“It won’t work.”

“What won’t?” Thalia asked. She had the nerve to look innocent.

“Trying to convince me to take the part. It won’t work.”

He had her full attention—and that was becoming a problem. Her eyes were wide-open, her lips were barely parted. All he’d have to do was lower his head.

Against his every wish, his head began to dip.

He could not kiss her; he could not be turned on by her; he could not be interested in her—but he was. She was going to ruin the life he’d made, and he almost didn’t care. It was almost worth the way she looked at him, soft and innocent and waiting to be kissed.

Almost.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the Bar-B Ranch, home of one of the hottest heroes I’ve written, J.R. Bradley. J.R. has a secret, you see—he used to be James Robert Bradley, the hottest actor to come out of Hollywood since Brad Pitt. But he gave up the fame and money—along with the constant scrutiny and pressure—when he bought his own ranch and a whole bunch of cows.

Since then, J.R. has been—well, he wouldn’t call it hiding, but you get the idea. He’s got peace, quiet, cows and a surrogate family he trusts with his life. Yup, he’s got everything he ever wanted. Or so he thinks.

Into this carefully constructed life rolls Thalia Thorne, a producer looking for James Robert Bradley to star in a new Western movie. J.R. says no in no uncertain terms—but then a blizzard forces both of them to reconsider their positions. While the temperatures plummet outside, things inside get very hot. Suddenly J.R. finds himself questioning his entire existence. When the ground thaws, will he let Thalia leave? Or will he go with her?

A Real Cowboy is a hot story of accepting the past and redefining the future. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Be sure to stop by www.sarahmanderson.com and join me when I say long live cowboys!

Sarah

About the Author

Award-winning author SARAH M. ANDERSON may live east of the Mississippi River, but her heart lies out West on the Great Plains. With a lifelong love of horses and two history teachers for parents, she had plenty of encouragement to learn everything she could about the Wild West.

When she started writing, it wasn’t long before her characters found themselves out West. She loves to put people from two different worlds into new situations and see how their backgrounds and cultures take them someplace they never thought they’d go.

When not helping out at her son’s elementary school or walking her rescue dogs, Sarah spends her days having conversations with imaginary cowboys and American Indians, all of which is surprisingly well tolerated by her wonderful husband. Readers can find out more about Sarah’s love of cowboys and Indians at www.sarahmanderson.com.

A Real Cowboy
Sarah M. Anderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Robert and Nancy, the best in-laws

a woman could ask for. You don’t often get to choose

your family, but even if I hadn’t married their son,

I would have chosen them anyway.

One

The wheels of Thalia’s rental sedan spun on the gravel as the driving winds tried to push her off the road, but she kept control of the car. It was nice to have control over something, even if it was a Camry.

Because she certainly did not have control over this situation. If she did, she wouldn’t be stalking James Robert Bradley to the middle-of-nowhere Montana in what could only be described as the dead of winter. Hell, she didn’t even know if she’d find him. And, as it had been close to an hour since she’d seen another sign of life, she wasn’t sure she’d find anything.

Still, there was a road, and she was on it. Roads went places, after all. This one cut through miles and miles of Montana grassland that was probably lush and green in the summer. However, as it was late January, the whole landscape looked lifeless and deserted. Snow so old it had taken on a gray hue lined the road. If she were filming a postapocalyptic movie, this would be perfect.

At least it wasn’t snowing right now, she told herself in a forcibly cheerful tone as she glanced at the car’s thermometer. It was twenty-two degrees outside. Not that cold, really. She had that going for her. Of course, that didn’t include the wind chill, but still. It wasn’t like it was subzero out there. She could handle it.

Finally, she passed under a signpost that proclaimed Bar B Ranch, which also announced trespassers would be shot. The Camry’s wheels bounced over a metal grate a part of her brain remembered was called a cattle guard. She checked the address she’d entered into her phone’s GPS, and a sense of relief bum-rushed her. She was actually in the right place.

This realization buoyed her spirits. James Robert Bradley’s agent, a small, nervous man named Bernie Lipchitz, hadn’t wanted to give up the address on his most famous—and most private—Oscar-winning client. Thalia had been forced to promise Bernie she’d give his latest would-be starlet a role in the new movie she was producing, Blood for Roses.

Of course, it was her movie only as long as she could get James Robert Bradley signed for the part of Sean. If she couldn’t do that …

No time to dwell on the worst-case scenario. She was making excellent progress. She’d tracked down Bradley’s whereabouts, which was no easy task. She’d gotten onto his property—so far, without anyone shooting at her. Few people could claim to have gotten this close to Bradley since he’d disappeared from Hollywood after winning his Oscar almost eleven years ago. Now she had to sign him to the comeback role of a lifetime. Easy, right?

The clock on the dash said four o’clock, but the sun was already setting, shooting brilliant oranges and purples across the icy-blue sky. Beautiful, Thalia thought as the colors lit up the gray landscape. Off to what she thought was the north were a series of low hills that merged with taller mountains in the west. The south and east were as flat as a pancake. She could almost see it in the full bloom of spring. The land was beautiful.

Maybe we could do some of the filming here, she thought as she rounded a bend and saw a massive structure that would have been called a log cabin, except cabin didn’t do it justice. She couldn’t tell if the huge, rough-hewn logs rose up two stories or three, and she also couldn’t tell how far back the building went. Behind it were a number of barns—some with an old, weathered look, others made of gleaming metal. Except for the shiny metal buildings, everything looked like it had been on this patch of land for decades. If not centuries.

She didn’t see a single living thing. Not even a dog ran up to greet her as she pulled in front of the house. A wide covered porch offered some protection from the wind.

Well, she wasn’t going to get anyone signed to anything by sitting in a car. Gathering up all of her positive energy, she opened the door.

The icy wind nearly slammed the door shut on her leg and cut right through her patterned tights. Dang, she thought as she pushed against the door. Sure, it had been cold when she’d left the small airport terminal in Billings, Montana, to get into the car—but it hadn’t been this cold. Suddenly, the knee-high boots and tights under the wool dress didn’t seem like a smart business outfit making a concession to winter. They seemed like the definition of foolishness.

Bracing herself against the wind, she pulled the fur-lined collar of her wool trench coat up around her neck and trudged up the porch steps. Please be home, she thought as she looked for the doorbell. Her coat was not rated for this kind of weather.

