“And things are serious between them?” I asked.
I had to remind myself that I knew details I shouldn’t know. Cassidy didn’t know I had already talked to Annabelle, so I had to pretend like I didn’t know anything and let him fill me in.
“Definitely serious,” Cassidy said. “He’s building them a house out on the ranch.”
“That’s pretty impressive,” I said. “And the rest of you? Any of you get taken down by Cupid?”
Cassidy laughed and shook his head as he bit into his sandwich. “No. But you should see what Sawyer’s up to.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“We were coming up with ways the ranch could make more money, and he conjured up this idea for a dude-ranch experience. At first, I think a couple of us thought he was just joking. But then he kept talking about it and coming up with plans. Eventually, it turned into a full-blown project and it’s turned into a serious side hustle for him. He barely even helps here on the ranch anymore because he’s so busy with these customers.”
“A dude-ranch experience?” I asked. “What does that even mean?”
“People sign up and they come out to the ranch,” Cassidy said. “Sawyer brings them out riding horses and they set up camp. They sleep in tents and have campfires. Sometimes he has them do little bits of work so they feel like they’re getting the real experience.”
“Do people actually pay for this?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said. “I wouldn’t have believed it either, but he’s actually pulling in more cash than any of us had imagined. This thing gets booked up months in advance and there are constantly people asking for longer visits or if he can come up with different activities so they can come back several times.”
I was stunned. “He always did have great ideas.”
“Great and terrible,” Cassidy said.
We chuckled and kept eating. For a few moments, it felt like things were relaxing between us. Then I noticed him staring at me, his face serious.
“What?” I asked.
“Are you really okay?” he asked. “We’re brothers. I’m your big brother. We can talk about anything.”
“I know,” I said.
I wasn’t inclined to talk to my brother about my dependence on alcohol and partying to get me through the day or how I felt like I had finally hit rock bottom and was dragging myself back home with my tail between my legs. So I kept my mouth shut.
“And?” Cassidy asked.
“And I think I’m going to head out into town and remind myself how much of a shithole Green Valley is.”
Cassidy rolled his eyes, but I didn’t stop. At some point, I would probably have to have that serious conversation with my brother. Probably with all of my brothers. But this day wasn’t the day. I didn’t want to deal with any of it right then. I didn’t go back there so they would rescue me. I went back because I realized I missed it. I would find a way to straighten myself out.
I put on my shoes and went to the rack by the door where all the keys always hung.
“Any of these trucks available for me to borrow?” I called so Cassidy could hear me where he was still in the kitchen.
“The green one,” he said. “It’s the one with the yellow keychain.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I grabbed the keys and headed outside. There was a distinct chill in the air as I walked down the porch steps and across the parking area to the truck. I took the opportunity to roll down the window so I could breathe in the crisp, fresh air as I drove. The area was just as I remembered it. The leaves were all a beautiful burnt orange speckled with yellow and red. It was nothing short of breathtaking.
Autumn in Montana was always my favorite time of the year. Everything felt cozy. There was a certain sense of closure around it. The busy season of summer was over, but the cold of winter hadn’t yet come. There was plenty to do during the fall months, but they felt more relaxed, a slower pace than the rest of the year.
I was so absorbed in looking around me and taking in all of the familiar sights I almost didn’t notice the woman walking along the side of the road. If it hadn’t been Annabelle, I wouldn’t have noticed her at all. But something made me look over, as if just being in the general proximity of her drew me in.
I slowed the truck down, pulling up beside her. At first, it almost seemed like she was ignoring me. But that was somewhat to be expected. It wasn’t all that uncommon for people to walk along the roads in the area and for people to slow down for other cars passing or for animals going across the road.
I rolled my window down and leaned my head slightly out of it. “Annabelle.”
She stopped and turned to look at the truck. When she saw me, her eyes widened. A bright smile crossed her face and she walked toward my open window.
“Hey there,” she said. “Funny seeing you around these parts.”
I grinned at her. “Why don’t you hop in? I’ll give you a ride.”
Annabelle smiled a little wider and nodded. She walked around the front of the truck to the passenger side and hopped in beside me. I had the urge to lean over and kiss her, but I didn’t. This was a different situation. We were in a totally different context, literally in a different place. I didn’t know what she was thinking or how she was feeling. I needed to be patient and maybe a little bit cautious.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Mrs. Cook’s house,” she said. “Remember where that is?”
“Yep,” I said. “What are you doing out there?”
She showed me the basket she had carried into the truck and was now sitting in her lap. A napkin was folded over what was inside, but I could smell something sweet and warm.
“Banana walnut muffins,” she said. “I’m trading them for one of her chicken pot pies. It’s one of my daddy’s favorites.”
“Hmm,” I said in almost a teasing tone. “Chicken pot pie. Is that on his healthy eating diet?”
