“Uncle Brice. If I pick some vegetables, can I help you make something for dinner? You’re a much better cook than he is.”
Brice knew the exact minute Mary’s gaze swung from Bunny to the porch. Meeting her startled eyes, he descended the back steps and walked to the fence to join Bunny. Slow, casual, nonthreatening.
“Hi, Miss Williams. I’d like to say my cooking skills have just been unfairly maligned, but that would be lying. I can do breakfast, sandwiches, burgers and steaks on the grill—bachelor survival fare—but nothing fancy.”
“See?” Bunny said. “We need to cook with you! Please?”
“I ought to be wounded that I came back to town just to spend an evening with my best girl and she’s ready to abandon me for her new friend.”
“I won’t abandon you,” Bunny said indignantly. “You can cook too. Can’t he, Miss Mary?”
Mary’s eyes had widened and distress over the dilemma Bunny had created was written on her face. Clearly, she didn’t want to disappoint Bunny, but she was also not at all happy at the idea of inviting a stranger into her home.
“I can go back to Elaine and Tom’s, if you want, and let Bunny eat with you,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“Don’t go away, Uncle Brice! He can stay, can’t he, Mary? He isn’t a good cook, but he’s lots of fun. He’s really good at games and he always makes me laugh. He can make you laugh too.”
Not answering him, and with an uneasy smile, she focused on Bunny. “What do you want to make? There’s not enough time to simmer a tomato sauce from scratch, but we could make the chicken dish you like. The one where you get to pound the chicken with the meat mallet.”
“Yes, that one! It’s so much fun!”
“Let’s have a salad too. Why don’t you get a basket from the porch and pick some tomatoes, green peppers and a cucumber? Twist off the tomatoes, and use the special snips I got you to cut the stems of the peppers and cucumbers, like I showed you. Wear your gloves, too, because the cucumber spines can be sharp.”
As the girl rushed off, Mary turned to Brice. “Please stay. We . . . kinda got off on the wrong foot. I probably owe you an apology. I’m . . . really shy and not very good with strangers. Meeting someone new is hard. As I’m sure you noticed, I just want to retreat. But you did nothing to offend me, and I’m sorry I was so, well, rude.”
Relieved that his approach wasn’t going to fail after all, her apology raised his spirits and confirmed his instincts. If Mary Williams were running from something, it wasn’t after doing something nefarious.
“Apology accepted. Are you sure you want to invite me? I won’t be offended if you’d rather just have Bunny—because I can see the chances of getting her to come back to her house before she gets you to make her dinner are about zero. I am a stranger, after all.”
For a moment, he was afraid she’d accept the exit he’d offered. But then, thankfully, she shook her head. “No, please stay. Bunny would be terribly disappointed if you didn’t join us. You are a stranger, but Tom and Elaine, as well as Bunny, have given you a sterling recommendation.”
“That’s reassuring. If you’re certain . . .”
When she nodded to confirm it, he smiled. “Thanks, then, I’d love to stay. I’ll see if I can validate Bunny’s confidence in me and make you laugh.”
She smiled back at that. “Good luck.”
Not sure whether that was a challenge or taunt, he followed her across the yard to the back porch, where she picked up another basket and went to help Bunny harvest the vegetables. A few snips of vines later, the three of them walked into the cottage.
After entering, Brice stopped and looked around admiringly. The cottage was small, but the beadboard wainscoting and walls painted a light tan, airy gauze curtains, accent pieces in blues, teals and tan, and a few well-chosen, comfortable-looking furniture pieces made it look homey and inviting. To the right was the living room area, with a washed-denim overstuffed couch and chair arranged around an old trunk that served as a coffee table; on the left side sat a farmhouse-style dining table and several chairs; and straight ahead, an island with bar seating separated both areas from a neat, functional kitchen. The hallway he could glimpse to the far right probably led to bedrooms and a bathroom or two. And, as one might expect for a librarian’s house, three of the walls in the great room held wall-to-ceiling bookshelves full of books and small decorative items.