Another blast of winter rushed up the back of her skirt, making her teeth chatter. Where was the doorbell? Screw it, she thought, pounding on the door in a most unprofessional way. Manners didn’t matter when she was freezing to death.

No one answered.

Freezing to death—in Montana, of all places—wasn’t on her to-do list today. Thalia couldn’t remember being this cold, not even when she was a kid and spent all day playing in the rare snowstorm in Oklahoma. She’d lived in L.A. for the last ten years, for crying out loud. People there complained of the cold when it got below sixty.

Thalia banged on the door again, this time with both hands. Maybe someone was in there, she reasoned. The house was huge. Maybe they were in a room way in the back. “Hello?” She shouted, but the wind wasn’t done with her yet.

No one came.

Okay, time to regroup. What were her choices? She could stand here on the porch until someone showed up, at the risk of freezing. She could try one of the barns. Maybe someone was feeding the animals, and if not, well, at least she’d be sheltered from the wind. The thin stiletto heels on her expensive boots made that a risky proposition. Still, better boots than her body. Or she could get back in the car, crank the heat and wonder what she’d done to deserve this.

Her foot was on the first step down when she saw them—two cowboys on horseback cresting one of the low hills. Thalia gasped at the image before her—it was perfect. The sunset backlit the riders, giving them a halo of gold. Clouds of fog billowed from each of the horse’s noses, which made them look otherworldly. Powerful, with a hint of danger. The whole thing looked like something right out of a movie—and she would know. This is exactly how she wanted to introduce the character of Sean Bridger in Blood for Roses. She’d been right to push for signing James Robert Bradley. This was perfect. He was going to be perfect. She could see the Oscar nominations rolling in.

Plus, someone was here. She could go inside and warm up.

The riders slowed as one of them pointed in her general direction. She’d been spotted. Thank heavens. Much longer, and she wouldn’t be able to feel her legs anymore. She gave a hopeful wave, one that said, “Hi. I’m cold.” It must have worked, because one rider broke off and came charging toward the house at full speed.

Her optimism flipped over to fear in a heartbeat. This guy didn’t look like he was coming to greet her—he rode like he was going to run her down. Sure, Bradley didn’t want to be found—but he or whoever that was wouldn’t hurt her, would he? This wasn’t about to become a shoot-first-ask-later situation, was it? As quickly as she could without betraying her terror, she stepped back onto the porch and out of the line of those hooves.

Still, the rider came on at full speed, pulling up only when he was parallel with her rental. The horse, a shining palomino, reared back, hooves flailing as the steam from his mouth almost enveloped the two of them. The rider’s long coat fanned out behind him, giving her a glimpse of fringed chaps. If she hadn’t been so afraid, Thalia would have appreciated the artistry and sheer skill of the moment. As it was, she half expected to find herself looking down the barrel of a gun.

When the horse had settled down, the rider pulled the bandanna down. “Help you?” he said in the kind of voice that was anything but helpful.

Then she saw his eyes—the liquid amber that had been one of the defining characteristics of James Robert Bradley. She’d found him. The part of her brain that was still nineteen and watching him on the big screen in the movie Hell for Leather swooned, and swooned hard. God, she’d had the biggest crush on this man a decade ago. And now she was here, actually talking to People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. Sure, that had been thirteen years ago, but those eyes were still just as dreamy. She fought the urge to ask him for his autograph. The man was intimidating the hell out of her.

Not that she’d let him know that. The first rule of negotiating with actors was not to show weakness. Never let the other party know they held all the cards. So she sucked up what frozen courage she could and said, “James Robert Bradley?”

A look of weariness flashed over those beautiful eyes, then he said, “Miss, I’m not interested.”

“That’s only because you haven’t heard—”

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I appreciate the offer, but you can be on your way now.” He turned his mount toward one of the larger, newer barns.

“You didn’t even listen to what I have to say!” She took off after him, her thin heels wobbling on the uneven terrain. “Your agent told me you’d—”

“I’m going to fire him for this,” was the last thing she heard before Bradley disappeared into the barn.

Thalia pulled up. The wind was stronger in the middle of the drive, but she didn’t think following Bradley into the barn was in her best interests. He hadn’t even listened to the offer. How was she supposed to sign him to the movie when she couldn’t even get a civil reply out of him? And if she couldn’t sign him, how was she supposed to go into the office and tell her boss without losing her job?

She heard hoofbeats behind her, and turned to see the other rider approaching at a slow walk. “Howdy,” the cowboy said, tipping his hat. “Said no, didn’t he?”

Maybe it was the cold, or the blown plan, or the prospect of being unemployed in less than twenty-four hours. Whatever it was, Thalia felt her throat close up. Don’t cry, she thought, because nothing was less professional than crying over a rejection. Plus, the tears would freeze to her face. “He didn’t even listen to the offer.”

The cowboy gave her a once-over. “I’d be happy to take the part, miss, providing there’s a casting couch involved.” Then he winked.

Was he … laughing at her? She shook her head. Maybe he was joking. She couldn’t tell. “Thanks, but I was looking for—”

“An Oscar winner, yeah, I know. Wish I could help you, but … he’s pretty set in his ways.”

“Hoss,” came a shout from inside the barn.

“Boss man’s calling.” The cowboy named Hoss seemed to feel sorry for her.

“Could I at least leave my card? In case he changes his mind?”

“You could try, but …”

“Hoss!” The shout was more insistent this time. Hoss tipped his hat again and headed toward the barn.

So much for making progress. Yes, she’d found Bradley, and yes, seeing those eyes of his was probably worth the trip. Everything else? The wind was blowing away her body heat, her career and her crush. If she got in that car and drove away, she’d have nothing left. Levinson would fire her butt for failing to deliver the goods, and she’d be blacklisted. Like last time, when her affair with Levinson had blown up in her face. She couldn’t face having every professional door shut in her face a second time.

She needed Bradley in a way that had nothing to do with his eyes and everything to do with gainful employment.

At least the anger she currently felt was warm in nature. She’d lost contact with her toes, but she could still feel her fingers.

The barn door through which both men had disappeared slid shut.

This was her own fault, she realized. She was the one who had suggested Bradley for the role of Sean. She was the one who had convinced Levinson that even a recluse like Bradley wouldn’t be able to turn down the comeback role of a lifetime. She was the one who had staked her career on something that seemed so simple—getting a man to say yes.