She shrugged slightly. “Not exactly. But he’s been eating really clean and really healthy for the last few days. A special meal won’t hurt him.”
I nodded. “Mrs. Cook’s, it is.”
Chapter 18
Annabelle
The soft warmth of the afternoon had settled in by the time we pulled up in front of Mrs. Cook’s little home. She was sitting out on her front porch in her rocking chair, working on a beautiful log cabin pattern quilt. She had already put together all of the little pieces of fabric to create the flow of color along the front of the quilt. It was draped across her lap as she held a piece of it in a wooden hoop and carefully hand-quilted it.
Each of the tiny stitches she made would create the decorative seams that made it a quilt. Those stitches were not only beautiful, but they actually held the blanket together. That was what made it so important for the stitches to be tiny and close together. If they were too far apart or too long, they would allow the batting inside to shift and move around.
But that never happened to Mrs. Cook’s quilts. She was an absolute master, having crafted the gorgeous blankets most of her life. Her grandmother taught her when she was just a little girl. Many times, she told me stories about how they would sit on the porch just like she was now and work on quilts together.
They held even more meaning then. Her grandmother, a woman named Katrina who Mrs. Cook described as strong and quiet but the most loving person she ever knew, crafted these blankets for a variety of reasons. The most beautiful and elaborate ones that took her weeks and sometimes even months to create were given to loved ones as gifts.
Everyone in her family was given a special quilt at their wedding and tiny ones at the birth of each child. She also stitched together lovely patterns and appealing colors for blankets she could sell. Then there were the blankets pieced together from all the scraps of fabric that ended up in the ragbag. These were old clothes and other blankets that had been worn and used until they were in tatters.
She would take those pieces of fabric and cut them into shapes
that she could then piece together and make what she called crazy quilts. They were bright and cheerful, the colors not making sense and yet somehow perfect together.
I loved to listen to Mrs. Cook talk about those quilts. They were the way she connected with her family. These were her memories. She carried them on through her fingers as she stitched blankets of her own. There were quilts draped throughout her little house that she made with her grandmother and ones her grandmother made with her own mother.
Some of the blankets Mrs. Cook made herself were pieced together from remnants of some of those old blankets, along with pieces of clothing from her parents, her siblings, and her children. One particularly precious quilt was made from her husband’s shirts.
She paused her stitching and smiled at me when she saw us climb out of the truck. I brought down the basket of muffins and walked toward her.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Cook,” I said. “How are you doing today?”
“Doin’ just fine, Annabelle,” she said. “How are you doing?”
“Great, I made banana nut muffins today,” I said.
“Those are my favorite,” she said.
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I made them. Only the best in exchange for your chicken pot pie.”
She smiled at me and I noticed her eyes slide over to Garrett. He hesitated slightly behind me.
“You come on up here, Garrett Montgomery,” she said. “Let me get a good look at you.”
He walked up to the front of the porch and she eyed him. I waited for her reaction to him. I’d never heard her say anything bad about Garrett. But I’d never heard her say anything good about him, either. It was hard to tell exactly how she was going to react to him coming along with me on this visit.
“It’s been a long time since you were in Green Valley, hasn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “More than a year.”
She nodded, quiet for a few long seconds. It wasn’t a negative silence. She was just thinking, taking her time. “You certainly look like it was time to come home.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, why don’t the two of you come on inside? I have some cider on the stove. It’s chilly today.”
Setting her quilt aside in the large basket on the wooden slats of the porch, she pressed her hands to the arms of the chair and stood up. She walked over to the door of the house and Garrett and I climbed the steps up onto the porch to follow her inside.
The whole house smelled like sweet apple cider and warm mulling spices. It was like breathing in the first moments of the holiday season. We were still a few weeks out, but it was enough to give me those excited, fuzzy feelings.
Mrs. Cook filled mugs with the hot steaming cider from the copper pot on the stove. She handed each of us one, then carried her own along with a plate of molasses cookies over to the table. We sat down and chatted for a few minutes, just catching up on life and visiting.
After a little while, Mrs. Cook stood up again. “Give me just one second.”
She walked out of the room and I turned to smile at Garrett. There was a look in his eyes I couldn’t quite decipher.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“Just how different this is,” he said.
“Doesn’t seem all that different to me,” I said. “It feels pretty much like her house always has.”
“I mean different from what I’ve been doing,” he said. “Small-town living is a whole different world than the rush of the cities I’ve gotten used to.”
“That’s for sure,” I said. “I was only in Las Vegas for a couple of days and I felt like I was going to lose my mind if I didn’t get back home soon. This is much more my speed.”
Garrett looked around and let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing. “Being here reminds me of the old days. Things were so much simpler then.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Simpler, gentler, just like this,” he said. “Neighbors exchanging goods and company for services and other goods. Sitting around the table over hot apple cider and talking about weather without it being ironic. For a long time, I made myself forget about life being like this.”
“Why would you want to forget it?” I asked.
