by Ann Warner
Alan looked down at the baby and found Mark looking considerably better than he had three months ago. His skin was now a smooth pale ivory instead of being wrinkled and red, and he opened dark blue eyes to give Alan a wise look. Alan put out a tentative finger, and Mark grasped it with a tiny hand and pulled it toward his mouth.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, buddy.” Alan pulled his finger gently away. He always washed thoroughly after chores, but still. Mark’s arms flailed for a moment, then he settled on sucking his fist and examining Alan with those solemn eyes.
Alan looked over at the Christmas tree and the pile of presents they’d be opening in the morning. Christmas was always the hardest day of the year for him since Meg’s death. Meg, the brightness in his life. Brighter than the Christmas lights and tinsel, the sun on the snow.
He looked back at the baby, now asleep, finding it easier than usual to distract himself from the old pain. That had no doubt been Elaine’s intention. She could annoy him more easily than anyone he knew, but this time he felt a reluctant gratitude.
When Elaine came back a few minutes later, Alan shook his head at her. “He’s asleep.”
Elaine smiled a contented smile and went back to the kitchen. Alan continued to sit, holding the sleeping baby, feeling more at peace than he had in a long time.
~ ~ ~
“So, Dad, how’re the riding lessons going?” Elaine asked as they were eating dinner.
“Not too good,” Robert answered. “Only had a couple of takers, but since they’re friends of Alan’s, we don’t charge them.”
“Surely not Charles?” Elaine gave Charles an amused look.
“Absolutely not,” Alan said. “You know he hyperventilates whenever he gets within twenty feet of a horse.”
Charles simply raised his eyebrows and continued eating.
“We’re not going to put the ad back in next year,” Stella said.
“Nope,” Robert said. “Found we’ve got enough on our hands working to get the yearlings trained so we can sell them. More money in that.”
“Pass the rolls down here, would you,” Stella said, and Alan breathed in relief that the subject of exactly who his “friends” were had been cut off before it could be fully explored. With any luck, Elaine, fighting the fatigue of new motherhood, would forget about it. And hopefully, Charles would as well.
~ ~ ~
Jade handed Kathy a mug of hot chocolate. “So, did you ever get that dress altered?”
Kathy set the mug down, moved the galleys she was working on out of the way, and sat back, stretching her arms over her head. “You mean the velvet?”
“Umm.” Jade sipped her hot chocolate.
“It turned out really nice. I changed it a bit, got rid of the collar.”
Jade raised eyebrows above the rim of the cup. “Have you worn it yet?”
Kathy shook her head. “I’m saving it for a special occasion.” She’d taken it home at Christmas, but decided not to wear it.
“And the riding lessons?”
“Good. I don’t even get sore anymore.” That was probably because she was riding regularly, except when the occasional blasts of winter weather kept her in town.
“And Alan? You seem to have changed your mind about him.”
“Naw.” Kathy picked up the mug and grinned at Jade. “I’m just using him so I can ride his horses.”
Jade snorted. “And you expect me to believe that? Whenever you mention him, you get a look.”
“What look?”
Jade demonstrated, gazing off in the distance with a sappy expression. “That look,” she said.
Kathy was pretty sure she was blushing. At any rate, she felt awfully warm all of a sudden, and it wasn’t because of the hot chocolate.
“I no longer despise him, if that’s what you mean.” She attempted nonchalance, but Jade wasn’t buying.
“Yeah, I kind of gathered that.”
After Jade went back to her own desk, Kathy sipped her hot chocolate, thinking about Alan and their interactions over the past four months. He was a pleasant, undemanding, interesting, and sometimes funny companion.
Could Jade possibly be right? Was she interested in Alan as more than a riding instructor?
She shook her head, dismissing the question and went back to work.
~ ~ ~
Alan nodded at the plate of spaghetti sitting in front of Charles. “If I ate all that, I’d spend the afternoon in a coma.”
“Brain needs lots of calories to function optimally when faced with the cunning genus Defenses lawyerensis.”
“It’s still a good thing you run ten miles a day.”
Ignoring the jab, Charles picked up a piece of bread and dipped it in olive oil. A moment later he took the last drink from his glass, and it was no surprise to Alan when the server came over immediately, carrying a refill.
Alan continued to eat peacefully, waiting for Charles and the girl to finish flirting with each other.
The waitress left, and Charles looked back at Alan. “By the way, the roommate ever show up?”
“Roommate?”
“The editor who was supposed to share your office.”
“Oh yeah. Showed up, decided the office didn’t meet her specifications, and left.”
It was always best to stick as close to the truth as possible with Charles, whose ability to remember details was disconcerting at times. Besides, if he told Charles the entire story...that he had been giving Kathy riding lessons and having dinner with her on a regular basis since the fall, Charles would assume something was going on that he needed to know more about.
Charles took another bite and squinted at Alan. “Varicose veins, coke bottle glasses, and a lisp?”
“Psychic,” Alan said.
“Colored contacts,” Meg said the first time she met Charles. “Nobody’s eyes are that blue.”
