He ate a second half of the pancake and with a mouth full of pancake announced, “This my reward.”
“Let’s finish setting the table while Lina gets the men,” Cruz said to her son.
Diego carefully picked up the plate towering with pancakes and carried it to the table.
The scene was so homey that for a moment Catalina felt tears prick her eyes. She wanted this. A house. A family. And yet it felt totally out of reach.
“You’re stalling,” Cruz teased her.
“I don’t see you running down the hall to drag Axel into the domesticity of a farmhouse breakfast.”
Cruz laughed.
“Are you going to stay here at the house while you work?” Catalina asked curiously.
“Tempting, but I haven’t seen Axel in years. It would be—” she waved both hands gracefully indicating everything and nothing with her gesture “—hard. Awkward. Definitely unwise for my sanity, and probably his.” She shook her head, making her hair swing around her face. “I thought I just remembered him larger than life because I’d been so young and he was my first love, but nope. That man’s something.” She huffed out a breath. “I’d forgotten how potent Texas cowboys are, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to remember.”
“Damn straight,” Catalina muttered and headed down the hall.
She could hear Axel long before she reached them. He’d never been one for yelling that she could recall, but he had always been grim and forceful and had made his opinions known.
“Cat’s not like her dad. I hired her, not him.”
“Same thing. A Clemmens is a Clemmens. And a Clemmens always means trouble.”
Cat didn’t want to hear any more. She pushed open the door.
Axel looked as calm as if they’d been discussing the price of beef whereas August was pale with red slashes of color on his high cheekbones. His beautiful blue eyes glittered with fury and his fists were balled and his breath came out in puffs. His jaw was winched tight and a muscle ticked in his jaw.
He looked gorgeous and feral—a warrior in the heat of a battle to the death.
“Breakfast,” Catalina said flatly and turned away.
She walked down the wide hall toward the kitchen, feeling as much like eating as she did bathing in bleach. She couldn’t do this again—be around people who were going to judge her by her family and their combined past. She wasn’t going to live somewhere and be judged by her family instead of her accomplishments and actions.
And she definitely wasn’t going to watch August walk away again.
Been there. Done that. Still had the scars.
Axel might be a dismissive, arrogant jerk with the compassion of a steel blade, but he was spot on. Her father would make trouble. She could handle him, but he would come. And likely Axel had accused August of starting the winery as another one of his whims, which was ridiculous—wineries weren’t short-term profit makers. But August would move on to something else once Verflucht was established.
She had to decide. Was she in or out?
Chapter Seven
Later that morning Catalina stood at the top of Ghost Hill and looked down at the rows and rows of young vines, all showing healthy signs of bud break despite the rainy autumn but cooler and drier winter.
She’d mostly skipped breakfast—her stomach had been churning too much, but she had helped Cruz clean the kitchen and take stock of the kitchen inventory. Cruz had seemed genuinely interested in winemaking, and she’d enjoyed chatting with her—much easier to handle than Axel’s suspicions and judgments.
While August made several calls, she’d slipped out to take a Gator from the massive garage adjacent to the house and driven out to the vineyard. Not because she wanted to see it professionally but because she didn’t think she could sit at a table with either Axel or August after what she’d overheard.
She was on the outside. Again.
Drowning.
But the sun was warm on her face.
The air fresh.
The world quiet.
And she felt herself settle a little.
This is where she belonged.
Where she knew the rules and found peace and meaning.
She breathed in deeply and began to walk down one of the rows. This would be the vineyard’s fourth leaf. Depending on the spring and early summer, the vines would be old enough by late July to mid-August to harvest, but it would be a few more years before the roots were deep enough for the terroir to show.
Not that she’d be here to enjoy it.
But you could be.
The protest stirred in her head and her heart. Why let Axel drive her away? Verflucht wasn’t his, and he clearly had no love for it. Why let August drive her away?
“Not August,” she murmured. “Fear.”
Fear of falling in love with him again. Fear of being hurt. Fear of not finding a different man she could love enough and who would love her back and want to make a family with her. Catalina closed her eyes and let one bright green Chardonnay grape leaf stroke along her cheek.
Fear.
She was not going to let fear govern her life. Sure, she felt it, but she pushed through it always.
Her eyes snapped open, and she looked down the rows and rows of vines. The canopy was kept so much lusher in Texas than the Willamette Valley to protect the grapes from burn or raisining.
So what she really had to decide had nothing to do with Axel or August. It was this: Did she want to run Verflucht? Did she want to be a Texas winemaker starting with a vineyard almost from the beginning? She had been the initial consultant for the vineyard plan, and Derek and Pete had often called her for advice during the planting and care over the past three years. Though it had burned her belly to do it, she’d always answered the call and given thoughtful answers.
And now she was happy she had.
“This could be mine,” she murmured looking out over the hills flowing with grades down one of the offshoot creeks from the Pedernales River that ran through the ranch.
Well, twenty-five percent of it. Hers to nurture. Hers to plan the expansion. Hers to build the brand.
With August.
At least when he was home.
