Page 52 of September’s Cowboy Travis

“I usually try to make it at least a minute before I start bossing people around.”

“How's that working out for you?”

She glanced at the screen on her tablet. “You're the first person I've talked to today, so statistically I'm still doing fine.”

I smiled anyway. Couldn't help it. Just enough that her gaze caught on my mouth for half a second.

Then she frowned. “Don't do that yet.”

My smile disappeared. “Do what?”

“Smile.”

I looked at Hank. His ears flicked back toward me. I knew exactly how he felt.

The woman set her coffee on the corner of the wagon, freed both hands, then walked a slow circle in front of us. At least she had enough sense not to cut between the horses or walk behind them. She gave Hank plenty of room, paused near his shoulder, and waited while he stretched his nose toward her.

Most people saw a Clydesdale and immediately wanted to grab its face, but she held still.

Hank sniffed her coat, breathed against her wrist, then decided she wasn't carrying anything worth investigating further. Interesting.

“Okay,” she said. “This is good.”

“I'm glad Hank passed inspection.”

Her eyes came back to mine. “I meant all of it. The wagon, the horses, you.”

There were probably men who knew what to do when a woman like her said something like that, but I wasn't one of them.

She turned toward the old freight wagon sitting behind the team. My grandfather had rebuilt most of it before his hands got too bad for the work. I'd finished the job with him supervising from a lawn chair and telling me everything I was doing wrong.

The varnished wood caught the October sun, and the polished metal fittings stood out against the deep red wheels.

Her expression changed when she looked at it. Not much, but enough for me to tell she liked it. “Is that original?”

“Some of it.”

“How old is it?”

“Older than me.”

She looked back at me over her shoulder. “Nice to look at and a sense of humor. You're a rare specimen.”

“I do what I can.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. Damn, she was even prettier when she smiled.

She walked closer to the wagon but didn't touch it. “It's perfect for the campaign.”

“What campaign?”

She turned. “The one publicizing the festival.”

“No.” I'd done that once already. Wasn't doing it again. For the first time since she'd marched up and ordered me to undress, she looked genuinely confused.

“I don't understand.” She checked her tablet again. “You're scheduled for still photography from ten to eleven, short-form video from eleven to eleven-thirty, and then we're doing some B-roll with the team on the parade route.”

I let that settle between us for a second before I shook my head. “No, we're not.”