Sassy Cowgirl Kisses by Kathy Fawcett
Chapter 25
As it happened, what the house had been missing was Daisy Shire herself.
After they hung the first painting over his giant fireplace, they sat for a few hours on his sofa and gazed at it together—making sure to catch the landscape in differing lights as the sun traveled over the log house. Daisy brought a bottle of Chardonnay to celebrate, and Rowdy happened to have a charcuterie board in his refrigerator, compliments of Liu.
Hours later, they declared the acquisition a success, and moved on to the north facing walls of the room.
“A trio of seasons,” Daisy suggested. “There’s a new collection by an emerging painter up in Jasper, Alberta, I want you to see.”
Rowdy agreed, and weeks later they celebrated with dinner and a leisurely drive into the mountains.
By the time they got around to discussing the south-facing wall, Rowdy had driven Daisy to her house after a date, where, on her doorstep on a star-filled Wyoming night, he took off his cowboy hat and gently leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. When she smiled at him, and placed her soft hand on his face, he felt the courage to touch her lips with his own, holding the kiss for as long as he dared.
Since that first kiss, Rowdy West began wooing the beautiful art lover in creative ways. In addition to the flowers he sent to her gallery, he attended online art auctions to find unusual pieces he thought Daisy might enjoy. The first time he sent her an 18th century portrait miniature, she was blown away.
“Do you know how collectible these are?” She sputtered in shock.
“I found out,” Rowdy laughed. “I made a few enemies in the art world trying to win this tiny painting.”
“It’s beautiful—I’ve never owned anything like it,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, Daisy, for bringing such beauty into my life,” Rowdy gushed with a crooked and bashful grin. “And for the paintings.”
Daisy soon discovered that Rowdy was much more than the sum of his outward parts. He wasn’t just a rough and tumble rancher, but an appreciator of the subtle beauty found in art, nature, and in her. He listened for hours as she talked about paintings and lighting, and finding the perfect frame. And how the right matte could be the difference between a painting feeling “constricted,” and coming to life.
Rowdy felt as though he was coming to life under her attention. She saw past the limp; the rodeo injury had been a hit to his confidence, making him shy away from dating.
“When I took the tumble years ago and landed in the hospital, someone who I thought was special, left me,” he confided. “She got tired of driving me to physical therapy, and waiting for me to walk again.”
Daisy nearly cried when she heard this, and it broke her heart that Rowdy had curled up inside for fear of rejection. He was a wonderful giving and loving man who drank her in like he was parched for her company.
His limp was incidental to her, like the endearing silvery strands in his jet-black hair. Rowdy’s beard was also highlighted with the same salt and pepper, and as she spent time with him, she found herself longing to feel his face against her own, and wondered what that would be like.
As it happened, it was soft and heavenly.
It took him forever to have the nerve to kiss her, and she didn’t want to let him go when he did. Daisy had already decided that if he opened his heart to her, she would never grow tired of him, or run faster than he could—he could always catch her.
He could trust her.
Before long, Rowdy was popping in to see Daisy at her gallery, or at the art center where she assisted Paislee West in curating exhibits and paintings. Often, he’d ask if she was free for lunch. Sometimes he only had a few minutes for a quick kiss and to make plans for their next date.
Lately, though, she found herself reluctant to leave his log house. And while his eyes begged her to stay, she wanted to hold out for his words. Rowdy was a man of his word, she knew. And she’d waited a long time to hear the right combination that would make her stay forever.
In the meantime, she dared to shake off some of the long dormant dreams of her youth, where they had been gathering dust in dark corners. Dreams of walking to the altar in a white lace dress, where a rugged cowboy would sweep her up in his arms. Rowdy’s kryptonite was delicate lace, she realized happily, and pulled out some of her long-forgotten blouses from the back of her closet for their dates—or for everyday office hours, when he might drop in.
When he saw her, his eyes came alive, and she’d reach up to touch the fine crinkles around his tanned and handsome face.
I love you, Rowdy West,Daisy said in her private thoughts, barely able to contain the growing realization.