She was the one who had bet wrong. And now she had to pay the price.

She marched back up to the front door, her head held high. That was the second rule of negotiations—never let them know they’ve won. Her hands were shaking, but she managed to get a business card out of her coat pocket and wedge it in the screen door. The whole time, she mentally tried to come up with some contingency plans. Maybe she’d caught Bradley at a bad time; she knew where he lived now, and she had his number. She could try again and again—as long as it took until he at least heard her out.

Thalia remained convinced that, if he would just listen to her pitch, he’d be interested in the role. Actors, as a rule, craved public adoration, and what could be better than an Oscar-worthy movie?

No, this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Still, hypothermia was becoming a risk. She wished she could go inside and warm up her hands and feet before she tried to drive, but it didn’t look like an invitation would be forthcoming. As she turned back to the Camry, she saw the headlights of another vehicle coming down the road. Someone else meant another opportunity to plead her case, so she put on her friendliest smile and waited.

A mud-splattered SUV rolled up, window down. Before the vehicle had even come to a stop, a woman with graying hair stuck her head out. “What are you doing outside?” she demanded.

“I was hoping to talk to Mr. Bradley.” Thalia kept her voice positive.

The woman gazed out at the barn. When her attention snapped back to Thalia, she looked mad enough to skin a cat. “And he left you out here? That man …” She shook her head in disgust. “Poor dear, you must be frozen. Can you wait long enough for me to pull around back and get the door open, or do you need to get in the car?”

Thalia loved this woman more than any other person in the whole world right now, because she was going to let Thalia inside. But she didn’t want this stranger to know how cold she was—or how long she’d been stuck in this frozen purgatory. “I can wait.” Her teeth chattered.

Without another word, the woman drove off. Thalia tried stamping her feet to keep the blood going, but it didn’t do much except send pain shooting up her legs. Just a few more seconds, she told herself.

However, it felt like several minutes passed with no movement from either inside the house or from the barn. Should have gotten in the car, she thought. Then the front door swung open, and the older woman pulled her inside.

“You’re frozen stiff!” she said in a clucking voice as she wrapped Thalia in what felt like a bearskin and pulled her deeper into the house. Thalia didn’t have time to take in her surroundings before she found herself plunked down in a plush leather chair. Before her was a fire burning brightly in a massive stone fireplace that took up most of a wall.

Rubbing her hands together, she scooted forward to soak up the heat.

“I’m Minnie Red Horse, by the way. Let’s get those boots off you. Nice boots, but not the best for winter out here.”

“Thalia. Thorne.” That was all she could get out as her blood began to pump through her frozen extremities. When Minnie pulled the boots off, Thalia couldn’t keep the cry of pain out of her voice.

“Poor dear. You sit there and warm up. I’ll make you some tea.” Minnie stood and pulled the mesh covers off the fireplace before she stoked the logs. The flames jumped up, and Thalia felt closer to human.

“Thank you. So much.” She managed to look at what she was wearing. Definitely an animal skin, which kind of creeped her out, but it was warm, so she ignored whatever PETA would say about it.

She heard Minnie shuffling around behind her. Thalia managed to sit up enough to look around. She was at one end of a long room. Behind her was a plank table, big enough to seat six. Beyond that was an open kitchen with rustic cabinets and a lot of marble. The whole effect was like something out of Architectural Digest—and far beyond the small ranch house her grandpa had spent his whole life in.

As big as the place seemed, it had looked much larger from the outside. Minnie had a kettle on. “Where are you from, Thalia?”

“Los Angeles.” She tried wiggling her toes, but it still hurt, so she quit.

“You’re a long way from home, sweetie. How long you been traveling?”

Thalia decided she liked Minnie, above and beyond the warm fire and the tea. It’d been a long time since anyone had called her sweetie. Not since Grandpa had died. Mom was more fond of dear. “My flight left LAX at 3:30 this morning.”

“Goodness, you made that whole trip in one day?” Minnie walked over and handed Thalia a steaming mug. “That’s quite a journey. Where are you staying tonight?”

“Um …” She’d had a plan, but her head was fuzzy right now. “I have a room in Billings.”

Minnie gave her a look that landed somewhere between concern and pity. “You realize that’s five hours away, and it’s already near sunset, right? That’s a long drive in the dark.”

Thalia hadn’t realized how far away Billings was from the Bar B Ranch when she’d booked the room, and given her current state, five hours seemed like five days. How was she going to make it that far? The drive out had been hard enough, and that had been during daylight hours. Fighting that wind in the dark on strange roads was kind of a scary thought.

“Here’s what you’re going to do.” Minnie patted her arm after Thalia took several sips of the tea. “You’re going to sit right here until you feel better, and then you’re going to have dinner. You came through Beaverhead, right?”

Thalia nodded, trying not to snicker at the juvenile name. Minnie’s tone made it clear that dinner was nonnegotiable, but Thalia wasn’t sure she could have hopped up and bailed if she’d tried. Her toes hurt.

“Lloyd has rooms he rents—as close as we’ve got to a motel ‘round these parts.” Thalia didn’t have a clue as to what Minnie was talking about, but she was in no position to argue. She took another sip of tea, loving the way the warmth raced down her throat and spread through her stomach.

“I’ll tell him you’ll be by later,” Minnie went on, as if Thalia was still with her. “That’s only forty minutes away. You can make that.”

Thalia nodded again. Now that she was returning to normal, she seemed to have lost her words.

Minnie gave her a tender smile. “I’ve got to see to dinner, but you rest up.” She stood and headed back to the kitchen area, muttering, “All the way from L.A. in one day!” and “That man …” as she went.

Thalia settled back into the chair, still sipping the tea. She knew she needed to be game-planning dinner with Bradley, but her brain was mushy.

She heard a door open. Men’s voices filled the space. One was grumbling about the weather, but the other—Bradley’s—said, “Minnie, what the hell is—”

Is she still doing here. That’s what he was going to say. After all, he’d pretty much kicked her off his land, and now she was sitting in his house. He sounded none-too-happy about the whole prospect. How was she going to make it through dinner with him? She debated thanking Minnie for the tea and leaving, but then the smell of pot roast filled the air and Thalia realized that she hadn’t eaten anything since she’d grabbed a sandwich in the airport. The Denver airport—eight hours ago.

