Christmas Kisses with My Cowboy - Diana Palmer Page 0,19
her. It was the nicest place to live, she thought. She wondered how she’d ever endured city noise. She was certain that she couldn’t go back to it after this.
“Asleep, are we?”
Her eyes flew open and her heart skipped. She hadn’t even heard Parker come up on the porch. He was wearing boots, too.
“Goodness, you startled me.” She laughed, putting a hand to her chest. “No, I was drinking in the sounds. It’s so nice here. So different from the city.”
“Amen,” he agreed. He dropped down in the swing beside her, noting her long, soft hair with a warm smile. “You look pretty today.”
She flushed and cleared her throat.
“Too much too soon?” he asked softly. “No sweat. You look cool, kid. How’s that?”
She laughed. “Sorry. I was feeling a little self-conscious.”
“Oh, I like the new look, don’t get me wrong,” he said. He cocked his head. “You and Teddie going trick-or-treating next week?”
“We were just talking about that,” she replied. “They’re having a big deal downtown in Benton. All the stores will be open and giving out candy. We’re having a harvest festival at our school, too.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Did you go trick-or-treating in town when you were a kid?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Too dangerous.”
She frowned and her eyes asked the question.
He looked older than his years as he looked down at her. “I look like my people,” he said delicately. “Back in 1876, some of my ancestors rode with the Cheyenne and the Sioux and the Arapaho and a few other tribes against Colonel George Custer. Old hatreds lingered, especially around the battlefield. We didn’t come off the rez much when we were kids. Not until we were teenagers, at least. I got in a lot of trouble, and I got given a choice—go in the army or go to jail.”
She whistled. “Good choice,” she said.
He shrugged. “It was the making of me,” he said. “After the first couple of weeks, I settled down and really enjoyed the routine. I stopped being a juvenile delinquent and turned into a soldier.”
She studied him curiously. “I thought we were getting away from prejudice,” she said softly. “I have students from all races, all walks of life. They get along well.”
“They do, if they’re taught to, while they’re young. You have to remember that the rez is for one race only: ours. We don’t mix well.”
“I’m sorry about that,” she said with genuine feeling. “Someday, I hope we can look at qualifications and personality instead of gender or race or religion.”
“Pipe dreams,” he said gently. “People are what they are. Most don’t change.”
She made a face. “I guess I’ve lived a sheltered life.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
She looked up into large, dark eyes. “The story of your life is in your eyes,” she said quietly, and she grimaced. “Sorry. I blurt out things sometimes.”
He smiled. “I don’t mind. I’m pretty blunt myself from time to time. It sort of goes with the job description.”
“And which one would that be?” she teased. “Breaking horses or working on a new unified field theory?”
He laughed. “Both, I suppose.” He rocked the swing into motion and looked straight ahead. “The feds noticed that I had a gift for algorithms, so they send a black sedan to pick me up in the summer and take me off to D.C.”
“Wow,” she said softly. “What do you do there?”
He sighed. “It’s all classified. Very top secret. I do code work. I’m not allowed to talk about it.”
She winced. “I put my foot in my mouth again.”
“Not at all. You didn’t know.” His dark eyes slid over her face intently. “Your major was what, English or education?”
“I did a double major,” she said. “Both.”
“What about your minor?”
She hesitated.
His thick black eyebrows lifted and he smiled. “Hmmm?”
She cleared her throat. “Anthropology. Specifically, archaeology. I went on digs for four years.” She gave him an apologetic glance. “I know, your people think of archaeology as grave digging. . . .”
“I don’t,” he said. “I minored in anthropology, too, as well as biology,” he said surprisingly. “I loved being able to date projectile points and pottery sherds. It was fascinating. You forget, I’m not all Crow. My mother was born on the reservation, near Hardin, Montana. But my father was white.” His face closed up at the memory.
She never touched people. But her small hand went to his shoulder and rested there, lightly, feeling the taut muscles. “We all have bad memories.”