Read Online Into the Arms of a Cowboy by Isabella Ashe - Free Book Online Page A

recliner. “So you’d better sit yourself down right this minute while I fix up the bed. You can make your phone call, but that’s it. You’ll have something to eat, ice your ankle, then sleep until it’s time for me to check on you. I’ll take care of Harry and whatever else needs doing around here. Is that understood?”
    Jess stared at her in silence for several seconds, his eyes wide with surprise. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, with an exaggerated drawl, but he dropped his long, muscular body into the chair without further argument. “I’ll make a quick call to work, though.”
    He picked up the phone from a table next to the couch – no cell phone, Cassie noticed; probably no signal here – and left a message with someone at his office. Cassie watched him from the corner of her eye. She was letting paranoia get the better of her, obviously. Jess’s deputy would hardly ask whether any murderers had hitched a ride in his truck lately. Still, she couldn’t suppress a fearful shiver.  
    Jess watched as Cassie folded out the couch, made up the bed with hospital corners, and heated a can of beef stew. Moments later, she set a tray before him, a tray complete with soup, bread, ice water, silverware, and a paper napkin.
    “You’ve done this before,” he said, as he picked up his spoon.
    “Done what?”
    “What do you do for a living? Are you a nurse?”
    She shook her head. “Not even close.”
    “But you have taken care of a sick person, haven’t you?”
    Cassie squeezed her eyes shut. Not that she could ever hope block out the dizzying images. Her mother sprawled on the bathroom floor. Passed out on the couch. Locked in her own bedroom, reeking of gin and vomit. For a moment, Cassie could almost smell it again--the odor of failure, of despair, of a childhood lost.
    She felt Jess’s warm fingers on her own, then his strong, callused palms cradling her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
    Cassie sucked in a deep, steadying breath. “I--it’s all right. Yes, I took care of someone for years, a person who was very ill. And then I wasn’t there to take care of her, and she-- she died.”
    “I’m sorry,” Jess repeated. His eyes were dark pools of sympathy, tempting her to say more. But she couldn’t risk it. She couldn’t tell him who she was. She stood up and pulled her hand from his.
    “Finish your dinner,” she said, in a voice made husky by unshed tears. “I’ll take Harry his food and water now.”
    Later, after Jess dozed off, Cassie helped herself to the rest of the stew. While the hot meal helped settle her stomach, it did little to soothe her frayed nerves. Jess’s questions had stirred up memories and emotions she preferred to bury. She’d moved to San Francisco to escape her past, to remake herself. Sometimes, though, the pain of her childhood surfaced when she least expected it.
    Cassie sighed, crossed to the sink, and ran it full of hot water. Then she began a systematic search of Jess’s kitchen. Whenever this mournful mood struck her, there was only one sure cure.
    Chocolate.
    Rich, creamy, fattening chocolate. Chocolate ice cream. Chocolate kisses. Dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate, chocolate with rice crispies or peanut butter or almonds inside. Hershey’s, Nestle, Ghiradelli , Godiva--it didn’t matter, as long as it melted sweetly on her tongue and boosted her phenylethylamine levels.
    Of course, she knew better than to medicate herself with food. She’d spent a good part of her childhood hiding under extra layers of fat, pretending an extra helping of everything could make all her problems go away. Since then, she’d learned moderation.
    Still, chocolate was her one indulgence. She couldn’t live without it. Even the thought of Häagen-Dazs ice cream or Tollhouse cookies brought a blissful smile to her face.
    One minor problem, though. She came up empty handed.
    Nothing in the cupboards. Nothing in the