“Now, now!” Thalia wasn’t watching the conversation—listening was bad enough—but she could imagine Minnie waggling a finger at James Robert Bradley like he was a child and she was the boss. “You boys go on and get cleaned up.

Dinner will be ready by and by.”

“I don’t want—”

“I said, go! Shoo!”

Thalia grinned in spite of herself at the mental image that filled out that conversation. The thought of Minnie, who was on the petite side of things and probably in her late forties, scolding James Robert Bradley was nothing short of hilarious.

She was safe, for now. Minnie was going to feed her and make sure she was warm. Thalia settled back into the comfy chair, her eyelids drooping as she watched the flames dance before her. She needed to figure out how to convince Bradley to listen to her without him throwing her out of the house. She needed a plan.

But first, she needed to rest. Just a little bit.

Two

J.R. was a grown man and, as such, did not stomp and pout when he didn’t get his way. Instead, he grumbled. Loudly.

“This is my house, by God,” he grumbled as he went up the back stairs.

“That it is,” Hoss agreed behind him.

Hoss was always quick to agree when the facts were incontrovertible. “I’m the boss around here,” J.R. added, more to himself than to his best friend.

“Most days,” Hoss said with a snort.

J.R. shot the man a dirty look over his shoulder. “Every day,” he said with more force than he needed. He was overreacting, but damn if that woman hadn’t tripped every single alarm bell in his head.

They reached the second floor. Hoss’s room was at the far end, Minnie’s was in the middle across from two guest rooms that never saw a guest and J.R.’s was at the other.

“She don’t look dangerous.” Hoss scratched at his throat in his lazy way, which J.R. knew was entirely deceptive.

“Shows what you know,” J.R. replied. He knew exactly how dangerous innocent-looking people—women—from Hollywood could be. “She’s not to be trusted.”

Damn, but he hated when Hoss gave him that look—the look that said he was being a first-class jerk. Rather than stand here in his chaps and argue the finer points of women, J.R. turned and walked—not stomped—down to his room.

He needed a hot shower in the worst way. His face was still half-frozen from riding out to check on the cattle and buffalo. He shut his bedroom door firmly—not slamming it—and began to strip off the layers. First went the long coat, then the chaps, then the jeans and sweater, followed by the two layers of long underwear and T-shirts. Despite being bundled up like a baby, he was still cold.

And that woman—the one sitting in his chair, in front of his fire—had shown up here in nothing but a skirt. And tights. And those boots, the ones that went almost up to her knees. “Stupid,” he muttered to himself as he cranked his shower on high. What was she thinking, wearing next to nothing when the wind chill was somewhere around minus forty degrees below? She wasn’t thinking, that’s what. Hollywood types were notoriously myopic, and there was no doubt in J.R.’s mind that she was a Hollywood type.

The hot water rushed over him. J.R. bowed his head and let the water hit his shoulders. Against his will, his mind turned back to those boots, those tights. Those legs. Yeah, that woman clearly underestimated the force of winter in Montana. Probably thought that little coat was enough to keep her warm.

The moment he caught himself wondering what was under that coat, J.R. slammed on the brakes. He was not some green kid, distracted by a pretty face and a great body. No matter how blue her lips had been, that didn’t make up for the fact that she’d come looking for James Robert Bradley. She wanted that name—the name J.R. had buried deep in Big Sky country eleven years ago. She wasn’t here for him.

No one was ever here for him.

Except Minnie and Hoss, he reminded himself. They were his friends, his family and his crew all rolled into one. They knew who he really was, and that was good enough for him.

Warm and clean, he flipped off the water and rubbed down with the towel. He was going to fire Bernie. Hell, he should have fired the man years ago, but Bernie was his one thin link to his old life. He got J.R. some nice voice-over work and had, up until now, kept J.R.’s whereabouts to himself.

What had that woman dangled in front of Bernie’s greedy little eyes to make him give her directions to the ranch? She had to be good at what she did. Not good enough to dress warmly, but J.R. knew that he could expect the full-court press from her for whatever she wanted James Robert Bradley to do.

He slid into a clean pair of jeans, making sure to put all the dirty things in the hamper. If he didn’t, he’d have to listen to Minnie go on and on about men this and men that. It was easier to pick up after himself. Plus—not that he’d tell Minnie this—he preferred things neat. Clean.

Simple.

J.R. went to grab a shirt and paused. His hand was on his favorite flannel, the one he’d worn so much the collar was fraying. Minnie kept threatening to make a rag of it, but so far, she’d done no such thing.

Maybe he should put on something a little nicer. A little less tattered. He could clean up well, after all. Maybe he should …

Was he serious? Was he actually standing in his closet, debating what to wear because some uninvited, unwanted female had barged into his house? Was he hard up or what?

His brain, ever resourceful, rushed in to remind him it had been two years and seven months since his last failed attempt at a relationship. Pretty much the textbook definition of hard up.

Didn’t matter. She wasn’t welcome here. And after he humored Minnie at dinner, he’d make sure she left his property and never, ever came back. He grabbed his favorite shirt. Frays be damned.

His resolve set, he shoved his feet into his house moccasins and threw his door open.

And almost walked right into Minnie Red Horse.

“What?” he asked, so startled by the small woman that he actually jumped back.

He didn’t jump far enough, though. Minnie reached up and poked him in the chest. “You listen to me, young man. You will be nice and polite tonight.”

Immediately, he went on the defensive. “Oh, it’s my fault she doesn’t know it’s winter out here?”

“I am ashamed to think that you left her out there in the wind, J.R. I thought that you knew better than to treat a guest like that.”

He felt the hackles on the back of his neck go up. Minnie had already busted out the big, shame-based guns. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t work—he hated to disappoint Minnie in any way. But, he was a reformed actor. Lying used to be his entire life. So he slapped on a stern look and glared at Minnie. “She’s not a guest. She’s a trespasser, Minnie. And if I recall correctly, you’re the one who shot at the last trespasser.”

That had been the nail in the coffin of his last failed relationship. He’d been trying to decide if he loved Donna or not when he’d invited her to spend the night at the ranch. Things had been going fine until he took her up to his room. There, she’d taken one look at James Robert Bradley’s Oscar, his photos, his life—and everything had changed. All she had talked about was how he was really famous, and why on earth hadn’t he told her, and this was so amazing, that she was here with him. Except she hadn’t been. She’d thought she was with James Robert. In the space of a minute, she’d forgotten that J.R. had even existed.

