A Cowboy for Keeps

by Laura Drake

  Mrs. Wheelwright’s smug smile sends a little jangle of awareness down my spine. She’s on Team Reese, I can tell. She’d just better not start matchmaking. “What can I do to help?”

  She waves at the stove. “You can stir the gravy and take the mashed potatoes out. We’re almost ready.”

  I grab the stained pot holders from the counter and pull out a baking dish of mashed potatoes. The consistency of the little peaks makes it obvious that these aren’t from a box. I carry it to the table, then stir the zero-lumps gravy.

  No way a spoiled rich boy did this. “Was all this delivered?”

  “Nope.” Mrs. Wheelwright carries over the dish of green beans and sets it on the table. There’s that smile again.

  “Cooking, mowing, electrical work…quite a Mr. Fix It, isn’t he?” He may be handsome enough to play Prince Charming, but I can’t afford to forget: I’m no Cinderella. I didn’t lose a shoe and I don’t need saving.

  She studies my face. “Before you mount that tall horse and ride, you may want to rein in and watch for a few minutes.”

  The screen door opens and Reese walks in, a platter of sizzling meat held high. “Steaks are done.”

  “So is everything else.” Mrs. Wheelwright pulls out the chair at the head of the table. Daddy’s chair. “You sit right here.”

  He sets the steaks on the table, unties the apron, pulls it over his head, puts it in Mrs. Wheelwright’s outstretched hand, and sits.

  “What a treat.” Momma clasps her hands under her chin like a starry-eyed ingenue. “Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve had steak?”

  “It hasn’t been that long, Momma,” I mumble, looking down at my plate and tucking hair behind my ear that has escaped my ponytail.

  “Will you say grace, Lorelei?” Mrs. Wheelwright reaches for Momma’s hand and mine, leaving me with…his.

  It’s warm and dry, and distracting enough that I’m grateful the words come by rote. “Thank you, Lord, for this food, our home, Momma, and our angel, Mrs. Wheelwright—”

  “And the Meals on Wheels man,” Momma says. “Amen.”

  “Amen.” I jump when he squeezes my hand before he lets it go. I fire a glance at him, but he’s looking at Momma.

  He lifts the serving spoon. “Mary, would you like corn or green beans?”

  The meal is a treat; I have to admit that. He teases and charms Momma and Mrs. Wheelwright, making them giggle like schoolgirls. He more or less ignores me. Which is good. Of course it’s good. No reason for it to put my teeth on edge.

  When I’m done, I lift my plate and several others, balancing them with the years of practice I got as a waitress before Carly promoted me to manager.

  “I’ll do the dishes,” Mrs. Wheelwright says. “Why don’t y’all get Sawyer up from her nap and go out on the front porch? It’s a beautiful evening.”

  Her too-sweet smile confirms my suspicions. There’s a matchmaker among us.

  “I’ve got to—”

  “You entertain your guest, Patsy.” Momma wags a finger at me. “I taught you better manners.”

  Reese is looking at me, pity painted on his face.

  Suddenly, it’s all too much. I’m tired, and heartsore, and just wishing I could pause the world for a bit—to put everything down. I turn to the sink and stack the dishes, my sinuses prickling with emotion.

  A chair squeals across the linoleum behind me. “I’ll get Button and meet you out there.”

  My daddy’s words ring in my head: Buck up, Lorelei. You start from where you are and make the best with what you have. I dampen a dish towel to wipe down the rockers and pick up a lap blanket on my way by the couch.

  As always, the front door sticks. We use it so seldom.

  “Here, I’ll do that.” Reese hands Sawyer into my arms, grasps the doorknob, and tugs. Nothing. Tugs again. Nothing. “Step back.”

  I do, turning Sawyer away, just in case.

  He braces his foot against the wall. His shirt pulls tight, outlining the V of his torso, muscles straining. He pulls, and the door pops open. He bows and waves me through.

  Fixed a switch, mowed the yard, got the front door open. A trifecta of little things I can cross off my list, which is still long enough to wrap around the porch. “Thank you.”

  He pulls the blanket from my shoulder and spreads it over the boards, then takes Sawyer from me. She clings to his neck, kicking her legs and making a “buh, buh, buh” sound.

  She likes him. Momma likes him, and Mrs. Wheelwright is leading the St. James fan club. Heck, after today, even I kinda like him.

  And he’s pretty much ignoring me. A mesquite thorn of melancholy pierces my heart. I should be used to it by now—being a fixture, like a toaster or a dishwasher, noticed only when it stops working. I wipe down two rockers that are covered in dust.

  He lays Sawyer on the blanket and hands her a teething ring. “You okay?”

  My throat closes on a nasty wad of self-pity. “I’m fine.” I drop the dish towel and sit. I’m just so tired.

  He settles in the other rocker. “Why do I get the feeling you say that a lot, even when it’s not true?”

  How does he know that? “How old are you, Reese?”

  “Thirty-two. You?”

  I didn’t realize the gap was that much. “Thirty-seven. Have you ever been married?”

  A snort comes from the shadows. “Nope. You?”

  “Nope.” I’m certainly not going down that rabbit hole, telling him what a fool I was dreaming myself almost engaged to a guy who turned out to be married. I lay my head against the chair back and set the chair to gently rocking. The crickets start up again, and the smell of cut grass hangs in the still air. The dark envelops me like the hug of an old friend. “I’d forgotten how nice it is out here.”

  “Did you used to hang out on the porch?”