She knelt and ran the rocky soil through her fingers. She knew from the report August had commissioned five years ago the soil on the ranch was clay, sand, granite, and alluvial gravel. The sites where he’d planted also held a lot of limestone that would really add an appealing minerality to the wines with time.
The elevations were good, but unlike the Texas High Plains AVA, the summers in the Hill Country AVA ran hotter and the evenings never completely cooled so the fruit never fully rested. That made it tough to retain acidity, but the heat added some kick-ass tannins to provide structure. Verflucht wines could be cellared, which higher-end clients wanted.
“You talk about the fruit like it’s your baby,” more than one of her co-workers had teased, or accused her, over the years. Maybe instead of nurturing a child, she nurtured her vines.
She would need to find the funds to travel back and forth to Oregon so she could take care of her scattered orphaned vines. Likely she’d have to hire some help. But that would allow her to make pinot noir under her own label, and she’d have access to a variety of fruit to blend with estate grapes to pull out different characteristics and offer special access to the higher tier of wine club members.
Was she really, seriously considering becoming Verflucht’s head winemaker?
She walked through one block and then another, losing herself in the vineyard, while the Texas sun drenched her body in warmth. So different from the northwest in late March and early April. She held her arms palms up and closed her eyes, feeling a little bit like a goddess. Give her the land and plants over people every day of every week.
This block she had planned to make chardonnay. She still remembered August’s surprise that she’d recommended chard. He might not have hired her, but he’d followed her plan—or Derek and Pete had.
She knew that for
ty-five acres were planted with three white varietals—Chardonnay and Pinot Grigio and Viognier, and for reds, Malbec, Cab Sauvignon, Sangiovese and Tempranillo. She tenderly stroked a finger along the vines. They looked healthy. Irrigated but just enough to survive. The vines would need to be stressed to produce the beautiful, rich berries. Too much water and the taste would be too thin. Too little and the grapes would raisin. The juice might be concentrated, but there wouldn’t be enough to bottle to cover the farming costs much less build a brand and loyal following.
She headed back to the top of Ghost Hill. She was at the ranch she’d always loved and wished was her home.
She could make her childhood dream real. Not necessarily the way she’d hoped. Elizabeta, the loving mother surrogate, was long dead, and she didn’t want to let her once vivid dreams of a life with August reawaken. But she could build a life and a career here. Belong in a way she’d never belonged before.
All it took was courage and hard work—her strong points.
But it also took guarding her heart against August. She’d not been nearly so successful at that. But she’d lasted four years not softening to the occasional funny text he’d send—the pictures, the inquiries, the memories he’d throw out like a fishing lure.
She’d not relented.
She could hold strong.
She’d have to.
She was skilled and accomplished. She’d worked hard her entire life to stand out on her own merits. Heck, she’d planned out this sprawling, scenic Verflucht site, the plantings, the clones and the care. She’d drawn up an initial plan and then created a five-year and a ten-year growth plan. She had a planting schedule to hit August’s goal of one hundred fifty acres and then an additional hundred acres.
She’d been so pumped. Verflucht had been her dream, too.
Why should she walk away from what might be the professional opportunity of a lifetime just because it got personally messy?
Catalina practically jogged the last dozen yards up the steep, rocky hill toward the large, old barn and the newer, prefab, practical building that housed the winery’s equipment. Another Gator was parked next to hers, and August lounged on the seat.
*
His heart slammed alarmingly, hurting his already battered ribs. She looked so familiar that his eyes stung. Small, compact, buzzing with energy in those low-waisted, worn jeans—no stylish skinny jeans for his Cat—and her worn, dusty boots poking out under the frayed denim hem. On top she wore a pale yellow shirt with some faded design, and her light blue and orange and red western-style shirt was already off and knotted around her waist.
His gaze skimmed over her wary expression and tense form. Cat looked ready for battle. Not much give in his Cat, and that made him proud but sad. She’s always had to fight for what she wanted—first against her cold, dysfunctional family who hadn’t begun to see her value, and then against the town’s snide gossip and assumptions based on her family’s reputation, not hers that she tried so hard to cultivate. And he supposed college and the UC Davis winemaking program and building her career in the Willamette Valley had lobbed numerous challenges at her.
God knew—if God existed—he hadn’t been an easy partner to her in their tumultuous on-again, off-again intensely passionate relationship. He’d always had his eye on the next prize, his next business accomplishment, just assuming she’d go along with him or wait for him.
What an arrogant, selfish… So many epithets crowded his mind to fill in the blank.
He didn’t deserve another chance with Cat.
But he realized as she strode toward him looking a sexy combination of determined, fierce and a little worried, that he was going to seize the chance with both hands.
“You never stick!” Axel’s harsh assessment echoed in his ears. “You start things and then get someone else to run with your idea so you can move on to the next challenge.”
But Cat was different.
Verflucht was different.
This was his legacy. As permanent as a man could get. Roots dug deep.
He could practically hear Axel’s disbelieving snort.
Jesus. I can’t get away from big brother’s disapproval even when I’m away from him.