He’d broken up with her a few weeks later, and then, like clockwork, a few weeks after that, a man with an expensive camera had come snooping around. J.R. had been in the barn with Hoss when they’d heard the crunch of tires. J.R. had wanted to go out and confront the stranger, but Hoss had held him back. Rifle in hand, Minnie had been the one to claim that she’d never heard of anyone named Bradley, and if she saw that man again, she’d shoot him. Then she’d put a few bullets a few feet from the man, and that had been the end of that.

“That man was a parasite,” Minnie said. “This is different. She’s not like that.”

“How would you know? She’s here for James Robert. She wants something, Minnie. She’ll ruin everything we’ve got, everything I’ve worked so hard for.”

Minnie rolled her eyes. “Stop being so dramatic. Call it woman’s intuition, or my Indian senses, my maternal instincts—whatever floats your boat. That woman is not a threat to you or any of us.” She jabbed a finger back into J.R.’s chest. “And I expect you to be a gentleman. Do I make myself clear?”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Minnie. You’re not my—” Before the immature retort was all the way out, J.R. bit it back. Not soon enough, though.

A pained shadow crossed over Minnie’s face, which made J.R. feel like the biggest jerk in the world. The fact was, Minnie had offered to adopt him a few years after they’d settled into the ranch. Oh, not the legal, court-based adoption—J.R. was a grown man—but she’d asked him if he wanted to be adopted into her family through the Lakota tribe. The fact was, she’d always been more of a mother to him than his own flesh-and-blood mother had ever been. The Red Horse family was his family. That was all there was to it.

J.R. had said no. He’d claimed he wasn’t comfortable being a white man in an American Indian tribe, which was true. He knew that if word got out that James Robert Bradley had been adopted into a Lakota tribe, the storm of gossip would hurt everyone, not just him. And he couldn’t hurt Minnie or Hoss.

Any more than he had. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “It’s just …”

Minnie patted his arm. “It’s okay. You’re a little … spooked.”

“Yeah.” Not that he’d want Hoss to know that, but Minnie and all of her womanly, Indian-y intuition already understood, so denying it was pointless. The woman downstairs had spooked him.

“Despite that, I expect both of my boys to be nice and polite.” Her gaze flicked down over his frayed collar. “Respectable, even.”

That was how fights with Minnie went. J.R. was the boss, but she was the mother. Forgiveness was quick and easy, not the dance of death it had been with Norma Bradley.

“I’m not taking the part. Whatever she wants, I’m not doing it.”

“Did I say anything about that? No, I did not. All I said was that you were going to be a gentleman to our guest.”

“Not my guest.”

“Our visitor, then.” Minnie looked like she wanted to poke him again, but she didn’t. “Do it for me, J.R. Do you know how long it’s been since we had a visitor out here? Months, that’s how long. I want to talk to someone besides you two knuckleheads, and if it’s a woman who’s got the latest gossip? All the better.”

J.R. sighed. Minnie had a huge weak spot for gossip. She subscribed to all the tabloids, read TMZ every day and probably knew more about the goings-on in the entertainment industry than he did. “One meal. Humor me. And don’t worry, I wasn’t going to ask her to stay, despite the fact that it’s late and the winds are terrible.”

He ignored the unveiled attempt at guilt. She was right. He owed her, and if that meant pretending they were having a girls-night-in for dinner, well, he’d suck it up. “That’s good.”

“I got her a room at Lloyd’s.” With that semidefiant statement, Minnie turned on her heel and headed back to her kitchen domain. “Dinner’s in fifteen,” she called back, loud enough that Hoss could hear her in his room.

Great, just great, J.R. thought as he hung his favorite shirt back up and pulled the green flannel Minnie had gotten him for Christmas off the hanger. Somehow, he knew that forty miles wasn’t enough space between him and the woman from Hollywood.

A few minutes later, he headed down to the kitchen. Minnie was checking on something in the oven. “Tell her dinner’s ready,” she said without looking at him.

She was punishing him, pure and simple. Bad enough that he deserved it, but still.

J.R. headed down to his chair at the far end of the room. All he could see of the stranger was her golden hair peeking out from above the chair’s back. The color was the kind of blond that spoke of sun-swept days at the beach, but he’d put money on it being fake.

Aw, hell. She was asleep. Slouched way down in the chair, Minnie’s buffalo robe falling off her shoulders—her mouth open enough to make her look completely kissable. J.R. swallowed that observation back, but it wasn’t easy. Her now-bootless legs were stretched out before her, and the patterned tights seemed to go on forever. Lord. Despite a second attempt at swallowing, his mouth had gone bone-dry. “Miss?”

She didn’t move. Her head was resting on one hand; the other hand was wrapped around her waist. Minnie was right. The woman didn’t look like she was capable of destroying his life.

Looks weren’t everything, he reminded himself. He couldn’t let his guard down. That thought, however, didn’t stop him from sitting on his heels in front of her. Her hair had been slicked back into some fancy twist, but now parts of it had come loose, falling around her face in a way that was messy and beautiful at the same time. Some parts of him hadn’t gotten the message, it seemed, because he wanted to do nothing more than brush that hair away from her face.

He didn’t. Instead, he gave her shoulder a gentle shake before he jerked his hand back. As if a sleeping woman could bite him. “Miss, wake up.”

She jolted, her eyelids fluttering open. J.R. braced himself for the reaction when she realized he was close enough to trap. Would she immediately launch into her pitch or go for cloying flattery?

When her eyes focused on him, a small smile curved the corners of her mouth. Here it comes, J.R. thought.

“It’s you,” she breathed. The warm glow in her eyes didn’t seem connected to the fire behind him, and the soft adoration in her voice should have grated on his every nerve. But it didn’t.

“Yup. It’s me.” Which felt weirdly personal, because he knew she wasn’t here for him, but for the man he used to be.

Then time froze—absolutely froze—as he watched her stretch out a hand and trace the tips of her fingers down his cheek and over his ten-day-old beard. The touch was way more than weirdly personal—it was downright, damnably erotic. The sudden shift of blood from his brain to other parts made him almost dizzy. Hell, yeah, she’d look this good waking up in his bed, and if he had her there, he would be damn sure it wouldn’t stop with a little pat on the cheek.

What the hell was he thinking?

That was the problem. He wasn’t.