“What a nice home you’ve made this into,” Brice said. “I’ve only ever seen the cottage from the outside and always thought it looked inviting, but the interior is even more so. Warm, casual, homey. It feels like a man—or a child,” he added, nodding toward Bunny, who was carrying the garden bounty into the kitchen, “could relax and enjoy themselves without stumbling over anything or breaking something.”
“Thank you. I’ve always dreamed of living in a cottage, so furnishing it has been a pleasure. Home should be a comfortable place to live, not a fancy photo shoot for a design magazine.”
“You’ve done a very good job of making it comfortable. My brother’s wife, Abby, is an interior designer. She makes amazing furniture and fixtures out of yard sale finds, castoffs, and old kitchen equipment. This”—he gestured around the room—“reminds me of her style, a little more upscale. Have you been to her shop, Hidden Treasures? It’s in the country not far outside Whiskey River. If you haven’t, I think you’d enjoy visiting it.”
“No, I haven’t been there. I’ll have to stop by. I collect old kitchen things—tea towels, utensils, cookware. I’d be interested to see what she makes from them. Can I get you some soda? Turn on the TV if you like, while Bunny and I start dinner.”
“Just water, please. If it’s okay, I’ll sit at the island and help out, or watch, if I won’t be in the way. At the least, I can cut up a salad.”
“If you’d prefer.”
He smiled and was delighted this time to get a tentative smile in return as he followed her over and took a seat at the island.
*
What had she gotten herself into? Mary went to join Bunny at the kitchen sink, acutely aware of Brice McAllister seated at the island behind them. The cottage was small, he was a big man, and he seemed to suck up most of the air in the room, leaving her feeling—pressed.
But she hadn’t seen any feasible way to avoid issuing the invitation. He was right—Bunny wouldn’t want to go home without cooking dinner, and she would be disappointed if Brice didn’t share it with them.
Taking a deep breath, Mary tried to tell herself to relax—despite the attraction that danced along her nerves again, annoyingly stronger than ever.
Stronger probably because the paean of praise Elaine had heaped on him had made her less wary of him, except for that unfortunate lawman status.
After Elaine apologized for springing him on her unannounced the other day, she’d gone on to enthuse about what a great friend he’d been to Tom, how he was a football jock in high school and college, the one all the girls make a play for, but he never let the attention go to his head. He always said, Elaine told her, that nothing can make a man humbler than growing up on a ranch, where the cows aren’t impressed by you and nature is indifferent to your welfare, with every good year inevitably followed by one in which the operation hangs on by a shoestring. He’d dated a variety of women, but Elaine had never met an ex-girlfriend who had anything but regrets that such a nice guy wasn’t interested in getting serious. He was also great with kids, which Mary had seen for herself in his interactions with Bunny.
He’d gone into law enforcement to protect people, Elaine told her. Maybe, she speculated, because he’d lost his mother when he was so young. He hadn’t been able to save his mama, so now he was channeling that need into guarding the public at large.
“I’d never urge you to go out with someone,” Elaine had concluded.
“Good. Because Shirley takes care of that,” Mary had replied.
“But if you did decide to go out with someon
e, you couldn’t find a nicer guy. He’s not hard on the eyes, either.”
Mary had to agree with that. He wasn’t hard on the eyes, and the proximity of that big, powerful body sitting at her kitchen island created little tremors in the pit of her stomach. She could easily believe any woman under his care would feel protected.
Interestingly, though the size and sheer masculine energy he radiated made her keenly aware of him, she didn’t feel menaced. Instead, she sensed that protective streak in the way he handled Bunny—not wanting to disappoint a child—and in his courtesy at allowing her the opportunity to exclude him, if having him in her home made her uncomfortable.
The feeling of being guarded was novel, a little unsettling, and far too appealing. She just needed to remember it was her own job to protect herself. And she would never be under his care.
The best way to avoid the unsettling effect he seemed to have on her would be to concentrate on Bunny and her cooking.