He shoved thoughts of Axel to the back of his mind.
“You left without me,” he accused softly as Cat closed the physical distance. The emotional distance was going to be his challenge to close. She’d always done the heavy lifting in their relationship. He didn’t know how or where to start.
Figure it out, genius.
“Wasn’t sure you were up for a tour.”
“I’m always—” He broke off before he said ‘up.’
Stupid to joke around and act like a young buck in rutting season when he needed Catalina to trust him and to believe he was serious.
“You probably shouldn’t be on the Gator,” Cat said. “The soil here on this part of the ranch has a lot of limestone and gravel. Good for grapes. Bad for smooth rides.”
“I’m tough,” he said. “Cat,” he started, not sure what to say to make things thaw between them. He’d hurt her. Over and over. He saw that now. He hated the fact even though he’d thought he’d been doing what was best for her.
He raked his fingers through her hair. He tried to smile, but it felt all wrong, and her eyes narrowed.
Damn he was bad at this.
And he had to get good at it. Fast.
“I wanted you to wait for me,” he said.
“Sorry. I’m not psychic.”
“Cat,” he raked a hand through his hair. There were so many landmines between them to diffuse. Where to start?
“Besides you were busy. You have numerous businesses. Verflucht is just one more, and if I become winemaker, and I mean if, I wanted to see what I was getting into.”
His heart leapt. She was pissed still. Of course. But she was considering it at least.
She crossed her arms, defensively and stared out at the rows of vineyards instead of at him. “I wanted to see what blocks y’all started with.”
She swung her cool green-gray gaze back to him, anger building in her eyes. “Don’t sweat it. I’m not holding you to anything. I heard you and Axel going at it. I heard what he said.”
August swore, furious all over again with his brother.
For a moment, he thought he saw a smile curve her lips, and her gaze softened and warmed.
“I’m used to people drawing the wrong conclusions about me.” She shrugged. “I don’t care what Axel thinks. I don’t care what anyone in Last Stand thinks. I’m living the life I create and am not going to shut up and sit in the corner my family built. I’m not going to be defined by them.”
“Good for you,” August said, not totally believing her, but she sounded far more confident than she had when they’d both left Last Stand years ago and had tried to carve out their own lives separate from their families and as an on-again, off-again couple. “I know you had a crap childhood at home.”
Hell, most of the town knew what Bill Clemmens was like. And her brothers had been in and out of jail for a lot of stupid, small-time crimes. “I know what a lot of people whispered behind your back. They said the same thing about me and my brothers.”
“You always rose above it,” Cat said, a smile ghosting her lips. “Killed them with kindness and humor. I always wanted to fight.”
He laughed, but it was empty. He held out his left hand. It was balled in a fist.
“We’re the same that way,” he mocked. “I haven’t seen Axel more than a handful of times over the past eleven years, and he can still wind me up and make me ready to rumble.”
“You were always ready to rumble,” Catalina said, her smile growing. “Just not often physically like my family. You used your words. But I know you do have some Wolf brawling cowboy in you; you just hid it better.”
He’d hid a lot of things. Too many, apparently.
“So,” he breathed into the unsteady silence that squatted between them and stamped its foot
like an irritated troll under the bed of their lives. “Verflucht.”
Her face shadowed. She looked away from him again out toward the vineyards, almost as if she’d try to make a break for it. Her shoulders hunched. Her tongue moistened her lower lip. He took a step toward her. She didn’t trust him or his offer. And that was on him. All of it.
And then an idea occurred to him. It was so simple. So easy. So reasonable he couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to him—the idea kingpin—before. He should have led with this.
“I have a better idea than twenty-five percent,” he said, closing the distance between them slowly, as if she were a wild animal about to bolt. He was in no position to give chase. Just the drive out here on a Gator going at a pace appropriate for a ninety-year-old whose bones were about to shake apart had made him almost immobile with nausea.
He was not accustomed to being off his game.
He needed to get back in it and fast.
Looking into Cat’s heart-shaped face settled him. She was so familiar. And accepting of him—well until she hadn’t been, but he couldn’t blame her for that.
Time to start again.
Time to be bold.
Think outside the box.
Show Cat the depth of his commitment.
The solution was so simple, he practically laughed. Axel would think he’d truly lost his mind, but when had Axel ever taken a risk? When had Axel ever taken a leap of faith that everything would all work out.
August skimmed his fingers along hers.
“A better plan for us both.”
“What?” Her chin notched up and suspicion lit her eyes.
“Let’s get married,” he said.
*
Catalina stared at August’s beloved—no, she reminded herself sternly, not beloved, familiar—face. She replayed the three words. Over and over. They couldn’t be the words she thought she’d heard. But even though she tried, she couldn’t make ‘let’s get married’ sound like anything else.
Shock blossomed to something painfully close to bitterness. Once those words would have meant everything. And she hated that August Wolf could still affect her equilibrium—could still weigh in on her happiness. For a moment, the dream dangled like bait—husband, family, the possibility of children, a home, shared goals, pinnacle job.
A Bride for the Texas Cowboy Page 9