He must have pulled back without realizing it, because she dropped her hand and blinked a whole bunch more. “Oh. Oh,” she said, and he could see the consciousness dawning. “Um …”

Desperate to put a little more space between him and this woman who had spooked him in more ways than one, J.R. stood up and back. “Dinner’s ready,” he added, because that was the safest thing to say. Also, the most honest.

The woman dropped her eyes, warmth racing across her cheeks. Did she feel the same confusion he did? Don’t flatter yourself, he thought. Of course she was confused. He’d woken her up from a dead sleep. She had a good excuse to feel a little lost right now.

He didn’t.

She smoothed her hair back, but several of the locks refused to stay. “I had some boots,” she said. All the softness was gone from her voice now, and she sounded more like the woman who had barged into his life.

“Right here.” He picked up her boots from where Minnie had propped them by the fire and handed them to her.

She made sure not to touch him when she took them. And he should not have been disappointed by that. “Is there … I need to wash up …”

Women in general—and this woman in particular—should not look quite so innocent when they blushed. “Sure.” He pointed to the bathroom that was behind her.

She turned, but then stopped. “Should I leave this here?” She motioned to the robe.

The way she said this made it clear that she wasn’t sure she trusted it. “Minnie’s buffalo robe? Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Oh. A buffalo robe.” Some of her blush disappeared as she paled. What did she think it was? Maybe she was one of those strident vegetarians. Instead of launching into an animal-rights lecture, she put on a weak smile and said, “Okay, thanks,” before she went to the bathroom.

Well, if that didn’t beat all. Where was the full-court press? Where were the obnoxious compliments designed to sway his ego? Nowhere. All he got was someone who, for a sleepy second, looked happy to see him.

Dinner was a huge mistake. He debated hiding in his room until the woman—whose name he still did not know—left. Then he caught Minnie giving him a wallop of a glare from the other side of the room as she tapped a wooden spoon on the counter. Right, right. He’d promised to be nice and polite, which probably didn’t include hiding.

So he set the table instead. Hoss finally clumped down the stairs, just as J.R. was finishing. For a man who wasn’t afraid of putting in a hard day’s work on the range, Hoss had the unique ability to never be present when a small household chore needed to be done. “Well?”

Minnie flashed her wooden spoon like it was a weapon. “She’s staying for dinner, and you will behave or else.”

“When am I not a perfect angel?” Hoss gave her his best puppy eyes, but it didn’t work. “Can I at least sit by her?”

“No.” J.R. didn’t mean to sound so possessive; it burst out of him.

Minnie shot him a funny look. “No, I’m going to sit by her. You two are going to sit in your normal spots and keep your hands, feet and all other objects to yourself. Clear?”

Hoss met J.R.’s gaze and lifted one eyebrow, as if to say, game on. Jeez, if Hoss was acting this much the cad now, how much of a pain would he become when he saw her all warmed up? “Yes, ma’am.”

Then a noise at the other end of the room drew their attention. The woman was standing by the chair now, her hair fixed, her boots on and her coat off. Whoa. The gray wool dress she had on was cut close, revealing a knockout figure that went with her knockout legs. Either she was stunning—hell, she was stunning—or she’d had a good plastic surgeon. One never could be sure when it came to Hollywood types.

Then her gaze locked on to his, and he swore he felt the same dizzy charge that he’d felt when she’d touched him, only this time, there was a clear thirty feet of space between them.

She’s not here for you, J.R. practically shouted at himself. She’s here for James Robert.

Damn shame she wasn’t there for him, though.

“Whoa,” Hoss muttered next to him, and Minnie promptly smacked his butt with the spoon. “Ow!”

“Feeling better?” Minnie pushed past J.R. and went to greet her visitor.

“Much, thanks.” The woman gave Minnie a friendly smile. “Where should I put my coat?”

“Lay it on the chair. I’ll make the introductions.” Minnie took her by the arm and led her to where J.R. and Hoss were gaping like horny seventh graders. “This is Hoss Red Horse, and J. R. Bradley.”

J.R. rolled his eyes—obviously the woman knew who he was. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be here.

“Boys,” Minnie went on, giving them both the warning stink eye, “this is Thalia Thorne.”

Hoss stuck out his hand. “A pleasure, Ms. Thorne.” Miracle of miracles, that was all he said.

“Nice to meet you … Hoss.” She looked from him to Minnie. “Are you two related?”

Hoss’s polite grin dialed right over into trouble. “Yeah, but she don’t like people to know I’m her son. Makes her feel old or something.”

Minnie hit him with the spoon again, which caused Thalia to stifle a giggle. Her eyes still laughed, though.

Not that J.R. was staring or anything.

Then those eyes—a clear, deep blue—shifted to him, and she held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, J.R.”

He couldn’t do anything but stare at her. She wasn’t going to insist on calling him James Robert? Just like that?

Minnie cleared her throat and shot him a dangerous glare. Right. Acknowledging that she’d spoken to him was probably the nice, polite thing to do. “Likewise, Thalia.” Against his better judgment, he took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. Heat flowed between them. Probably because she’d warmed up in front of the fire. Yeah, that was it.

That small, curved smile danced over her nice lips and was then gone. “Dinner smells wonderful, Minnie. I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal.”

There was the flattery, and boy, was it working on Minnie. She blushed and grinned and shooed all of them to the table, saying, “Sit by me, dear, so we can talk.”

Of course, sitting by Minnie also turned out to be sitting by J.R., as Thalia was on the corner between him and Minnie. His thoughts immediately turned to the patterned tights under the table—and their close proximity to his own legs—way more than they should have. Man, he was hard up.

How the hell was he going to make it through dinner?

Three

“So, tell us about yourself,” Minnie said to Thalia as she passed a basket of piping hot corn muffins around the table.

J.R. waited. Everyone waited, including Hoss, which was saying something. Hoss wasn’t seriously trying to make a move on this woman, was he? In front of his own mother? Ugh. This whole thing couldn’t be more awkward, J.R. decided.

“I’m an associate producer.” J.R. couldn’t help but notice she looked at Hoss and Minnie—but not at him. “I work for Bob Levinson at Halcyon Pictures.”

“He’s an ass.” The moment the words left his mouth, Minnie looked like she would smack him upside the head with the spoon—if only their “visitor” wasn’t sitting in between the two of them. “Pardon my language.”