“His eyes are no bluer than yours.” Alan ran a finger down her cheek. “And you don’t wear contacts.”
“He hit on me, you know.”
“You hit back?” Alan knew from the spark of humor in her eyes she was teasing.
“Of course not. He’s too blond, too tall, too Greek god-ish.”
“He likes you.”
“Yeah. I like him too, actually. Just tell him he needs to chip a tooth or something. All that perfection.” She shook her head in mock sorrow.
Alan blinked, refocusing on Charles before the other man noticed his distraction.
If Charles did find out about Kathy, he’d ruin it by asking questions, and he wouldn’t believe it was simply a casual friendship.
Charles, always pushing at him. To go out with someone. To move on. Watching for signs of how Alan was doing, whether he asked the questions out loud or not.
But although Alan wasn’t yet ready to mention Kathy to Charles, he did realize that spending time with her was a partial step. Not that it was actually going anywhere. If he was careful, it could remain what it was—a pleasant friendship, nobody hurt. A win-win situation for them both.
Chapter Twelve
The weather forecast was that it would be the first warm weekend of the spring. Grace called Kathy to say she had to work, so she and Delia wouldn't be able to go to the ranch. When Kathy told Alan that news at dinner on Friday, he suggested she come early, and he'd show her more of the ranch.
Kathy arrived to find the horses saddled and ready to go. Alan led the way toward the foothills. After an hour on a narrow trail, they emerged from the shadows of lodgepole pines into a sunny meadow edged in the distance by the silver glimmer of water.
“Oh, what a perfect place,” Kathy said, feeling a quick burst of pleasure.
Cormac flushed a rabbit and bounded across the meadow after it, while the horses ambled behind. At the edge of the water, Alan helped her dismount.
“Does the lake have a name?”
“Nothing official.” His tone was oddly curt, but maybe that was because he was bent over loosening Sonoro’s girth
. Then he loosened Siesta’s as well and led the two horses to the stream that emptied into the lake for a drink.
The water, clear as air, purled over boulders and stones, polishing them into opaque crystal. Kathy glanced from the stream to Alan, still puzzling over his reaction to her question about the lake’s name.
“We can hike to the top of that hill if you like,” he said, pointing. “There's a nice view.”
“Sounds good.”
“You wading across, or do you want to be carried?”
“Oh. I can wade.” Then she was immediately sorry she’d turned him down. The offer to carry her presented definite possibilities, although she did wonder why he’d suggested it.
Leaving the horses to graze in the meadow, they sat on adjacent boulders to remove their shoes and socks for the stream crossing. Kathy rolled up her jeans before taking her first step into the water. She jumped back out with a yelp. “Yikes, that’s cold. You could’ve warned me.”
His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Why do you think I offered to carry you?”
“It did seem odd.”
He laughed, looking suddenly ten years younger. “Change your mind?”
“No, I can manage.” It had become a point of honor, but one she’d just as soon concede.
Cormac splashed across the stream behind them, then shook out his wet fur, sprinkling them with cool droplets before they jumped out of range.
After they dried their feet and put their socks and shoes back on, Alan led the way up a steep, barely visible trail.
Man and dog were equally adept at negotiating the rough terrain, Cormac scrambling up by himself and Alan climbing, then reaching back a hand to help Kathy. Periodically he pointed to something.
Once it was a lavender flower that looked like a crocus, blooming in the shade of a fallen log. “We know spring has officially arrived when we see one of these.” It was an anemone, he added when she asked.
At the top of the hill, Kathy stood on a flat shelf of granite catching her breath. While they’d climbed, the day had turned into a typical blue Colorado day—crystal sky, indigo mountains, amethystine peaks. The kind of day when she could no longer imagine ever living anywhere else.
Taking in deep draughts of the cool, clean air with its hint of pine spills and melting snow, she realized that for the first time in months, she felt really okay.
Gone the holiday funk, fueled by memories of how happy and excited she’d been in the first throes of love last year. Gone as well the heavy weight of uncertainty that had replaced her anger and grief over her broken engagement.
She didn’t know when it had lifted. Knew only that this was the first time she’d noticed its absence. It was such a relief, she wanted to fling her arms into the air and spin in a mad choreography of joy.
Instead, she turned in a slow circle, trying to imprint it all on her memory. “‘Nice view’ was an understatement.”
“Didn’t want to oversell.” He sat back on his heels and rubbed Cormac’s ears.
“It’s so. . . complete.”
He stood and stretched. “You a misanthrope, Kathy Jamison?”
Taken off guard by his teasing tone, she stopped turning to look at him. She wasn’t altogether certain, but she thought a smile lurked around his eyes.
“Why do you ask?”
“All that completeness.” He gestured at the view. “No people as far as the eye can see.”
“You’re here.” And it would be perfect if he’d walk over and tip her face up to his and. . .
“So, what we have is a case of semi-misanthropy.” He stayed where he was.
“Easier to cure,” she said. “Requires only semi-biotics.”
A flock of crows chose that moment to land noisily in a nearby tree, breaking off the delicate strand of connection she and Alan had forged with their bantering. But a feeling of ease stayed with Kathy all the way down the mountain.
