Mystic Cowboy(16)

He was more than aware that Dr. Madeline Mitchell was wearing a skirt today. A blue-jean skirt that came to just below her knees but hugged everything it touched like an old friend. Her legs were pale, almost milk-white. Those legs said she didn’t normally wear skirts. Those legs said she had a good reason for wearing that skirt.

She had on those boots again too. They were right pretty boots, he figured, chestnut with blue stitching. Matched her eyes. But they pinched her feet. He could tell by the way she splayed her feet out to the side when she walked. Probably blisters on the heels. He thought about making her a pair of mocs, then realized he was thinking of the pair he’d seen in the vision. They’d look good on her.

However, even if he made her a nice pair of mocs, she might very well throw them back in his face. After all, she’d seriously considered calling Tim on him yesterday—as if Tim would actually arrest him. But she didn’t know that.

She spun around and caught him watching her. Her hands flew to her hair again—this time, it was tied in a low tail. It swung down to just between her shoulder blades. He liked it down, but something about it seemed off. Not quite right.

A fact that was not helped by the way her face twisted into something ferocious as she walked up to him. “Hello, Rebel.” She sounded like she’d hit a piece of gristle in the middle of a good steak, but it didn’t matter. She’d said his name. It had the potential to be music to his ears. “Back again?”

He willed his leg to be still, and it ignored him. “Brought Irma in.”

Her eyes shifted to Irma, and she softened. It was a pretty thing to watch, to see the woman inside try to come out. “And you’re here to translate?”

Irma cackled, her good humor filling the room. “I don’t need no translator. I figure if I got to have someone drive me in, I might as well get someone easy on the eyes to do it, yeah?”

He chuckled with Irma, which helped keep him from staring at the prairie-fire blush that flamed across Madeline’s cheeks. Damn, she just got prettier all the time.

“Well. That’s...good.” She did a damn fine job of ignoring her physical reactions, Rebel decided. She was relieved that she wouldn’t need a translator, but she acted like it was no big deal. The boots were clearly rubbing her wrong, but she wore them anyway. She blushed like a schoolgirl, but refused to even acknowledge that he was getting to her.

Somewhere, deep inside a pissy doctor who couldn’t stand the sight of him, was a woman named Madeline. He thought he’d seen her yesterday, right about the time he’d thought about kissing her in the middle of the afternoon, just to see what she’d do. But the pissy doctor had overruled the woman named Madeline with such ease that she probably didn’t even know she’d done it. Second nature, that’s what it was.

He wanted to know what her first nature was. He could be patient if he had to be. But he wasn’t feeling patient today. Hence the fact that his leg would not stop jumping.

She was staring at him. And not in the good way. “Was there something else you needed?”

He’d bet money that particular look didn’t exactly win her friends, wherever she came from. She was that good at it. “Nope.”

Her lips thinned. “I’m sure you’ve got someplace else to be.”

“Not really.” She didn’t like someone challenging her directly, that much was clear. She was used to being in charge. Probably the oldest child, he decided.

Her hand slicked back, smoothing her ponytail again. As far as personal tics went, it was odd. “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

He settled his butt into the chair. “Not today.” Not when he could sit here all day and watch her fight herself. Beads would keep.

In a flash, her demeanor changed and she smiled, the smile of a woman who got exactly what she wanted. His blood ran hot. “Good. Then I’m sure you won’t mind helping Clarence unload the supplies. Since you’re so familiar with my stock closet.”

Oh, he’d like to be familiar with a whole lot more than that. But if she wanted him to prove himself by carrying boxes, then so be it. At least then he’d have a good reason for still being here. “Yes, ma’am.”

“The white Jeep,” she said, dismissing him with a wave. “Irma? Come on back.”

He had to look around, but he finally found the white Jeep parked in back. He should have guessed that a vehicle that nice and new was hers. Not many cars like that around here. And who would buy a white car? Back when he’d gone off the rez, white cars were all driven by drivers paid good money just to take wealthy old ladies from point A to point B. She didn’t look that old.