“Seize your chances, m’dear. A good man doesn’t turn up on your doorstep everyday.”
The “good man” being, of course, Gabe McBride.
Freddie supposed he was good. By some accounts anyway. He was certainly working hard at the Gazette. And anyone who drove Percy crazy-which the village grapevine assured her he was doing-couldn’t be all bad.
But more than he was a good man, he was a dangerous one. At least when it came to Freddie’s peace of mind.
She hadn’t got a good night’s sleep since he’d arrived. She was too conscious of his footsteps above her head when she went to sleep at night, too aware of him whenever they sat across the table at mealtimes, and last night she’d almost jumped out of her skin when he’d deliberately reached out and touched her hand!
What did he think he was doing?
Don’t be daft, Freddie, she admonished herself. It was clear what he was doing: he was coming on to her.
Flirting with her. Looking at her as if it was only a matter of time until there would be more between them than the fifteen pounds a night he was paying for his room.
She resisted even thinking in terms of “bed-and-breakfast” where Gabe McBride was concerned.
The “bed” part seemed far too intimate.
“Be good for the little tackers to have a man around, too,” Mrs. Peek went on, unaware of the turmoil going on in Freddie’s mind. “Likes ’em, I can tell.”
And they adored him. The children were enthralled to have a real-live Montana cowboy living in their house. Once Emma had adjusted her definition of “cowboy,” she’d been as enchanted as Charlie. Freddie tried to stop them bothering him, but he brushed off her concern.
He let Charlie clump around the house in his cowboy boots and wear his belt hitched tight enough so that it circled her son’s narrow waist and proclaimed him the Salinas Champion Bull Rider.
To her dismay, he told both slack-jawed children exactly what a champion bull rider did. Last night she’d come upon all three of them, sitting on the bed in Charlie’s room, long after both children should have been asleep.
“It’s like ridin’ a whirlwind,” she heard him tell them. “Hangin’ onto a hurricane. You know what a hurricane is, Em?”
As Freddie came to stand in the doorway, ready to lower the boom, she saw her daughter’s eyes grow round and fill with excitement. “It’s a storm,” Emma said eagerly. “A big, big storm.”
“Right. Well, you just imagine havin’ that storm gathered right up underneath you. A ton of the meanest damn-er, darn-cow you’ve ever seen, just itchin’ to run you through with one of his horns. An’ he’s lookin’ at you, pawin’ an’ blowin’, snortin’ snot-”
“Bedtime,” Freddie cut in.
“Not yet, Mum!” Charlie protested.
“We can’t,” Emma begged. “We have to hear what happened. Truly! Please, Gabe, tell us!”
“Mr. McBride,” Freddie tried to correct.
Gabe raised his brows at her. “I told you. Friends use first names.”
And Gabe and her children were obviously friends. While Freddie had been trying determinedly to steer clear of him, Charlie and Emma had been doing their best to get close.
They were, Freddie told herself, just starved for some masculine attention. But a bull rider’s?
She could have wished for more discernment. A British “cowboy”-and all that that entailed-seemed almost preferable.
“It’s nearly ten o’clock!”
“Please, Mum,” Charlie’s eyes were alight with an enthusiasm she’d begun to fear she would never see again. He had been six when Mark died-old enough to remember, to long for the adventures they had shared, to miss his father dreadfully.
“I’ll make it short,” Gabe promised. “You wouldn’t want me to leave ’em hanging overnight, would you, Fred?”
And that was another thing! Fred!
He’d started calling her that the day after he arrived and had made the children giggle. Fred!
No one had ever dared call her Fred! Not even Mark-who was the most reckless person she’d ever known.
But Gabe did.
And now he just grinned at her, challenging her. His blue eyes were laughing, teasing her. It had been so long since anyone had teased her.
Freddie resisted the grin, she resisted the teasing in his eyes. But she couldn’t resist the story. She pressed her lips together. “All right. But make it quick.”
“Eight seconds,” Gabe promised solemnly. He patted the bed where he sat between Charlie and Emma. “Sit down, Fred. Get your daily dose of American culture.”
“I have laundry to fold.”
“You should hear, Mummy,” Emma said. “It’s scary!” She gave a little shiver and bounced next to Gabe, her expression gleeful.
“Eight seconds,” Gabe promised again. “Frederica.”
It was an olive branch. Of sorts.
Reluctantly Freddie sat.
It took longer than eight seconds. That was, apparently, how long a bull rider-the very words bull rider still made her shudder-had to stay on top of this bovine hurricane to make a qualified ride.
Qualified for what? Freddie wondered. The nuthouse?
In any case, it took five minutes at least for Gabe to embroider every one of those eight seconds, to describe every twist and turn, every dip and buck. His words permitted Freddie to envision every nasty moment from the instant the gate opened until he landed feet first in the dust and sprinted to climb over the fence while the bull tried to hook him from behind.
“But you made it. Didn’t you?” Emma asked him breathlessly when he stopped.
“Course he did,” Charlie said. “He’s here, isn’t he?”
Gabe put an arm around Emma’s small shoulders. “I’m still here, sweetheart.”
The gentle way he looked at her daughter made Freddie’s heart squeeze tight. Or maybe it was hearing the endearment. Sweetheart. She hoped Emma didn’t read too much into it.
Gabe was, after all, just passing through. He was here to sort out the Gazette, that was all. He had a life back in Montana. He wasn’t going to stay.
Freddie stood abruptly. “Very nice. Very well told. Excellent story,” she said briskly. “Come along now,” she said to the children.
“But-” Charlie began, ready to angle for another tale.
Gabe stood up, too. “You heard your mother. Time to hit the hay.”
The phrase made Emma giggle. “Like a cow?”
Gabe ruffled her hair. “Like a cowboy. Or a cowgirl.”
“Are there cowgirls?” Emma’s eyes were big again.
“You bet. There’s one back home-” He smiled as if he was remembering someone special “-called Claire.”
His girlfriend? Freddie wondered. Was Claire eagerly waiting for Gabe to come back? Probably. She imagined American women were equally susceptible to his charm, even if they didn’t find him as exotic as she did.
Emma didn’t care about those things. “Can I be a cowgirl?”
Gabe nodded. “You go hit the hay now, and you’ve got a good start.”
Emma allowed herself to be herded toward her bedroom, but she hung onto his hand, talking as they went. “What else do cowgirls do?”
“Everything cowboys do,” Gabe replied with a grin. “Only they think they do it better.”
Emma giggled. “Will you teach me?”
“Emma!” Freddie protested. “Mr. McBride-Gabe-has work to do. It’s been very kind of him just to tell you stories.”
“He could show me other stuff,” Emma said stubbornly.
“Like roping.” Charlie followed them out of his bedroom. “I’d like to know how to rope. And brand. And-”