The Texan's Future Bride. Sheri WhiteFeather

fridge and removed the bags. Together, they unloaded them. She’d gotten him a variety of stuff to choose from: frozen pizza, fresh fruit, ready-made salads, boxed macaroni and cheese, sandwich fixings, canned chili, soup and crackers, pudding cups, cereal and milk.

      Meals designed for a bachelor, he thought. “Thank you again for everything you’ve been doing for me. I really do intend to repay you.”

      “All I want is for you to get better,” she said, repeating what she’d told him earlier. “That will be payment enough.”

      “I’m glad you didn’t get anything that requires cooking skills. I don’t think I’d be very good in that regard.”

      “We have that in common.”

      He nodded. She’d already mentioned that she wasn’t much of a cook.

      After they completed their task, he said, “Will you sit outside with me before you go?” He was still looking for excuses to keep her there, and since the cabin was equipped with a quaint little porch, it provided a cozy atmosphere. “We can have some pudding.”

      She accepted the invitation, and they settled into mismatched chairs. The air was rife with something sweet. Honeysuckle, maybe. Foliage grew along the sides of the building.

      As he spooned into his dessert, he looked at Jenna, impressed with how beautifully she fit into the environment. Her hair caught the setting sun, making it look even blonder. He couldn’t explain why her hair was a source of fascination. Was it because his was so dark? His skin was a lot darker than hers, too.

      “I wish I could cook,” she said, her mind obviously back in the kitchen.

      “You could learn, couldn’t you?”

      “I don’t know. Every time I try to make something, it tastes awful. Maybe I’ll ask Tammy if she can give me some pointers.”

      “The way you gave her pointers about dolling herself up?”

      Jenna smiled. “It might be a good trade.”

      “Sounds like it to me.” He studied her again. She certainly knew how to make herself look pretty. Whatever she was wearing on her lips created a warm, kissable effect. “You can use me as a guinea pig if you want.”

      “For my cooking?”

      Or kissing, he thought. “Yes, cooking.”

      “You’re already suffering from a head injury. I don’t want to poison you, too.”

      “I’m sure I’d survive it.”

      “I’d rather not take the chance.”

      “I probably won’t be here long enough anyway.” No poison food. No soft, sweet, poison kisses, either. He needed to stop thinking about how alluring she was.

      “Do you like the pudding?” she asked.

      He glanced at his cup. He’d only taken a few bites. He’d been too busy admiring her. “Yes, it’s good.”

      “Butterscotch is my favorite.”

      He noticed that she’d barely made a dent in hers, either. “You’re not gobbling it up very quickly.”

      “I’m savoring it.”

      “So am I,” he lied, when in fact, he’d been savoring her.

      “This is nice, sitting out here with you.”

      “Thanks. I think so, too.” He couldn’t envision anything nicer. Well, actually he could, but he’d warned himself not to obsess about kissing her. “We’re becoming friends.”

      Friends and only friends, he reiterated.

      While a soft Texas breeze blew, he asked, “What’s the name of this town?”

      “Buckshot Hills. I’m surprised no one told you before now.”

      “It must have slipped their minds.”

      “It slipped mine. I wonder how long it will take for Deputy Tobbs to start questioning the locals about you.”

      “Soon, I hope.”

      “Once you’re feeling better, I can take you on a tour of the Flying B and introduce you to the people who work here, like Deputy Tobbs suggested.”

      “Wouldn’t it be ironic if I was on my way to visit someone at the Flying B when I got hurt?”

      “It would certainly solve the mystery, and quickly, too.”

      There was a mixed-up part of him that wished he’d been on his way to visit her, that she’d been his agenda. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to control his attraction to her. He even worried that he might have an intimate dream about her tonight, with or without a so-called magic bed.

      After they finished their pudding, she said, “I really should go now.”

      He didn’t try to stop her. It was better to have some distance between them.

      She left, and he watched her go.

      About an hour later, someone rapped at the door, and he jumped up to answer it, wondering if she’d returned.

      But it was Doc, with his medical bag.

      The other man said, “Jenna told me that she put you up in this cabin. How do you like it?”

      “It’s fine. But I don’t believe that the bed is magical. I know you do, though.”

      “I’m a man of science, but I’ve learned that sometimes logic doesn’t apply.”

      J.D. didn’t respond, and the subject was dropped. Regardless, the feeling remained. He was still concerned that he might have a sensual dream.

      Doc examined him and recommended more bed rest. J.D. followed orders and went to sleep early that night. He didn’t dream about Jenna.

      Much to his shock, he dreamed about himself, with an emotion-packed glimpse of who he was as a child.