One of those quick, nervous smiles darted over Thalia’s face. But she still didn’t quite meet his eyes. The closest she got was more in the region of his shoulder. What the hell kind of new negotiating tactic was this—ignore the person you were trying to ensnare? “It’s true he has a certain reputation.”

A certain reputation? J.R. had had the intense displeasure of working on two Levinson movies—Colors That Run and The Cherry Trees—and both had been sheer torture tests. On his good days, Levinson had been demeaning and derogatory. On his worst days, he had inspired J.R. to envision creative ways to off the man. He couldn’t imagine Levinson had mellowed with age. His kind never did. They just got more and more caustic, leaving nothing but scorched earth behind them.

And, in Levinson’s case, a growing list of Oscar winners. He was an ass, all right, but because he delivered the box office returns and the shiny little gold men, everyone in Hollywood gave him a free pass. Except J.R., who wasn’t in Hollywood anymore.

And this Thalia—who looked soft and could pull off innocent—worked directly for him. In so many ways, she was not trustworthy.

“Are you famous?” Hoss asked.

J.R. shot Hoss a dirty look, which earned him a grin that bordered on predatory. Did Hoss think he had a shot? Hell, no.

Thalia’s laugh was small but polite. “Only to my mother. Every time one of my movies comes to Norman, Oklahoma, she rounds up a bunch of friends.” Hints of color graced her cheeks, but she showed no other sign of being embarrassed by this. “They sit through the credits and when my name rolls by, they all stand and cheer. And I’m famous for a whole three minutes.”

“So you’re not originally from California?” Minnie’s eyes were bright and her smile was huge. She was having fun, J.R. realized. That made him feel better. Not much, but a little.

“No, I’ve only been there for about ten years.”

“What does an associate producer do?” Hoss was nailing nice and polite right out of the gate, which only made J.R. look worse. When Hoss was rewarded with a nice smile, J.R. had to fight the urge to kick him under the table. Hoss was not her type. True, J.R. didn’t know exactly what her type was, but Hoss was a decent, honest, hardworking fellow, even if he was a bit of a joker. In other words, he was the kind of man that women like Thalia Thorne probably ate for breakfast.

“A little bit of everything. I scout locations, arrange funding and hire talent.” She managed to say that entire line without looking at J.R. The amount of effort she put into not looking at him broadcast that she knew he was here, loud and clear.

“I was in a movie once.” J.R. fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Me and Minnie, we were extra Native Americans in Hell for Leather.” Hoss shook his head in mock sadness. “First, I got killed, then they cut my part. That’s why I gave up Hollywood and stuck to ranching, you know.”

What a load of crap. Mostly true crap—everything except that last line, which J.R. took as a personal attack. He was about to punch Hoss in the arm when Thalia giggled. “Is that so? Fame can be fickle like that.”

“Sure can.” Hoss shot him a look that said one thing, and one thing only—I’m winning. “Were you always a producer?”

“Not originally. I wanted to be an actress.” Thalia’s voice got that soft quality again. “I came close—I had a three-episode arc on Alias—that girl-next-door-superspy show.” Then her eyes brightened and she gave Hoss a grin that said she was in on the joke. “I got killed, too. It’s murder on one’s career to be dying all the time.”

A former actress? Another strike against her—or it should have been. The way she’d said it felt like she’d plucked a single string somewhere inside J.R. and that string hummed in recognition.

So what? Hollywood was the land of broken dreams. He would not be swayed by a calculated play on his sympathies. “Do you know that Jennifer Garner?” When Thalia nodded, Minnie’s eyes lit up. “I always wondered if she was a nice person or if she’d kill you.”

“She’s normal—but the baby showers! You should have seen the gifts!” As Thalia revealed all sorts of firsthand details and Minnie ate it up, J.R. noticed that everything she said was warm and friendly. Nothing malicious passed her lips.

Not that he was thinking about her lips. That wasn’t it at all.

No, he was thinking Minnie’s sixth sense might be right—Thalia Thorne didn’t act like someone who’d come digging for dirt. But she’d come for something. What was the question. He knew it was only a matter of time before she got around to it.

She didn’t seem in a hurry, though. Instead, she ate and talked like they were all the oldest of friends while Minnie passed around the pot roast and the potatoes. They were J.R.’s favorite kind, smashed red potatoes with rosemary and garlic, but tonight, nothing tasted good. To him, anyway. Thalia sat there oohing and aahing over everything, and Minnie looked like she’d hit the jackpot. Lord, it was irritating. It was almost as if he wasn’t even sitting at the table.

“So, what brings you out our way?” Minnie kept her tone light and friendly, but there was no mistaking that this was the question on everyone’s mind. Including J.R.’s.

Her gaze cast down, Thalia wiped her mouth with her napkin. For a second, J.R. almost felt sorry for her. So far, she hadn’t done a single thing he’d expected of her, and he got the sense that she knew exactly how far she’d overreached.

Then she squared her shoulders. “I’m working on a movie tentatively titled Blood for Roses. It’s slated to be released next December.”

Just in time to be considered for Levinson’s required slew of Oscars, no doubt. “What’s it about?” Hoss was now leaning forward, eyes on Thalia as if every word that fell from her mouth was a ruby.

“It’s a Western set in Kansas after the Civil War. A family of freed slaves tries to start a new life, but some of the locals aren’t too keen on the idea.” She cleared her throat. This was the pitch, no doubt, but she came off as hesitant to make it. Like she knew that J.R. was going to throw her out, and she didn’t want to go yet. “Eastwood is attached to direct, Freeman has signed on and we’re in talks with Denzel.”

It was an impressive roster. No doubt Levinson was hoping to break nomination records.

“Oh, I love Denzel, especially when he’s playing the bad guy.” Thalia had Minnie already, that much was clear. “Have you met him? Is he as sexy in real life as he is in the movies?”

“It’s not quite the same,” Thalia admitted, “although he is quite good-looking.” She shrugged. “When you’re around famous people long enough, you stop worrying so much about who’s the most famous or who’s the hottest. Sooner or later, it has to come down to whether or not they’re someone you can work with.” This blanket statement that could only be described as reasonable hung out there before she added, “Having said that, Denzel is someone that almost everyone enjoys working with, and his wife is lovely.”

Then she looked at him. Not the kind of look that asked if he’d bought what she was selling, but the kind of look that seemed to be asking for understanding.

What the hell was this?