Suiting action to the thought, after handing Brice a cold water from the fridge, she turned to Bunny, who had carefully unloaded the two baskets of produce into the sink. “Wash your hands well, then rinse the tomatoes, cuke and peppers and leave them in the drainer. I have some fresh beans I harvested yesterday; you can get them from the crisper in the fridge. We’ll roast them with salt and olive oil. I’ll cut up some potatoes and we’ll roast those, too, with rosemary.”
Turning back to Brice, she said, “I’ll get you a cutting board and a knife, if you really do want to cut up the salad. It’s not necessary, I can—”
“No, I’d like to. Miss Dorothy, the cousin my dad asked to come help us after Mom died, made sure all of us boys knew our way around the kitchen and were prepared to help out. Duncan and Grant turned out to be pretty good cooks. My skills are more rudimentary, maybe because I was the youngest, but I do know how to make salad.”
“I’ll let you demonstrate your skill.” She brought him the cutting board and knife, then pulled out roasting pans for the green beans and potatoes and scooted a tall stool up to the island for Bunny, who had put the drained veggies into a salad bowl and carried it carefully over to the counter.
“Here you go, Uncle Brice,” she said, handing it over. “Can I pound the chicken now, Miss Mary?”
“In a minute, mimmo. Get out the cling wrap while I take the chicken from the fridge.”
Consciousness of Brice’s gaze fixed on her made a prickly sensation skitter over her skin that she was trying hard to ignore. How odd, after she’d been more or less indifferent to men for years now, somehow he’d switched her dormant senses fully to “on.”
They might be activated, but they weren’t going to be indulged.
She got out the chicken and a bag of washed salad greens and brought them over to the island. “Put the greens in first, then cut up the tomatoes, cukes and green pepper.”
“Any special way?”
“Halve, quarter or eighth the tomatoes, depending on size, halve the cucumber slices and cut the peppers into thin strips. Those are the things Bunny likes in a salad, but I also have onion, olives, cheese and marinated Italian peppers you can add to yours if you like.”
“I do like—all those things.”
“I’ll get them out when we’re ready to eat. Vegetables over to you,” she said with a sweeping gesture. “Okay, mimmo, up you go,” she said, helping Bunny climb up onto her seat.
Mary took the boneless chicken pieces, wrapped them in cling wrap, put them on the cutting board and let Bunny go after them with the mallet, which she did enthusiastically. Mary supervised while she cut up potatoes, mixed them and the already-cut green beans with sea salt and oil, and put them in their roasting pans. To her relief, Bunny chattered away, relieving her of the necessity of making conversation.
“Uncle Brice grew up on a ranch,” Bunny was saying. “His brother Mr. Duncan lives there now. He has cows and horses. It’s real pretty there! There are big hills and from the top you can see so far! And there’s a little river at the bottom of the hill. Sometimes Uncle Brice takes me fishing.”
“Uncle Brice doesn’t live there now?” Mary asked. Encouraging Bunny to continue chatting—never a hard thing to manage—about her “Uncle Brice” would avoid any awkward silences and forestall McAllister from plying her with questions.
“No, he lives in the city. He’s a Texas Ranger! He has a pretty star badge and a pistol and a rifle, but he doesn’t bring those when he comes to visit us. Guns are dangerous and have to be kept locked up.”
A shudder went through her as the memories she normally suppressed came flooding back. The report of a handgun at close range. Numb disbelief as blood blossomed under her fingers, followed by searing pain . . . . Wrenching her thoughts free, she said, “Absolutely. Guns are very dangerous.”
“Sometimes Uncle Brice needs his gun, though, because there can be bad men who try to hurt people. He stops them.” Bunny looked over at Brice with awe. “My daddy says he’s very good at protecting people.”
“That’s the reason for the job, peanut,” Brice said.
“Was that why you went into law enforcement?” Mary asked, still a little shaken and wondering if he’d confirm what Elaine had told her.
“Yes. I was always big for my age, so bullies never tried to pick on me. It would make me mad when they tried to take advantage of the smaller guys or tease the girls to tears. Growing up with two older brothers, I was pretty good with my fists, so I’d sort them out. Got me into trouble at school until I learned to be just as effective at talking them down as taking them down. Then, when I went out for football, the coaches encouraged me to play defensive line, since I was fast for my size. But I preferred offensive line, where I could protect the quarterback and running backs so they could make plays.” He shrugged. “We boys always knew Duncan would take over the ranch when he grew up, so going into law enforcement as a career just seemed like the logical thing to do.”
