Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning by Patricia McLinn Read Free Book Online

to leave their seclusion.
    “Yep, really was. Also about your upcoming schedule. He seems to be looking forward to your show being in San Francisco for Christmas.”
    “San Francisco?” She focused on the holiday-themed napkin she was twisting in her hands. It showed two red bells, sporting gold bows against boughs of greenery. “I just knew we’d be in California.”
    She hadn’t looked at the schedule since Thanksgiving. Except for one specific element.
    “How much longer are you here?”
    That
was the one element she’d checked. Earlier today. Trying to pretend she didn’t know why she was interested.
    “We leave a week from Sunday, right after the show.” At its most generous count, ten days away. Aiming for offhand, she asked, “When does the stock show end?”
    “Sunday.” She started to smile at the serendipity, then he added, “Day after tomorrow.”
    “Oh.” She swallowed. “When are you leaving?”
    “Supposed to check out Monday.”
    No.
    For a long moment of suspended heartbeat and held breath that was the only thought to come. Then more rushed in.
    No. That’s too fast. No time at all. He can’t leave so fast. It can’t be over. Not yet. Not before they’d even —
    “What about your schedule for the rest of the — run, you call it?” he asked.
    She blinked. Shaken by her own thoughts. Trying to get her mind to grapple with the simple information to answer him.
    “We have two-a-days tomorrow and Sunday. Then we’re off Monday.”
    But his stock show ended tomorrow. He’d be gone before she had her day off. Gone before —
    Before they made love
.
    Yes.
    That was what was in her mind. In her bloodstream.
    Making love with Ed Currick.
    This man she barely knew. A relationship whose ending was as immutable as the date on a calendar.
    She shot a look at him, and found his attention fully on her.
    Oh, God. She wanted to make love with him
.
    “The, uh, the rest of next week should be more routine. It’s a saying that the company lives for Week Twos. We have more time off, we can explore the city we’re in or —” She steered around “or.” “Then two-a-days Saturday, before Sunday . . .”
    . . . before Sunday’s finale and departure
.
    He’d be long gone. Back to Knighton, Wyoming. Back to the ranch that had been in his family for generations.
    She didn’t want to think of moving-ons. Not hers, not his.
    She dropped her head, smoothing the napkin out on her thigh, carefully ironing the creases and wrinkles with her fingers.
    “Christmas is coming, huh?” he said, looking over her shoulder at the napkin. He sounded a little forced. He tapped a fingertip to the greenery behind the bells. The touch gathered heat as it traveled through the napkin, her slacks and into her skin. “Looks like snowberry. We have some on the Slash-C.”
    He’d leave so soon, return to his ranch, to where they had snowberry for real, not just as illustrations on napkins.
    He’d leave.
    She’d never see him again. Never . . .
    But they had now.
    They had
now.
    They had
tonight
.
    They had to have tonight.
    Could she do it?
    “Snowberry. Sounds like the perfect plant for Christmas,” she said, brightly. She knew she said it brightly, because she hit the exact intonation she’d used for Ado Annie in “Oklahoma” in college, when the director said he wanted
brightly
, then called it perfect. “My favorite time of the year. I bet you decorate with snowberry.”
    If she stretched up, touched her lips to his . . .
    She ducked her head, the wanting and the uncertainty both too much, and said, with every bit of Ado Annie brightness she possessed, “I love Christmas decorations, don’t you?”
    “Uh, Christmas lights are nice.” It sounded like the vocal equivalent of someone feeling his way through fog.
    “They’re wonderful,” she agreed, ever more brightly. “On the houses and shops and trees. All lit up so whole blocks glow. Just wonderful.”
    “Don’t see that much in Wyoming. Lights are