets.”

He couldn’t help grinning at her affronted tone; the woman took her linens seriously. “I’ve always cared more about what happens between the sheets than about whether they match.”

She sucked in a breath, but the doorbell rang, saving him from a potentially blistering retort. Redirecting her anger, she glared toward the front of the house. “That better not be the pizza already!”

Was she that set on having events unfold according to her timeline? “Most people are happy when they don’t have to wait long for delivery.”

“There are three regular drivers,” she said, as she dug through her purse. “But Keesha only works weekends. Which leaves D. B. Janak, who I happen to know has the flu, because I ran into his girlfriend at the store, and Callum Breelan, who is proving to be just as bad as his disreputable uncles.” Money in hand, she strode toward the door, rattling off the rest of her explanation over her shoulder. “Only seventeen and he already has one speeding ticket and two warnings—Deputy Thomas went easy on him. I don’t need lead-foot Callum using my dinner as an excuse to mow down pedestrians and small animals.”

Sawyer blinked at the unexpected blast of information. She’d been talking too fast about people he’d never met for him to process all of it. The upshot seemed to be Becca knew a lot about her neighbors. And had strong opinions.

While she stood at the door haranguing the delivery boy about his driving habits, Sawyer found his way down the hall to a huge kitchen, the kind that was big enough to include a full-size dining room table and china cabinet. Marc stood on his tiptoes at a marble-topped island, trying to pour lemonade into a red plastic superhero cup. Sawyer lunged forward, taking the pitcher from the boy’s hands just as it started to wobble.

“Here, better let me get that for you. I’m guessin’ your mama doesn’t like spills.”

The boy shook his head, eyes wide. They were the same color as Becca’s. “She hates messes. And snakes, even though they’re cool.”

“Not all of them,” Sawyer said. He’d had a few close encounters with rattlesnakes and copperheads he’d rather not think about. He eyed the pitcher on the counter, noting the slices of fresh lemon bobbing inside it; obviously, Becca did not serve lemonade that came from powder. “Where can I find a glass?”

Marc directed him to a cabinet next to the stainless steel refrigerator—not that it was easy to see the silver steel beneath the clutter. The kitchen was pristine—no dirty dishes in the sink, no mail sitting on the counter—but the fridge was practically wallpapered in Marc’s schoolwork, crayon drawings and photos. As he looked closer, Sawyer realized there were also a number of newspaper clippings that all seemed to be about Cupid’s Bow events. One mentioned a Watermelon Festival, while another—

“Can I help you find something in particular?” Becca asked from behind him, her voice icy.

Busted. He straightened, making light of his snooping. “Guess I was just curious about the family I’ll be staying with, trying to reassure myself that you and Marc here aren’t—” he’d been about to say ax murderers, but murder jokes weren’t appropriate in front of the little boy “—aliens from outer space.” That made the kid giggle, and Sawyer winked at him. “Or dangerous robots. Or spies for the CIA!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Becca said, exasperated. “Our CIA handler is the one who gave us all that fake documentation to support our covers in the first place.”

Sawyer rocked back on his heels. So she did have a sense of humor? Good to know. The next few weeks were looking up already. He grinned at her, but she turned away to set the pizza on the table, almost as if she were hiding her smile.

“Marc was kind enough to show me where the glasses are,” he said, pulling one from the cabinet. “The lemonade looks delicious. Want me to pour you some, too?”

She cocked her head, seeming confused by the question.

“Becca?”

“Sorry, I’m not used to someone else serving me in my own kitchen. Lemonade would be lovely, thank you.”

Sawyer remembered Brody mentioning an ex-husband who’d bailed on her and the boy. How long had she been alone, that something as simple as someone else pouring her a drink was jarring?

“Wait, Marc, slow down!” Becca batted her son’s hand away from the open box as Sawyer joined them at the table. “The pizza’s still pretty hot.”

“Guess what, Mama? I’ve decided not to get a pet snake when I grow up.”

“Oh, good.” She dropped her arm around his shoulders in a brief hug. “I was going to talk you out of it, anyway, but this saves me the trouble.”

The oval table was big enough to seat eight. Marc and Becca sat next to each other, toward the center, and Sawyer went around to the other side, taking the chair opposite Marc.

“It’s so cool Mr. Sawyer could have dinner with us!” Marc grinned so broadly that Sawyer noticed for the first time that the kid was missing one of his bottom teeth.

Becca hesitated. “Actually, he might be staying a few days. Or longer.”

“In the new upstairs room?” Marc shot out of his seat with a whoop of excitement.

“Marc Paul Johnston, what kind of table manners are those?”

“Sorry.” He slid back into his chair, his tone sheepish. But he was still smiling.

Sawyer locked his gaze on his plate, not wanting to make eye contact with the kid. If he returned Marc’s grin, Becca might think he was encouraging the boy’s rambunctious behavior. Besides, it was discomfiting to be the source of so much joy. He’d signed autographs for kids at rodeos and assisted tourists with children, but he’d never had prolonged exposure to one. You’ll be an uncle soon. Would he be close to his future niece or nephew? Doubtful. He sure as hell wasn’t close to his brother.

Charlie hadn’t even been the one to share the news that he and his wife were expecting; Sawyer’s mom had told him the last time he talked to her on the phone. The next day, Charlie had sent a terse email and Sawyer had replied with dutiful congratulations. That had been a couple weeks ago, and he could still hear his mother’s chiding tone in his head.

Gwen’s due at the end of October. Surely you’ll want to arrange your schedule so that you can be here?

