Sassy Cowgirl Kisses by Kathy Fawcett
Chapter 23
There was an ease to Sassy that made Ash want to be around her—she was the first woman who made him want to act his age. Ridge was always pushing him to enjoy his youth more while he could, but he never understood the appeal, until now.
She wasn’t high school silly, she was more carefree, with an easy laugh. He could make himself smile thinking about her splinter, and the look on her face when he told her he had to amputate. He was never one to tease a girl in any way, but it just came naturally when he was with Sassy.
He also liked how her demeanor towards him didn’t change after she found out that he was a West, and a manager of the ranch where she worked. Sassy neither pulled away nor moved closer. She merely stayed as friendly as she was at the creek, pulling dead branches out of the muddy water alongside him.
After lunch, Ash drove to the Arts and Culture Center in town, where he offered Sassy his hand as she got out of the Jeep.
“Just in case the altitude makes you dizzy,” he said, gently pulling her soft hand and leading her to an exhibit in the back. Here, each painting had been professionally restored, cleaned and framed, and hung along a curved wall with spotlights. As the two entered the wing, the lights were dimmed to preserve the delicate, ancient paintings, and it was dark and cool. Romantic, almost.
Sassy must have thought so too as she squeezed his hand and moved closer.
Breathing in, Ash smelled new carpet and the wood beams overhead. The architecture of the center was designed to evoke the old west and wide-open spaces of the Wyoming plains. There were alcoves with rustic benches and leather chairs for viewing and contemplating—and Ash and Sassy were completely alone.
“These paintings were done in the 1800s by Pickford West—the founder of the ranch and the town, along with his wife, Addie.” Ash leaned towards Sassy and whispered. He didn’t know why, but wanted to show reverence to his West patriarch and namesake. It was also a chance to place his hand on the small of her back, and gently pull her closer.
It didn’t hurt that her hair smelled like lemons and vanilla, and every chance to be near her was a delight to his senses.
Sassy’s mouth formed a silent “oh” as she gazed in true admiration at the works.
They moved slowly along the gallery of paintings depicting long horn steers, covered wagons and girls in gingham bonnets. Ash kept his hand on Sassy’s waist to guide her, and she didn’t pull away when he gently moved his hand up and down.
When they stopped, she was very close—practically nestled against him, putting the entire side of his body on high alert.
“This girl in the bonnet, that’s the great aunt of my sister-in-law, Paislee. She came to town with a very old painting, trying to find some information on the artist, P. West. She had no idea until she met my brother Pike that he had the other piece of the puzzle—these drawings and paintings that Pickford, P. West, did of her ancestor while on the trail. He had them tucked away in the attic of the family’s homestead barn. That’s how she and Pike met and fell in love.”
“You’re kidding,” she said. “That’s amazing. What a heritage you have, Ash.”
She nuzzled closer and he looked down in wonder. They’d been touching and standing side-by-side since they entered the center, and it had felt so natural. Sassy’s eyes were so wide and beautiful as she gazed up at him in the cool, dark room, that he found his head dipping down as he leaned in closer.
He was planning on whispering to her that it wasn’t really his heritage, but what came out of his mouth was completely different.
“You smell so pretty, like a summer day,” he said. She started to say something in return, but seemed to change her mind. Instead, she lifted her head and tilted towards him.
Did her lips taste like summer?Ash decided he wanted to find out. He swallowed hard, and her lips parted slightly as a small ribbon of air escaped her, and landed on his neck. Sending a shiver down to his toes.
He bent his head closer until he could almost feel her lips touching his.
“Ash! Sassy!”
A sharp voice pushed them apart, followed by a rustling of noises.
The voice belonged to Rowdy, of all people, who was tumbling out of an office off the gallery with a laughing woman close behind. It was Daisy Shire, Paislee’s assistant curator at the art center. In awkward surprise, the foursome stopped and stared at each other.
“Rowdy,” Ash nodded, remembering his manners before the others. “Daisy, have you met Sassy… er, sorry, I still don’t know your last name, from the ranch?”
“Just Sassy,” the younger girl said, nodding to a blushing Daisy, who reached out and shook the girl’s hand.
“How do,” Daisy said. “We were just… Rowdy was just helping me with…”
“With art?” Ash suggested with a half-smile and an audible exhale of frustration, knowing how close he’d been to a much-anticipated kiss; also knowing that whatever spell he and Sassy had been under at the gallery was definitely broken.
“Art,” Rowdy said as if a lightbulb went off, “exactly.”
Sassy remained near Ash as the four squared off, and when she reached her hand up to his, he took it easily and confidently. If Rowdy and Daisy could be doing art behind closed doors, he could certainly hold a girl’s hand out in public.