Redheaded Stranger: A Cowboy Love Story (Bluebonnet, Texas) by Amie Stuart Read Free Book Online Page A

Shrek . And the not so subtle way she’d called him an ass. "Angi, right?"
    "You may call me Angelina, donkey . Only my friends can call me Angi."
    "Alright, Angelina. I’ve come to apologize, and since you’re here, I’ll apologize to you, too. I didn’t mean to call you a dyke. I was out of line. Please accept this sincere and heartfelt apology."
    She snorted and rolled her eyes. "It’s too late to get on my Christmas list. I’m done shopping."
    "Angelina Monique." Apparently, his sister-in-law was still up. "Move." Angelina stepped out of Betti’s way as she appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a dark green velvet robe, her curly blond hair pulled back in a braid. "Delaney  was here earlier. She told me you got hitched, and that you have a cute kid. Why the hell anyone would marry you, I have no clue."
    Despite the sudden gnawing hole in his stomach at the sight of her, he ignored the dig. "May I come in?"
    He caught a low, "Don’t do it," from behind the door, but held steady, hands clasped behind his back.
    She studied him, her expression unreadable as she opened the door a bit wider and waved him in. "It's your funeral, Red."
    The white Berber carpet was still as shocking now as it had been on his last visit two years ago. He shook his head, wondering what in the hell his ex-sister-in-law had been thinking.
    "Awful, isn’t it?" Betti said.
    He snorted. "You could say that. Place looks a hell of a lot better than it did though." A southwestern-style table and chairs sat atop an area rug in desert colors—rust, brown, beige and sage green. The clean, classic design of the dining room furniture almost made the carpet bearable and blended well with the denim couch and oversized chair. In the far corner stood a live Christmas tree decorated with an odd assortment of homemade and store-bought ornaments that somehow didn't come off cheesy.
    "Sit."
    He motioned for her to go first and followed her into the living area, choosing the couch after she curled up in the matching chair. "How are you?"
    She opened her mouth to speak, then looked over his shoulder at Angi. "Go find something to wash."
    "You sure you want to be alone with don-ke ?" Angi asked.
    "That’s the last time I buy you a kid’s movie, now go."
    He choked back a surprised laugh as she disappeared through the swinging door to the kitchen.
    "I’m fine. I have some bad days." She adjusted her position, her eyes momentarily on the tree before she turned her gaze back on him. Her sharp green eyes and the stubborn set of her chin belonged to a woman you only made the mistake of underestimating once. He got that now—here. He got it.
    He moved to sit on the ottoman at her feet, fisting his cold, shaky hands. "I um...I just want you to know how truly sorry I am."
    Her expression was stoic. Unreadable. "Thank you."
    "Not just about the stuff I said—I was out of line—but about the baby, too. About everything I said to you. I was out of line." He sighed, struggling for the right words. This shouldn't be as difficult as it was. She shouldn’t be as intimidating as she was. "I sincerely hope that me telling you about Rhea’s... treatment of Ty didn’t help cause your miscarriage, but if it did—"
    "That’s enough."
    He swallowed the lump clogging this throat and pushed on, ignoring her request. "My wife and I; we lost a baby before Darrach. So I would never, in a million years, have wished something like that on anyone, and I hope you can forgive me if I played any part in it."
    "That's enough. Stop!"
    From the kitchen came the sound of dishes crashing, reminding him they weren't alone.
    "I’m not the one you need to look to for absolution."
    "I’m not here for you to absolve me of anything. I just wanted to apologize." And who the hell was he supposed to ask for absolution from?
    One perfectly arched blonde eyebrow rose. "Sure about that?"
    "I just want to take my wife and son home." He couldn’t keep the fatigue or the despair from his voice. It had