And Cowboy Makes Three (Cowboys To The Rescue 2) Read Free Page A

few kinks, then reached for the emergency phone.
    Her quiet voice stopped him. “I can’t believe I ripped into you like a she bear protecting her cubs. I’ve never lost control like that, except with my brothers. It’s just that I’ve had a really rotten day and I—” She cut herself off abruptly. “But you don’t care about my troubles, and you certainly don’t owe me anything. Not even a minute of time. All I can say is I’m sorry.”
    He studied her with surprise. She was apologizing? Women didn’t apologize. They sucked you dry and never gave anything in return. “Apology noted.”
    Shrugging a cramp out of his neck, he opened a small panel beneath the floor buttons and yanked out a phone. A female voice answered after one ring. A few short questions later, he cursed and hung up the phone.
    “A transformer?” the young woman—Claire, that was her name-asked.
    He nodded. “They’ve called the Public Service Utility. Might be an hour, might be four or five. There are outages all over the city.”
    She went limp like a rag doll on a pole, slumping against the far wall. “Sure, why not? The perfect end to a perfect day.”
    “Pardon?”
    She shook her head. “Nothing.”
    Jake felt unexpected curiosity about the slight figure who suddenly looked beat-up and forlorn. She was taller than average for a woman, only about four or five inches under his own six-foot-two frame. The emergency light in the elevator was only as bright as a night-light, so he couldn’t make out the exact shade of her hair, but it was dark and straight and the locks escaping her fancy braid fell to her shoulders. Her skin looked pale, almost translucent in the shadows. Her high cheekbones framed a wide mouth with full lips that were tightly compressed.
    Not the face of a cover model, but her even features held a soft beauty that reminded him of his favorite photo of his mother.
    He felt a sudden urge to ask if her mussed hair and wrinkled clothes had anything to do with her day being less than perfect. The desire to make this young woman talk to him—perhaps even smile at him—stabbed deep and strong. It felt like life, like hope, like something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. The simple caring of one human being for another. How long had it been since he’d cared how someone felt?
    His eyes narrowed. But how could he possibly feel this way about someone so totally lacking in self-control she’d yelled at him over nothing?
    Yet...she did apologize. And how many people had the courage to yell at him?
    “Staring is rude.”
    Jake gave his head a slight shake to clear it. There were reasons he didn’t trust people anymore. He’d spent too many years protecting himself from men and women who demanded his compassion, his money or both.
    When her words penetrated his thoughts, he raised an eyebrow. “What do you expect from...what was it now? A rude, arrogant son of—what kind of snake was it?”
    She winced at the reminder. “Cross-eyed. That’s one of my favorite names for my brothers. You remind me of them. Sorry.”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    “No, really. I never lose control like that. I don’t know what—”
    “Alan Townsend is dead.”
    The horrified look on her face equalled the shock value of his words. He’d said them deliberately, harshly, to punish her for getting to him, for making him want things he knew didn’t exist. But the words punished him as well. His only friend...dead.
    “No,” she breathed.
    He pulled the cold, protective coat of indifference around the core of emotions threatening to erupt and nodded stiffly.
    “When? How? He was the same age as you.”
    His eyes narrowed. “Been studying us, have you? Townsend 101? Anderson 201?”
    “Someone brought a magazine to—Never mind. Please, Mr. Anderson, I didn’t know. You’ve got to believe me. I’ve been checking the books at a car dealership in Limon for three days. I haven’t seen a Denver paper since Monday.”
    The stricken