by Abby Gaines
Linnet wondered if she liked Ethan back. She seemed cold, reserved. Ethan needed a woman who would support him and put him first.
She forced a friendly smile. “Did you leave a boyfriend in Atlanta?” Good grief, where had she found the courage to ask that? Ethan was gaping, and the judge looked as if she wanted to incarcerate her. Linnet gritted her teeth and held her smile.
“No.”
Pity. “My son is single, too, but never for long,” Linnet informed her. “He dates a lot of women.” It was true, though he never dated seriously enough to break hearts.
“How interesting,” Cynthia said frostily. But there was an infinitesimal adjustment in her posture, away from Ethan.
“Which reminds me—” shaking at her own temerity, Linnet resolutely ignored Ethan’s glare and dived for a change of subject “—well done on sending Paul Dayton to jail.”
“That’s not what you told the reporter.”
If the judge had been more cooperative with Ethan, Linnet might have been nicer about her to Tania. She stirred her tea and decided to ignore Cynthia’s comment. “Believe me, I know what it’s like to marry a deadbeat like Dayton. I just hope Kathy sees sense and leaves him. Otherwise her kids will never forgive her.”
Why didn’t she just take off both shoes and stuff her feet into her mouth?
“You did what you thought best, Mom,” Ethan said tautly.
As if he believed that.
“Gram, it’s not your fault you and him—” Sam jerked his head toward Ethan “—don’t get along.”
THERE WERE SO MANY things wrong with that statement, Ethan didn’t know where to start. “You and he.” He chose to tackle his son’s grammar, the least of them.
Linnet rolled her eyes, as if she knew a whole lot about raising a decent kid. The familiar taste of unresolved bitterness filled his mouth.
“Are you entering any of the contests at the county fair, Sam?” Cynthia asked.
“We’re both on the Confederate team in the tug of war,” Ethan told her.
Sam fished a slice of lemon out of his tea with his finger. “And I’m entering the rodeo.”
“You’re not entering the rodeo,” Ethan said.
Sam sucked the lemon and didn’t reply. He took after his grandma, refusing to engage when it didn’t suit him. How was Ethan supposed to reason with him? What would he say to one of the kids on his work program?
“You’re a good rider, Sam—” encouragement first “—but you don’t have enough experience to ride in the rodeo, it’s too dangerous. Next year, though, you’ll be right on it.” Bad news second, neatly sugarcoated.
The twist of Sam’s mouth suggested he’d bitten right through the sugarcoating. “I want to ride. Dean’s dad said I’m good enough.”
Dean’s dad, Dean’s dad. Anyone would think Sam was eight, not eighteen, the rate at which his friend’s father came up in a whine. “Dean’s dad lost the sensible part of his brain in a rodeo accident twenty years ago.”
“What’s your horse’s name?” Cynthia asked.
Sam gave her an incredulous look. Linnet tittered.
It was the second time in as many minutes Cynthia had deflected the tension between Ethan and Sam. Did she realize Sam was making trouble in her honor?
“I guess you’re too old for that kind of question,” Cynthia apologized. “Where do you like to ride—I’ve seen signs to various paths and trails around town.”
Amazingly, that did capture Sam’s attention. He talked about a couple of the trails near the ranch and the challenges and sights they presented. “I saw a bald eagle the other day,” he concluded, unable to contain his enthusiasm.
“Wonderful,” Cynthia said.
Sam managed to look simultaneously pleased and resentful.
“Al told me this morning you’re doing a great job at the gas station,” Ethan said.
“Yeah?” Sam eyed him expectantly. Expecting what? For the millionth time, Ethan felt as if he’d stepped out of his depth. He never had this trouble with the kids on the ranch.
“You did a good job with the hay, too,” he said. “At home.”
Sam nodded, still waiting.
“You could probably show Connor and Jacob a thing or two about getting those bales tight.”
“Sure.” Sam dripped sarcasm. He stood, made a halfhearted effort to hoist up his too low-riding jeans. “Thanks for the tea.”
