“Brought you some things.”
“
Some
things? Looks like half of Esther’s stock.”
“Only in your size.” Walker dumped an armload of blouses on the bench, spilling jeweled colors, bandanna-print yokes, Aztec embroidery and color-blocked shoulders.
“Hey, my clothes are under there.” Kalli started toward the haphazard stack that threatened to iron creases into her two-piece dress and blazer.
“Won’t need ‘em.” Walker snagged her arm.
For an instant, as she faced him in the constricted dressing room–close enough to smell the sun and dust on him, near enough to see the groove from nose to mouth that lifted so distinctively when he smiled–the possibilities of not needing clothes around Walker sizzled through her blood.
“Try this on. You won’t go back to city clothes. Not as long as you’re here.”
“What makes you so sure?” Her tone was defiant, but she accepted the jade pleated-yoke shirt.
“ ’Cause you’re more comfortable in these.” He started out, then paused in the doorway to toss her another instruction. “Better get started because I’m coming back soon as I pick out jeans. And I’m not knocking.”
She frowned, but shrugged out of the rose shirt and traded it for the jade. It did look good. The shoulders’ slight extension made her waist look small where the shirt tucked into the jeans. And Walker was right— She wouldn’t get back into her New York clothes until she had to. She’d forgotten how comfortable these clothes were. Designed for a day in the saddle, they ranked comfort over fashion.
She turned her back to the single mirror, then twisted to try to see that view.
“Nice.”
Walker’s single, drawled word had her flushing the way flowery compliments hadn’t in years.
Beyond her image, the mirror showed a long, lean cowboy propping a shoulder against the doorjamb, holding a pair of jeans. She untwisted herself. “Thanks.”
They looked at each other, and she could almost feel years peeling away.
No. No.
Nothing could take away the years.
“For the jeans. Thanks for the jeans.”
At her tug, he released his hold on them but didn’t budge otherwise.
“Now get out of here so I can start trying on all this.”
She raised a hand, prepared to give him a slight push on his way, then thought better of it.
He raised an eyebrow at her aborted gesture, but obligingly pivoted a quarter turn so his shoulder still rested against the wooden frame but was now outside the dressing room. She pulled the curtain across behind him.
She started unbuttoning the shirt.
“It’s going to take most of the afternoon to try on all these clothes,” she said, willing to say almost anything to break a silence that screamed of awareness.
“Buy it all and you’ll still be behind Belle Grissom.”
“Belle! How is she?” She hadn’t thought of the diminutive barrel racer for years. Two years younger than Kalli, Belle had already been a veteran of the circuit and had shown the newcomer the ropes. Since Belle’s solution to any crisis was to buy clothes—preferably with rhinestones, sequins or both—her wardrobe was legendary.
“She’s doing fine. Got divorced couple years back and went on such a shopping spree, she had to get a bigger place. I knew that marriage was doomed when he gave a bunch of her things to the mission. Belle didn’t miss them. But then she saw this mite outside the mission wearing a shirt decorated with a big glittery horse’s head. Seems it was one of a kind. Boy, did it hit the fan then.”
Kalli laughed, Walker’s words and her memories of the people making the scene as vivid as if she’d been there. As she tried on clothes, she prompted his stories of people she’d known with questions and comments. Ten years, covered in the time it took to put on a dozen outfits.
“And Sailor—remember Sailor Anderson?”
“Sure.” A charmer, the Lothario of the rodeo circuit, who’d earned his nickname with a girl in every “port.” And she
“
Some
things? Looks like half of Esther’s stock.”
“Only in your size.” Walker dumped an armload of blouses on the bench, spilling jeweled colors, bandanna-print yokes, Aztec embroidery and color-blocked shoulders.
“Hey, my clothes are under there.” Kalli started toward the haphazard stack that threatened to iron creases into her two-piece dress and blazer.
“Won’t need ‘em.” Walker snagged her arm.
For an instant, as she faced him in the constricted dressing room–close enough to smell the sun and dust on him, near enough to see the groove from nose to mouth that lifted so distinctively when he smiled–the possibilities of not needing clothes around Walker sizzled through her blood.
“Try this on. You won’t go back to city clothes. Not as long as you’re here.”
“What makes you so sure?” Her tone was defiant, but she accepted the jade pleated-yoke shirt.
“ ’Cause you’re more comfortable in these.” He started out, then paused in the doorway to toss her another instruction. “Better get started because I’m coming back soon as I pick out jeans. And I’m not knocking.”
She frowned, but shrugged out of the rose shirt and traded it for the jade. It did look good. The shoulders’ slight extension made her waist look small where the shirt tucked into the jeans. And Walker was right— She wouldn’t get back into her New York clothes until she had to. She’d forgotten how comfortable these clothes were. Designed for a day in the saddle, they ranked comfort over fashion.
She turned her back to the single mirror, then twisted to try to see that view.
“Nice.”
Walker’s single, drawled word had her flushing the way flowery compliments hadn’t in years.
Beyond her image, the mirror showed a long, lean cowboy propping a shoulder against the doorjamb, holding a pair of jeans. She untwisted herself. “Thanks.”
They looked at each other, and she could almost feel years peeling away.
No. No.
Nothing could take away the years.
“For the jeans. Thanks for the jeans.”
At her tug, he released his hold on them but didn’t budge otherwise.
“Now get out of here so I can start trying on all this.”
She raised a hand, prepared to give him a slight push on his way, then thought better of it.
He raised an eyebrow at her aborted gesture, but obligingly pivoted a quarter turn so his shoulder still rested against the wooden frame but was now outside the dressing room. She pulled the curtain across behind him.
She started unbuttoning the shirt.
“It’s going to take most of the afternoon to try on all these clothes,” she said, willing to say almost anything to break a silence that screamed of awareness.
“Buy it all and you’ll still be behind Belle Grissom.”
“Belle! How is she?” She hadn’t thought of the diminutive barrel racer for years. Two years younger than Kalli, Belle had already been a veteran of the circuit and had shown the newcomer the ropes. Since Belle’s solution to any crisis was to buy clothes—preferably with rhinestones, sequins or both—her wardrobe was legendary.
“She’s doing fine. Got divorced couple years back and went on such a shopping spree, she had to get a bigger place. I knew that marriage was doomed when he gave a bunch of her things to the mission. Belle didn’t miss them. But then she saw this mite outside the mission wearing a shirt decorated with a big glittery horse’s head. Seems it was one of a kind. Boy, did it hit the fan then.”
Kalli laughed, Walker’s words and her memories of the people making the scene as vivid as if she’d been there. As she tried on clothes, she prompted his stories of people she’d known with questions and comments. Ten years, covered in the time it took to put on a dozen outfits.
“And Sailor—remember Sailor Anderson?”
“Sure.” A charmer, the Lothario of the rodeo circuit, who’d earned his nickname with a girl in every “port.” And she
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