“So what part did you have in mind for him?” Hoss jerked his chin toward J.R. with all the subtlety of a dead skunk in the middle of the road.

She favored J.R. with another look that was lost in the no-man’s-land of apologetic and sympathetic. It made her look vulnerable, honest even—which was completely disarming. He didn’t like that look or how it plucked at those strings inside him, not one bit. “I thought James Robert Bradley would be perfect for the role of Sean Bridger, the grizzled Confederate Civil War vet who unexpectedly finds himself helping defend the freedmen’s land.” Her face was almost unreadable, but he could see the pulse at the base of her neck pounding. “I wanted to see if you’d be interested in the part, J.R.”

Getting him signed on was her idea, not Levinson’s? Wait. There was something more to what she’d said. He scrambled to replay it while keeping his own face blank. She’d thought James Robert was perfect—but she’d asked him, J.R., if he was interested. Her gaze held tight to his, and he felt that flow of energy between them again. She’d been right to avoid looking at him before—he could get all kinds of lost in her ice-blue eyes. Because now she was not just looking at him, but into him, through all the walls he’d thrown up between James Robert Bradley and J.R. That’s why she wasn’t doing the full-court press. She understood the difference between his two lives. Understood it, and possibly even respected it.

She was more dangerous than he’d thought possible.

Eastwood to direct. Freeman and Washington to star. The who’s who of people who could pull off a Western—and she’d thought of him. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered, but that didn’t change things. “I’m not interested.”

Not in the part, anyway. He managed to break eye contact, which snapped the tension between them.

“Any Indians in this movie?” For once, J.R. didn’t want Hoss to shut up. It’d be better for everyone if Hoss did all the talking.

She was silent for two beats too long. He shouldn’t care that he’d disappointed her, so he ignored the inconvenient emotion.

“Sadly, no. I believe they were all pushed off the land before our story begins. If something opens up, I’ll be sure to keep you in mind.”

Conversation seemed to die after that, as if no one knew what was supposed to be said next. J.R. wanted her to leave and take this discomfort with her. He didn’t want her to look at him—through him—anymore. He didn’t want to think about her pretty eyes or long legs, and he sure as hell didn’t want her to give him another just-woke-up, so-glad-to-see-you look of longing. And if she wouldn’t leave, he had a good mind to bail.

But he’d promised Minnie to be polite. So he focused on eating the food that was tasteless. After a few moments, Minnie asked another question about some actor, and Thalia responded with what felt like a little too much forced enthusiasm.

“Now, I’ve got a chocolate cake or there’s blondies,” Minnie said, which meant J.R. was almost free.

“Oh, thank you so much, but I need to get on the road.” Thalia glanced at him and added, “This has been wonderful, and you’ve been more than kind, but I couldn’t possibly take up any more of your time.”

“At least take some of the blondies. I insist.” Minnie was up and moving. She never let anyone leave without an extra meal.

“I’ll get the dishes.” Hoss started clearing the table, which wasn’t like him at all.

Before J.R. could process Hoss’s sudden reversal of his no-housework policy, he found himself sitting alone with Thalia. It’s not that he was afraid to look at her, afraid to feel the way her presence pulled on parts of him he pretended he’d forgotten existed. Wasn’t that at all. He didn’t want to give her another chance to make her case. He didn’t want to tell her no again. He’d already done it twice. Once should have been enough.

Nice. Polite. He could feel Minnie’s eyes boring a hole in the back of his head. What the hell? He’d never see her again anyway. “What are you going to tell Levinson?”

“I’m not sure.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her eyebrows knot together. She looked worried. For some reason, that bothered him.

“You seem like …” Aw, hell. Was he about to pay her a compliment? “You seem like a nice person. What are you doing working for him?”

Her gaze locked on to his, and that connection he didn’t want to feel was right there, pulling on him more and more. “I’ve found that life often takes you places you’d never thought you’d go.”

She was doing it again, looking right into him. So what if what she said made all kinds of sense? So what if she came off as decent? So what if she was completely at ease with Minnie and Hoss?

She didn’t belong here. She might well go back and tell Levinson all sorts of fabricated crap. He might find himself on the cover of next week’s Star, and he might find more people freezing to death on his property, trying to snap a picture of the elusive James Robert Bradley.

“Here we are.” Saved by dessert, J.R. thought as Minnie bustled up to the table. “Now don’t try to get to Billings tonight. Here’s directions to Lloyd’s place. I’ll call him and let him know you’re on your way. And our number’s here—” she tapped on the paper “—so call me when you get there.”

J.R. cleared his throat in the most menacing way possible. Minnie was giving out their number? When did that become a good idea? Never, that’s when.

“I want to make sure you get there, safe and sound.” Minnie said the words to Thalia, but she shot the look of death at J.R.

Thalia didn’t acknowledge his rudeness. Instead, she thanked Minnie and Hoss with such warmth that it felt like they were all old friends. Hoss got her coat and, doing his best impersonation of a gentleman, held it for her.

After Thalia buttoned up, she turned to face him. J.R. was torn between not looking at her so she’d leave faster and looking at her good and long. He wasn’t going to see her again, and he certainly didn’t want to, but he knew that the memory of her strange visit would haunt him for a long time after she left. He wanted to make sure he remembered her as she was.

“J.R.” That was all she said as she extended her hand.

He shouldn’t shake—for his own sanity if nothing else—but if he didn’t, Minnie might stop feeding him. Suck it up, he thought. So what if she was maybe the only other woman on the planet—besides Minnie—to call him J.R. after she knew about James Robert? Didn’t matter. She was leaving and that was that. “Thalia.”

Her skin was soft and much warmer now. A look crossed her face, almost the same as the one she’d given him when he woke her up earlier—except she was wide awake now. That look was going to stay with him. He wanted to be annoyed with it, and with her, but he couldn’t be.

“It’s been such a pleasure meeting you.” When Minnie started talking, Thalia let go of his hand. “You’re welcome back anytime, Thalia.”

Everyone paused, like they were waiting for him to say something gruff or rude, but J.R. held his tongue. Part of him wanted to see her again, to see if she was really like this, or if the whole evening had been an elaborate act designed to lull him into complacency.

He wanted to see if she’d still look at him like that. Into him, like that.

Minnie walked her to her car. Hoss watched them from the front window. But J.R. stood rooted to the spot.

He wanted to see her again.

He hoped like hell he never did.

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