Ethan wondered what he’d failed to say. “I’d appreciate if you could help the guys finish up with the tractor.”
“I take it that’s an order.”
“Correct.” Ethan sounded more starched than a tuxedo shirt.
Sam stomped outside, tea untouched. Through the window, Ethan watched his loose stride, at odds with the set of his shoulders. He chanced a glance at Cynthia, whose expression was carefully blank. Yep, she was thinking his family was out of control.
She was right.
“How’s the boy supposed to feel as if you’re his dad, when you’re always barking orders at him?” Linnet asked.
“As opposed to your supportive parenting style?” Dammit, how had that slipped out?
Linnet’s face took on a tomato hue, her hands flapped at her sides. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Ethan mouthed the words as she said them. He’d chisel that phrase on his mother’s gravestone one day.
Cynthia drained her glass and stood. “I need to go.” She was looking at him as if he was the playground bully.
Ethan escorted her out to her Volvo.
“The history between me and Mom is complicated,” he said as they crossed the sunbaked dirt. “But we don’t see a lot of each other, so she doesn’t have any effect on my work program.”
Cynthia pressed the remote to unlock the car. Only a city girl would lock it out here. “She has a relationship with Sam.”
He opened her door. “It’s good for him to get along with his grandmother.” In theory.
She paused halfway into the car, her right hand curled over the top of the door. “Ethan, your work program is very impressive. I’ll have no reservations about sending kids to you.”
Before he could think, he grabbed her other hand. “That’s fantastic.” He ran his thumb over her knuckles down to her tapered fingertips. If he laced her fingers through his…
“About Sam,” she said. “I know he was laying it on for my benefit today, but that doesn’t change the underlying truth. He’s not going to cooperate with you the way things are now. And when you could be using your mom as an ally, you won’t because you don’t get along with her. Not all your fault, I’m sure, but that’s the way it is.”
Ethan’s chest constricted; he dropped her hand. “You’re not reassigning Sam?”
She slid into her seat and turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred. “I’m sorry, Ethan, but Sam stays where he is.”
She made to close the door, but he grabbed it. “You conned me. You had me answer all those personal questions thinking it would help. Instead, you’re using it to keep Sam away.” He’d hated answering those questions, yet by the end it had felt cathartic. All along, she’d been stitching him up.
“You conned me,” she retorted. “When we talked in the paddock, you made it sound as if you’d do whatever it took to make things work with Sam. But you can’t even hold a polite conversation with his grandmother.”
“So that’s it, end of story?” He thumped the roof of the car. “I ought to go ahead and lodge that complaint about you.”
Her eyes widened. “You promised not to.”
“I wasn’t under oath.”
“You’re a man of your word.”
He growled.
She buzzed down her window, then pulled the door shut. “That goes for the other part of our deal, too.”
“You can’t seriously think—”
“I kept my side,” she said. “I took an objective look at this place, and I gave you sound reasons for my decision. Now you need to do your bit
. To convince people in this town that you like me and they should, too.”
It wasn’t until her car had almost rounded the bend in the drive, spitting dust in its wake, that the solution to her unreasonableness hit Ethan. She wasn’t the only one who could set a person up for a fall.
“Brilliant,” he muttered with grim satisfaction as he turned back to the house and the prospect of dinner with his mother and son.
He would keep his promise to Cynthia, all right. And at the same time drive her out of town.
Two weeks, max, and she’d be gone, or he’d eat his best Stetson.
CYNTHIA WAS MUNCHING a tuna sandwich at her desk during Monday’s noon recess when Ethan walked into her chambers.
Hard on the heels of her irritation at his failure to knock came an unbidden Mmm, he looks great in that black T-shirt. That’s what you got when you let a handsome but bad-tempered rancher hold your hand, even just for a minute. She swallowed her appreciation along with her mouthful.
“Hi,” she said cautiously. She hadn’t expected to see him so soon; he’d been understandably mad when she left yesterday.
“I’m here to keep my end of the deal.” The words were not quite a snarl.