He wanted just to protect? Mary wondered skeptically. But Papa would tell her not to leap to conclusions. Just because she’d grown up watching her father being harassed and targeted by police didn’t mean all lawmen were like that.
Papa would always point out gently, when she reacted with anger to police who came snooping by, or she found out there’d been yet another audit of his business by Internal Revenue, that being Sal Giordano’s younger brother meant he would always be under more scrutiny than an ordinary person. He had chosen not to participate in the illegal operations his brother ran, but as the son of a family that had been involved in nefarious activities for generations, it wasn’t unreasonable for the law to suspect he must be involved in some way.
Maybe not. But the anger and resentment she’d felt toward the police growing up had never lessened.
“All done, Miss Mary!” Bunny announced, setting down the mallet.
“What happens next?” Brice asked.
“I’ll mix the potatoes with fresh rosemary and put them and the green beans in to roast. The chicken will be pan fried and doesn’t take as long. I’ll dredge it in flour and put it back in the fridge. Before we put everything in the oven, we need to go cut some rosemary for the potatoes. Should have done it while we were harvesting the tomatoes, but I forgot.”
The disturbing presence of Brice McAllister at her elbow might have had something to do with her absentmindedness.
“Finished with the salad,” the culprit-in-question announced.
“Thanks. I’ll get out the olives, onions and peppers when we come back in.” She hesitated, wondering if the next suggestion was a good idea or not. But darn, she wasn’t going to give up the natural complement to her chicken dish just because there was an interloper present. “I usually put white wine in the chicken. Would you like a glass?”
“Only if you’re having one.”
Mary laughed, remembering. “Mama used to say it was impossible to cook without a glass of wine in hand. I have a nice Frascoti I’ll open when we come back in.”
Putt
ing flour on a plate, she quickly coated the chicken pieces Bunny had pounded flat, put them in a dish, and set them back into the fridge. After one last dribble of oil over the beans and potatoes, she put them in the preheated oven to roast.
“Ready to cut the rosemary?”
“Yes!” Bunny said. “I love the smell when I run my fingers through it.”
Very conscious of Brice walking beside her, she opened the door, trailing Bunny down the garden path to the rosemary bush, where Mary coached her to cut some sprigs before picking some basil and oregano leaves to add to the salad.
When they walked back in, she opened the oven to sprinkle the rosemary sprigs over the potatoes.
“Wow. That smells incredible,” Brice said.
“See?” Bunny bounced on tiptoes. “I told you Miss Mary is a terrific cook.”
“My mouth is watering already.”
“Thank you both,” she said, gratified. “Nothing a cook likes better than enthusiastic diners. Would you like some cheese, mimmo?”
“Yes, please!”
“Get your favorite crackers out of the pantry while I slice some cheese and pour the wine.” After checking the potatoes, which were nearly done, she said, “It’s about time to start the chicken. You can sit on your stool and watch, Bunny.”
“Can I stir it?” Bunny asked as she went to the pantry to get the crackers.
“The chicken will be too hot, mimmo. It might pop and burn you while it’s sautéing. You can put capers in a bowl for me to cook with the chicken.” When she went to pull a bottle out of the wine cooler, Brice said, “I can open that if you like.”
She handed him the bottle. “Thanks. There are wineglasses in the sideboard.”
She took cheese from the fridge, her favorite Reggianno di Parmesan, some of the sharp white cheddar Bunny liked, a Peccorino, and a blue, for variety, then plucked an apple from a bowl on the counter.
“You can cut that up, if you want.”
“Sure thing.”
He was used to being helpful, she had to give him that. And then smiled; her mama would have chased a man out of her kitchen with a carving knife, telling him cooking was woman’s work. Whereas she and Ian had been happy to share kitchen chores. Her smile faded on a wave of sadness.
The Ranger Page 4