The Heiress and the Sheriff by Stella Bagwell

Author:Stella Bagwell
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Silhouette
Published: 1999-10-07T04:00:00+00:00

Wyatt took her to an older part of town where a little café was tucked between a saddle shop and a tavern. Above the wooden screen door covering the entrance was a faded sign that read Jose’s.

Inside, Gabrielle looked around her with charmed interest. The ceilings were low and the floor no more than bare board planks. Small round tables covered with white tablecloths were scattered throughout a main area and smaller connecting rooms. Succulents, many of which Gabrielle didn’t recognize, grew in large pots alongside the windows and anywhere else there was available space. Brightly striped serapés, battered sombreros, old bits, spurs and bridles all adorned the stucco walls.

A hostess quickly greeted them at the door and, after a quick exchange in Spanish with Wyatt, led them to a secluded room with one private table. After lighting a fat candle in the middle, she passed them each a folded menu, then left with a promise to quickly send a waitress for their orders.

“I didn’t have any idea you spoke Spanish,” Gabrielle said as she opened the worn menu.

“When you live around a language all your life, you naturally pick it up. And in my line of work it’s practically a necessity to be able to communicate.”

“What about the Cherokee language? Do you know any of it?”

His eyes remained on the menu. “No,” he said curtly. “My father could have cared less about his heritage.”

“That’s a shame,” Gabrielle replied.

“Where Leonard Grayhawk was concerned, there was a lot to be shamed.”

She forgot the menu as she studied his face. “Was? Is your father dead?”

One of his shoulders lifted, then fell. “Who knows? He left this area years ago to go back to Oklahoma. I haven’t heard from him since. And I don’t want to.”

There was nothing but bitterness in his voice. Gabrielle decided it would be best to let the subject of his father alone for the time being. He’d been kind enough to ask her out for supper. She didn’t want to ruin their evening by opening old wounds.

She turned her attention to the menu. It was written in Spanish, and she could only manage to translate a few words here and there. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to order for me, Wyatt. I don’t know what any of these things are.”

Across the table, he gave her a wry smile. “Do you like your food hot?”

“How hot is ‘hot’?”

He chuckled. “You know what it feels like outside. Well, double or triple that temperature.”

“Oh, well, I definitely couldn’t handle hot. Get me something mild.”

His smile turned sly. “So you’re not feeling adventurous tonight?”

As her gaze lingered on the sharp angles of his face, she was suddenly swamped with broken images of his lips pressed to hers, the look in his eyes when he’d tossed her dress aside, the feel of his hands on her breasts and belly. That brief time with him seemed like weeks ago rather than days. Yet she remembered every second of it as though it had happened yesterday.

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