“Really?” She rewrapped the remains of her sandwich. “Because if that scowl is your I-like-the-judge face, it needs work.” She’d had no choice but to refuse to send Sam to the Double T. His relationship with his father was too fragile to take much more pressure. She just wished she didn’t feel so bad for Ethan. Those things he’d said about his feelings for Sam…he’d meant them, in his own way.
His scowl deepened as he set his hat on her desk. “In public,” he said. “That’s when I need to act as if I like you. So let’s go.”
“Go where?” She put the sandwich in her drawer. She’d been thinking about how he could help boost her image, and she had a couple of ideas. She didn’t imagine he’d been thinking along the same lines.
“We’re due to meet with Jackson Bream in five minutes,” Ethan said. “He’s the head of the Griffin County Fair organizing committee. And your new best friend.”
According to the dozens of posters around town, the fair would open this Friday night, running through the weekend—Sunday was the Fourth—to wrap up on Tuesday.
“Why is he my friend?” Cynthia asked.
“The fair is the number one event on Stonewall Hollow’s annual calendar, and Jackson can make you the star.”
She pushed back from her desk. “I’m not entering any kind of pageant.” There was only one star in the Merritt family, and that was Sabrina.
“Not a pageant,” he said. “What I have in mind is perfect for you.”
“Why are you being so helpful?” she demanded. “You’re mad at me.”
His eyes flickered. “We have an agreement. Now, let’s get over to Jackson’s office. You need to be back for afternoon court.”
“They can’t start without me,” she said tartly, borrowing Melanie’s truism as she followed him out of her chambers.
They walked across the square and down Green Street, a road she had yet to explore. A couple of people greeted Ethan as they passed.
“We’re in public,” Cynthia pointed out the second time he failed to introduce her. “Could you act a little friendlier toward me?”
He bared his teeth in a ferocious smile. “Better?”
“Much,” she lied.
“Too bad we’re already there so no one else will get to see our wonderful rapport.” He pointed to the upper story of an art deco–style building across the street. Bright pink lettering said Miss Honey’s Dancers. “Jackson works out of an office above Miss Honey’s.”
“Above a brothel?” Cynthia asked.
“I’ve never met anyone as suspicious as you.” Ethan grabbed her elbow as they stepped off the curb. “Miss Honey’s is a dance school. For kids.”
The fair’s headquarters was a rabbit warren of offices, each smaller and darker than the last. But after they’d walked through three rooms, with Ethan greeting various administrative staff en route—painstakingly introducing Cynthia each time—the space opened out into a large, low-ceiling office.
Framed photographs and news clippings from past fairs crammed the walls. Beneath the window, a glass-fronted sideboard held an array of ribbons, rosettes and silver cups. In the center of the room, a man who reminded Cynthia of those portraits of Civil War generals—right down to the craggy eyebrows, thick mustache and full beard—presided over a chipped Formica desk.
“Granger.” He barked the name, military-style. Cynthia managed not to salute.
“Hey, Jackson.” In contrast, Ethan’s greeting was a slow meander. “May I introduce Judge Cynthia Merritt?”
Jackson Bream came around the desk to clasp her hand in both his. “Your Honor.”
“Cynthia, please,” she urged.
He fingered the end of his mustache. “Ethan tells me you want to help out with our little fair.”
She gathered from Ethan’s significant look that she wasn’t supposed to let the man get away with denigrating his own fair.
“I hear it’s the biggest event this side of Disneyworld,” she said.
And caught a smothered laugh from Ethan. She started to relax.
Jackson wagged a finger at her. “Not at all, my dear, as I’m sure you know.” He sounded pleased, just the same. “What we do has nothing on some of the bigger fairs around the state, but we put on an impressive show for the size of the county, and each year a local charity benefits to a measurable extent.”
“I can’t wait to get involved,” Cynthia said.
Muted music wafted up from the dance studio below. A strong, rhythmic beat accompanied by soft thumps, the pitter-patter of not-so-tiny feet. The kids must be learning hip-hop.