When they got back to the creek, Kathy was warm from sun and exertion, and the water felt good for the first two steps. But by the time she waded across, her feet were cramping from the cold.
Alan pulled the towel from his backpack, crouched down, and dried her feet. The sunlight glanced off his head, picking up glints of warm gold among the darker strands. Kathy reached out to smooth the cowlick that had sprung up when he took off his hat, but before her hand reached him, Alan sat back and looked up at her. “There, that should feel better.”
Smiling, she used the errant hand to hook her own hair behind her ear. “It does. Thanks.”
She took a deep breath, trying to remember if that had ever happened before—an urge to smooth her hand over the head of a man she barely knew, or for that matter, one she knew well.
Alan dried his own feet and put his boots back on, walked over to Sonoro, and unstrapped a blanket from the back of the saddle. While Kathy spread it in a patch of shade, he unpacked the saddlebags, handing her packages containing pretzels, apples, and sandwiches made with thick slices of homemade bread. Then he walked over to the stream and fished out the beer and water he’d left there to cool.
“You thought of everything,” she said.
“I’d love to take the credit, but Mom helped.”
She watched him unwrap a sandwich, noticing, as she had before, the oddly bent finger on his right hand, fighting the urge to reach out and take his hand in hers and measure that bent finger against one of hers. “What happened?”
“Oh. You mean this?” He glanced at his finger, then away. “Umm. Fat calf, narrow chute.”
“You have cows?”
“Not here. The old ranch. A long time ago.”
“What happened? To the calf?”
“Oh, we castrated him, branded him, turned him loose.” He held up a sandwich. “We have ham and turkey. Which do you prefer? Or would you rather share?”
“Sharing works for me.”
It was a mark in his favor that he was willing to share. It wasn’t a characteristic she’d encountered in many men.
Funny, though, that quick change of subject from his finger. She wondered if he’d done it on purpose, but decided that made no sense.
When they finished eating, Alan walked over to Sonoro and returned carrying a fishing rod and a small plastic box. She raised her brows in question.
“Thought if you’ve never seen a trout up close and personal, I’d show you one.”
After he assembled the rod he led her along the stream until they reached a spot where it widened, forming a small pool. There he dropped to one knee, looking at the water.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking for fish. And see those flies?” He pointed to a bunch of dry grasses hanging over the edge of the stream that had a halo of insects circling their bent tips. “I’m trying to figure out what to use, and they give me a clue.” He opened the plastic box and selected a gray and brown tuft.
“But that doesn’t look anything like those bugs.”
He glanced up at her raising an admonitory eyebrow. “You mean flies. And it may not look the same to you, but it will to the trout.”
“So it’s all a matter of having a fishy perspective.”
“Are you calling the trout’s viewpoint dubious?” His eyes were amused.
A laugh tickled her throat. “Indubitably fishy.”
He chuckled as he tied the tiny gray tuft—not a bug, a fly—to the end of his line. While he did that, Kathy watched his hands, long-fingered and capable in spite of the bent finger. Panting, Cormac came over and flopped down next to her, and she patted him.
“Come here, let me show you.” Alan held the rod, demonstrating the proper movements, then placed it in her hands.
She attempted a cast, but it was too tentative, and the fly landed at the edge of the stream near her feet. Alan moved behind her and, placing his hands over hers, once again demonstrated the proper motions.
He stepped away, and she tried another cast, still feeling the imprint of his hands on hers. This time the fly al
most caught in the rocks lining the far shore. The third time, though, she began to get the idea, and the fly landed with a small plop in the middle of the pool. She was wondering what to do next when it disappeared, leaving behind a patch of ruffled water.
As the rod tip bent sharply, Alan stepped closer and placed his hand over hers lifting the tip of the rod. “There, the hook’s set. Now keep enough tension so you can feel him, but don’t try to overpower him. Slow and easy is better.”
The fish partially surfaced looking much too large to be held by the tiny hook and its gossamer lead. But as she focused on Alan’s directions and the tug of the trout on the line, she forgot everything else. When the fish moved away, Alan told her to let out line. When the fish turned toward her, she retrieved line, only to have the trout dance away yet again, as if the two of them were involved in a delicate minuet.
Then, with a suddenness that surprised her, it ended, and Alan was bending down, reaching into the water. “Come take a look.”
Reluctantly, she bent over the fish. Cormac came trotting over as well, but at a word from Alan, sat quietly. The fish, beautiful and sleek, fluttered its gills as if panting from its efforts. She looked away while Alan removed the hook.
“See the white edges on his fins? He’s a brookie.”
“Brookie?”
“Brook trout. Here, you can touch him if you want. He needs to rest a minute before I turn him loose.”
“You’re not keeping him?” A relief. She didn’t want to see, or hear, him kill the fish.
“Nope.” Alan took her hand, dipped it into the water before he guided it gently over the satin flank of the fish. “Feel that?”
The fish felt as soft and smooth as the old velvet of the dress Amanda had insisted Kathy buy.
“They have a mucous covering that protects them. Always wet your hand before you touch one.”