Before Garrett could answer me, Mrs. Cook came back into the kitchen. There was a quilt folded over her arm and she held it out to me.
“Give this back to your daddy for me,” she said. “I did some repairs on it and reinforced some of the older seams. It should be just fine now.”
“Thank you,” I said. “We should probably be going now. It’s getting late.”
“Let me get you your pot pie,” she said.
She walked over to her refrigerator and opened it. From one of the meticulously organized shelves, she pulled a pie plate perfectly wrapped in aluminum foil. I didn’t have to see it to know that beneath that foil was the world’s most delicious pastry crust encasing rich, creamy gravy, chunks of chicken, and tender vegetables.
Anybody who had ever eaten a frozen pot pie from a grocery store had no idea what the meal was actually supposed to taste like. It was like a completely different dish. The separation between a slice of Thanksgiving turkey and a rolled-up piece of lunch meat.
I accepted the pie and gave Mrs. Cook a hug before heading back out to the truck. The sun was already well on its way to setting, but she still came outside and settled back into her rocking chair. The porch light burned nearby, ready to give her the illumination she would need to keep quilting for as long as she wanted.
“Am I bringing you back to your house now?” Garrett asked as we drove away.
“Yes,” I told him. “Time to get everything ready for supper.” I hesitated for a second. “Would you want to stay and eat with my father and me?”
A smile crossed Garrett’s face and he nodded. “I would really like to. But remember. Your father might not be my biggest fan. He may not want me to stay.”
I shrugged it off. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. My father won’t mind a new face at the table for supper. It’s just been the two of us staring at each other for the last year. We get the occasional visit from Bridget or Sawyer, but not enough that he won’t be really happy to have somebody else talking.”
Garrett laughed. “Well, if you really think he won’t mind, I would be very happy to have dinner with you.”
“Good,” I said.
We drove the rest of the way in comfortable silence. When we got back to the farm, Garrett hopped out of the truck and came around the side to open my door for me. He held out his hand and I took it so he could help me down as I held the chicken pot pie. I paused right in front of him, meeting his eyes and giving a slight smile.
My lips tingled to kiss him. But I held back. I turned and led the way into the house. We went into the kitchen and I slipped the pot pie into the oven so I could warm it back up.
“Is there something I could do to help?” Garrett asked.
“There are some vegetables in the refrigerator. If you could put together a salad, that would be good.”
Garrett went to the refrigerator and took out the vegetables as I gathered ingredients for the dessert I was planning. I pulled out a pot and set it on the stove, then emptied a can of coconut milk into it. Garrett looked at me suspiciously as I started zesting two lemons.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Making lemon curd,” I said. “It’s made with coconut milk and cornstarch rather than butter and eggs. It’s still delicious, but it doesn’t have the fat, calories, and cholesterol I’m trying to get my father to avoid.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Coconut milk and cornstarch?”
“Yes,” I said with a laugh. “You’re just going to have to trust me on this one. It’s really good. I made some shortbread cookies already. I’ll crumble some of them over the curd for dessert and it will be sort of like lemon bars.”
“How seasonal,” Garrett said.
&nbs
p; I laughed. “Okay, so it probably isn’t the most autumnal dessert I could have chosen. But I was craving it earlier. I also kept quite a few of the banana nut muffins, so you’re welcome to one of those if you just have to have warming spices.”
Garrett grinned and went back to work chopping the vegetables for the salad. By the time my father came in from his chores, we had already set the table and Garrett was just placing a pitcher of ice water in the middle. The two men locked eyes and Garrett stood slowly.
“Good evening, Mr. Dixon,” he said.
My father looked Garrett up and down. The expression on his face said that he wasn’t exactly sure how to react to this man standing in his house. “You’ve been gone a long time, Montgomery.”
There was an edge to his voice I didn’t like. The words themselves weren’t negative, but the energy radiating off them was definitely edging in that direction.
“Play nice,” I said, carrying the pot pie over to the table and setting it down. “Both of you. Come on now. Sit down and eat before this gets cold.”
We all dug into the meal and I found myself not able to take my eyes off Garrett the whole evening. I was aching for some alone time. Now that I knew he was back in Green Valley, I didn’t know how I was going to resist him.
Chapter 19
Garrett
We finished eating and Annabelle stood up to start clearing the table. I got up and picked up my own plate, then reached for the nearly empty pan of chicken pot pie. We brought the dishes over to the sink, and Annabelle went to the pantry to get out plastic wrap to wrap up the leftovers so she could put them in the refrigerator.
I couldn’t help but sneak a look over at her as she leaned down to put the food away. But I wouldn’t let my eyes linger on her tight jeans for too long. I was still very aware of her father being in the kitchen with us. He was sitting at the table just a few feet away, and I didn’t particularly relish the idea of him catching me checking out her round ass in front of him.
His Wicked Mouth Page 11