“When Ethan told me how keen you are to help out, I was thrilled,” Jackson said. “You don’t know how hard it is—”
“Why don’t you explain what Cynthia will be doing?” Ethan interrupted.
Jackson pulled a sheet of paper from the top drawer of his desk. “I printed off a list of the fair’s amateur contests, in anticipation.”
Cynthia scanned the list. Cakes, Cookies, Pies, Preserved Food. Then Bonsai, Children’s Art, Giant Onion…and on it went. She felt a frown line forming between her eyes. “You want me to enter all of these?”
Jackson laughed. “Certainly not. You can’t enter, not if you’re the judge.”
It took her a moment to understand. “You want me to judge bonsai? And preserves?”
“Anyone can pickle an onion or grow a half-assed tree, but not everyone can judge,” Ethan said. “Take a look at the photos around the walls.”
Cynthia stood and went to peruse some of the pictures. Most of them were framed newspaper clippings. More than half featured the contest judge congratulating a beribboned winner. Smiles all around. A lightbulb went off in her head. “This is perfect,” she told Ethan excitedly.
He spread his hands to say, I told you so.
“I mean, I’m not an expert cook, but how hard can it be to taste a few cakes and hand out trophies?”
“Ah,” Jackson said. “I should point out—”
“Exactly,” Ethan said.
She turned to Jackson. “I’ll do it. Please.”
“Wonderful.” The older man saluted her. “So I have you down for craft contests, plus the baby pageant?”
“Babies?” Cynthia glanced at the photo on the wall of an extremely round baby being cuddled by a previous judge. “I don’t know…”
“They’re a highlight of the fair,” Ethan encouraged her.
She shrugged. “Okay, what the heck. I judge every other age group in court, I might as well move down to babies.”
“I’m in your debt,” Jackson said. Grandly, he added, “All of Stonewall Hollow is in your debt.” He kissed her cheek.
They agreed on a starting time for judging on Saturday, then Ethan reminded Cynthia it was time to get back to court.
; “I really appreciate what you did there,” Cynthia said as they crossed the square. “It was more than generous of you.”
“You agreed to keep sending kids to the ranch.” His loping stride had her almost jogging to keep up. She hitched her skirt above her knees so she could lengthen her steps. Ethan glanced down at her legs, then fixed his gaze straight ahead.
“I feel bad that I couldn’t do more for you and Sam,” she admitted.
If possible, he walked faster. “That’s over with.”
They reached the white wooden gazebo that marked the center of the square.
“Can we stop a moment?” Panting, Cynthia clutched the green-topped rail that ran around the open sides of the gazebo and caught her breath. Saturday’s run hadn’t done much to improve her fitness.
Ethan halted a few yards ahead of her. He scanned the grassy area, the benches where people ate sandwiches in the sunshine, the paved pathways, and beyond, the fanciful facade of the courthouse.
“I know you don’t like me, despite the glowing account you gave Jackson,” she said.
He swiveled to check the clock tower above city hall, then glanced at his watch.
“But I’m wondering if you could help me some more.”
“What?” He closed the gap between them, loomed over her.
“The fair is great,” she said quickly. “But Tania, the reporter, is already questioning people about me—she spoke to Melanie’s sister. I thought maybe if you and I had lunch together, say, tomorrow…”
“No way,” he said. “It won’t take five minutes for the news you’re judging at the fair to get around, and everyone will know what a great gal you are. You don’t need me.”
“I just think it would help—”
He leaned in close, and she saw white tension in the lines around his mouth. “I’ve given you every chance to do the right thing for my son.”
“Which is exactly what I’ve done,” she said.
“I said nice things about you to Jackson and got you a job at the fair, it’s up to you to make what you can of it. There’s no reason for you and me to have anything more to do with each other.”
“In court—”
“Sure, I’ll see you in court, where I expect you to keep your word and send some of those kids out to the ranch. But that’s business. On a personal level, I’ve done everything I’m going to do for you. Ever. Get it?”