Mystic Cowboy(92)

“Really?” She was tempted not to believe him. Someone from off the rez had come and taken things seriously? It never happened.

Wait. She’d come from the outside. She’d taken things seriously by just doing her job.

Rebel nodded in agreement, a knowing smile on his face. “Now you need to let Jesse do his. He’s Nelly’s father, after all.”

Well, hell, she couldn’t argue with that. And, if she was remembering things correctly, Jesse had done a fine job of keeping the kids clean and calm. She looked down at Rebel’s hand, which was loosely circling her wrist. And, damn that man, his thumb was stroking her skin. “I’m not happy about this.”

He froze and then pulled his hand back. “Which part? The part where you single-handedly saved several lives? The part where you guessed right about the campy and E. coli thing?” He swallowed. “Or the part about me?”

You. The part about you. But strangely, she couldn’t put a finger on exactly which part of the part about him bothered her. The fact that he was here? Maybe that was it. Maybe. “Why are you here?” she repeated, taking a step away from him and his long arms and strong hands.

He finished his tea and stood. Automatically, she took another step away. Instinctively, she knew a close Rebel was a dangerous Rebel.

“I want to apologize. To you.”

Of course, he was plenty dangerous without touching her. Her heart did that weird lurching thing, but she ignored it. “All right, then. You can apologize.”

One corner of his mouth notched up. “I know I can. May I?”

Damn this man, she thought. But that was as far as she got.

“I’m sorry, Madeline. I acted like an… Well, a real asshole about that phone call.”

The lurching thing got stronger. “Yes,” she managed to get out. “You did.” She wanted to tell him apology accepted, and since they all agreed she was fine, he could just get the hell off her porch. But she couldn’t. He was still standing before her, shifting his hips back and forth as he didn’t give her a chance to catch her breath.

“And you were right.” He took another small step toward her—but, given the overall tininess of her porch, it was more than enough to back her into the corner. “I, of all people, should know about faking it.”

She couldn’t get anything out. Which was just as well. If she’d opened her mouth, she might have started squeaking or something equally undignified.

“I know who you really are,” he went on, politely ignoring her silence. “I know that wasn’t the real you, and I know you were doing that for me. For me.”

She was being the bitch, remember? An apology was one thing, but the way he was slowly closing in on her made it clear that he thought a simple apology wasn’t enough. And it wasn’t. It was time to be the bitch.

“Is that so? When did this blinding revelation hit you? Because it sure didn’t have you over here for three days. Three days, Rebel. And I don’t want to hear the crap about you not used to being certain places at certain times.”

He closed his eyes and nodded in a way that struck her as tired. “You aren’t going to like the answer.”

Did she like any part of this? “Try me.”

“I was in the sweat lodge. Albert told me to get my shit together.”

There was a small chance she was still in bed, still dreaming, because in the normal world, dead grandfathers did not tell Traditional Masters of Fine Arts to get their shit together. But if she knew anything, it was that the rez wasn’t the normal world. And the hell of it was, she actually did believe him—a little, anyway. “Oh? And did he tell you to apologize?”

“Nope. I had to figure that out myself.” The color on his cheeks deepened as he took another step forward. “I’m not too smart. It took me a few days.”

“It took you a few days to figure out how to say you’re sorry?” She took two quick steps past him. At least she wasn’t in the corner anymore, but she wasn’t sure if she should make a break for the house—he’d just follow her in—or head off the porch. Which would not be a victory since it was her damn porch.

“No.” The quick, solid way he said it pulled her up short. “It took me a few days to figure out how to make it up to you. And then,” he said as he reached around to his back pocket. For a split second, Madeline was afraid he’d pull out a ring. Instead, he grabbed a sheaf of papers. “There was that whole medical crisis. I’d been planning on coming up to see you Sunday afternoon, hoping you wouldn’t pull a gun on me, but I had this dream that night...” He trailed off as he began smoothing the papers out. “I had to get to the clinic. And the clinic is no place to make a formal apology.”