He’d told her he really couldn’t say what his schedule would be in the fall, but that he’d be in touch. Then he’d quickly found an excuse to get off the phone. The truth was, even if he could make it, what would be the point? His sister-in-law was a nice lady, but her own family lived close to the ranch, so she had plenty of support. And as for Charlie... Ever since his older brother had returned to the ranch from college, the two of them could barely be in the same room without an argument erupting. Their father always sided with Charlie. Their mother just wanted everyone to get along. In her mind, that meant Sawyer—the outnumbered younger son—should cave.

“Something wrong with your pizza?” Becca asked tentatively.

Sawyer realized he was scowling. “Uh...you were right about it being hot. I burned the roof of my mouth,” he lied.

“Kenny Whittmeyer’s dad burned his hand when he took Kenny and me camping,” Marc volunteered. “We were roasting marshmallows and he said a whole bunch of bad words. I—”

A trumpet sound came from beneath the table, and Becca shifted in her seat, pulling a cell phone from the pocket of her shorts. She glanced at her son. “You know I’m only checking this because of the race, right?”

He nodded, informing Sawyer, “Mama has a no-phone rule at the table. But we make ex-sections ’cause of the race.”

“Exceptions,” Becca corrected absently, reading a text. She frowned, but put the phone away rather than responding. “Who wants the last slice of pizza?”

Sawyer shook his head, letting the growing boy snag it, and reached for his glass. “What’s this race you mentioned? Are you a runner?” He could easily imagine her in a marathon. She seemed disciplined enough, and judging from her toned figure, she did something to keep in shape.

“Not literally. I’m running for mayor.”

Sawyer choked on his lemonade.

“You find that funny, Mr. McCall?”

Hell, yes. Weren’t politicians supposed to kiss babies and suck up to people? Becca was far too imperious for that. She hadn’t even been able to pay for a pizza without lecturing the hapless delivery boy.

She misinterpreted the smile he was fighting. “I’ll have you know that women are every bit as capable as—”

“Whoa. No argument here. I’ve known plenty of badass women.”

“So what’s the big joke?” She challenged, those eyes sparking again.

He doubted there was any answer that wouldn’t get him in trouble. Might as well go with the truth. “The idea of you courting votes is a little funny, don’t you think? You seem like someone who speaks her mind, whether the opinion is popular or not.”

“And that’s bad? Community leaders should be honest and straightforward.”

“In theory, sure.” Feeling Marc’s gaze on him reminded Sawyer that there was a seven-year-old listening to his cynicism. “But don’t listen to me. I’m just an outsider. What do I know about the people of Cupid’s Bow?”

Becca stood, gathering up the empty plates. “About that—you being an outsider? Would you mind finishing your lemonade on the porch and enjoying the evening breeze while I call Brody Davenport? I need to start checking your references.”

“No problem.” He scraped his chair back. “Checking up on me is the responsible thing to do.”

She gave him a smile that was part apology, part amusement. “Well, I’d hate to accidentally rent the room to a dangerous alien robot.”

“That would be awesome!” Marc said.

“Which,” she told him affectionately, “is why I’m the one who makes the decisions around here.”

Sawyer understood not letting a second grader run the household, but alien robots aside, he was pretty sure Becca preferred to be the one making decisions no matter who was involved. Just like Charlie. But a hell of a lot prettier.

* * *

AFTER BECCA FINISHED her phone call, she tucked in Marc, who was supposed to read for thirty minutes, then go to sleep. From the excitement on his small freckled face, she suspected he wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon. She wasn’t sure yet how she felt about her new tenant, but she had to admit he’d been great with her son.

She should go thank him. And let him know the room was officially his.

She stepped onto the front porch, where the heat was sticky in comparison to the air-conditioned house but not intolerable. Intolerable came in August. Sawyer glanced up from the swing with that too-appealing grin that could’ve belonged to a movie star; the spectacularly vivid sunset behind him added a cinematic effect. The only thing missing was a musical score. Becca told herself she was unaffected and had always liked books more than films, anyway.

“Did Brody vouch for me?” he asked.

“He said I should kick you to the curb—that you’re a pain in the ass who likes to get his own way.”

Sawyer shrugged. “Well, who doesn’t like to get his way?”

Hard to argue that. Brody had also said Sawyer was dependable, loyal and never drank to excess or let himself get goaded into bar fights, like a few of their former rodeo friends.

“Let me show you the room. Pay me cash for tonight, and you can decide in the morning how long you’re staying, after you’ve had a chance to judge the accommodations for yourself.” She almost said something about making sure the bed was comfortable, but stopped herself, recalling his comment about sheets earlier. She did not need to hear any jokes about what took place in his bed.

He unfolded himself from the swing, and she took a moment to appreciate the novelty of being with someone taller than she was. Only a handful of men here in Cupid’s Bow were. In elementary school, she’d hated being the tallest in her class—probably the tallest in the whole school. But she’d decided her height was an advantage at home. Towering over her siblings helped her secure their obedience.

She’d foolishly taken it as a good sign that she and her ex-husband had been the same height; she’d joked to a friend that there was no better way to start a life together than seeing eye to eye. Nice symbolism, lousy results. Pushing aside memories of her failed marriage, she opened the door.

After Sawyer’s reaction to her “pink” furniture, she was hyperaware of her feminine decorating touches as she led him to the back of the house. The hallway was lined with pictures of her and Marc in scallop-edged and filigree frames. A curved glass vase of yellow roses sat on the kitchen counter. The delicately patterned stair runner that went up to the second floor looked like lace from a distance.