The faint crease between his brows was gone. He looked younger in sleep. Less guarded. Less the Ranger. Although that could have been the lack of a badge and his Stetson.
Her clock chiming the top of the hour told her the five minutes had long since passed, and there was no coffee.
He was still asleep when she returned. She set his mug on the end table within reach, and, since she had nothing pressing, curled into the chair across from him with her own and tried to read. Four pages and twenty minutes later, with nothing retained, she set the book aside.
Her attention drifted to the front window. Midmorning sun came in flat and bright across the plant stand, and she took stock. The peace lily had wilted again, but a good drink always perked it up. The pathos beside it had turned mostly brown and was likely beyond hope, which was saying something, since the woman at the plant shop had promised they were notoriously hard to kill. She’d never claimed to have a green thumb. Hers was usually covered in paint.
Case in point, the seascape on the opposite wall. At first light, the horizon a mix of pink and copper, the water smooth without the waves that rose when the heat of the day settled in, before the whole hectic world awoke. She’d painted it from memory, two years after leaving. She was still a little startled by how true it had come out. That quality of stillness. She hadn’t thought to capture it.
“That’s the Gulf.”
She glanced over. Coop was awake, watching her. He spoke in a slow, almost-distant tone, like when you’ve slept too hard, and it won’t let it go.
He tracked her gaze to the painting.
“Galveston at sunrise,” she confirmed. “After Abilene and before El Paso. The Gulf shore was my favorite.” She paused. “Except for the storms.”
She caught his curious expression and looked back out the front window.
“I moved around a lot.”
He didn’t ask why. He’d seen her file and must know. Or maybe he was still half asleep. Either way, the quiet held, and she was grateful for it.
He sat up and stretched, and she made no effort to look away. The movement pulled his shirt taut across his shoulders and chest, fabric straining against the kind of build that didn’t come from a gym membership but from years of actual use. Through his open collar, she could see the strong line of his throat and a scattering of dark chest hair. He scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled. Her belly coiled tight at the rough-edged yet vulnerable sound.
She could reach over and run her fingers through his sleep-mussed hair, press her palms flat to his chest, and feel nothing but warmth and the slow thud of his heartbeat. No flood of emotion, only him. Clean and simple, the way other people did without thinking.
Her fingers curled in her lap. She was single at forty for a reason. The men who believed her found her fascinating right up until they didn’t, until the novelty morphed into suspicion. They started watching her closely, wondering what she saw when she looked at them. Vince Cooper was a variable she hadn’t accounted for, and she didn’t quite know what to do with that.
He tensed suddenly. “Is that the right time?”
She glanced at her mantel clock, too. “Yes. You were asleep for about an hour.”
Leaning forward, elbows to his knees, he put his face in his hands, rubbing. “Sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever fallen asleep so fast before.”
“You were exhausted. I’m guessing you didn’t sleep much the night before, either.”
“I owe you an apology.”
Her expression didn’t change. “Really, Lieutenant. It’s fine.”
“I mean for dismissing you.”
“Oh, that.” She waved him off. “You didn’t dismiss me. You doubted me.”
“Same thing.”
“No,” she said gently. “It isn’t.”
“You saved that girl.”
“I helped you find her. You saved her.”
He studied her for a moment. “You’re different than I imagined you’d be.”
She tilted her head. “Not a crackpot?”
His mouth curved faintly. “I never said that. Crackpot was your word.”