  “Oh yes. Momma and Daddy used to sit here in the summer and watch Patsy and me play hide-and-seek in the dark.”

  We rock in silence, punctuated now and again by Sawyer’s syllables.

  Somehow, it’s easier to talk in the dark. “What were summers like when you grew up?”

  “Work, mostly.” His voice rumbles like the water in Chestnut Creek, calm and deep.

  “Oh, come on. You never played hide-and-seek, or kick the can, or rover?”

  “Nope.”

  Sounds like such a lonely childhood. “What did you do in the evenings?”

  “Read in my room, mostly.”

  “Ah, you’re a reader.” There’s something we have in common.

  “Mostly trade journals and the like, nowadays. But when I get time, I like a good political thriller. You like to read?”

  I nod. “Momma, too. I read romance to her every night.”

  “Ah, a romantic.” There’s a smile in his voice.

  “In fiction, yes.”

  “Not in real life?” The tone is too serious to be a tease.

  Just how did we get into this conversation? “Nope.” I pick up my carving knife and the chunk of wood that is only beginning to look like a horse.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ah, just a hobby.”

  “Are you whittling?”

  “Carving, actually. It was my dad’s thing. I learned from him.”

  “Let me see.”

  I hand over the chunk of wood. “Just a new project.”

  I can hear the slide of his hands over it. Something about his big hands fondling my wood makes me want to squirm on my seat.

  “A horse?” His voice is an awed whisper.

  “Always. Why?”

  “Do you sell these at the five-and-dime?”

  “I mostly make them for friends, but yeah, sometimes.”

  “I found you,” he breathes.

  How can a whisper touch my skin? Goose bumps engulf me in a wave. I swallow. “Found me?”

  He tells me a story of what had to be my father’s ponies and a dying mother’s gifts. But it’s the tone in his voice that whispers the grie
f of a lonely child. “I’m so sorry. I can only hope that my dad’s pony reminds you of your mother.”

  “It does.” He rocks. “What a coincidence that we meet, all these years later.”

  “It’s amazing, really.”

  We sit, the creak of the chairs answering the cricket’s calls. Silence between people who don’t know each other is almost always awkward. But this isn’t. It vaguely occurs to me that that in itself should make me nervous. But I’m not. My muscles relax into the gentle rocking, and the night sounds blur…

  “Lorelei.” He’s shaking my shoulder.

  “Huh? What?” Panic takes my breath. “Sawyer?”

  “I put her down for the night.” Reese is squatting before my chair, hand on the arm. “You fell asleep. Sarah got your mother to bed and left about ten minutes ago.”

  “Oh.” I run the back of my hand over my mouth to be sure I haven’t drooled on myself. “I’m sorry.” I push to my feet. “I never do that.”

  “Don’t apologize for being tired.” He stands. “I’m going back to the hotel. Walk me to my car?”

  “Sure.” When I go to stand, his hand is there, and I take it without thinking. It’s strong. Warm. Solid. I duck my head, my heart brushing hummingbird wings against the walls of my chest. We take the broad front steps, his hand warm and solid under my elbow. “Thank you for dinner. And for mowing. And the bathroom light.” I remember my bra, and I’m glad it’s too dark for him to see my blush.

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “It’s very kind of you. I appreciate it, but you have to stop.” When we round the corner, the kitchen porch light spills onto the drive.

  “Why?”

  I feel the warmth of his gaze on the side of my face. “Because it’s not yours to do. I’m not comfortable with owing favors.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. Family helps each other.”

  “Oh, come on. We’re not family. Not really.” I stop, and his hand falls away. He looks at me so long, I have to turn to face him.

  “You don’t think anyone notices, but I do.” He frowns, studying my face. “You do what needs to be done, without complaint, every day. I’ve seen you with your employees, the townsfolk, even stray dogs. You have a huge heart, and if there’s something I can do to help, I’m going to.” He turns, shoves his hands in his pockets, and strolls to his truck.

  Like he hasn’t just laid bare my deepest secrets. My deepest want.

  Like he’s seen me.

  Chapter 7

  Reese

  The next days fly by at Mach one, and before I’m ready, it’s time to leave. There’s no question of delaying departure: my breeding manager has problems, a prize bull tangled with a barbed-wire fence, and a small grass fire has started in the canyon south of my land. I zip my suitcase and look around for anything I might have forgotten. This room is nasty, but I’m grateful for my time here. I pull the suitcase off the bed and roll it to the door.

  At Lorelei’s request, I didn’t call about the roof. I didn’t buy Sawyer more things. I backed off “helping,” but nothing could stop me from spending time with my niece. I’ve learned a lot this week about diapers, baths, and babies, but I need to know more. I’ve ordered a bunch of books on baby husbandry, and they should be waiting for me at home.

  I let the door fall closed behind me and head for the truck. One more thing to do before I go. My empty stomach jitters as I pick up and discard arguments, trying to find just the right tone.

  I’m usually a great negotiator. But the first rule of negotiations is that you have to be ready to walk away from a deal, and there’s no way I’m doing that. Maybe, if I find just the right words, just the right expression…Who am I kidding? If I were any good at doing this, I’d have negotiated a place for myself in the house I grew up in.

  I drive to the Chestnut Creek Café in a cloud of potential disaster that mirrors the iron sky hanging just overhead. I park on the square, and as I get out, a low rumble of thunder rattles through me.

  I step into the café’s after-breakfast/before-lunch lull. I timed it right. I flag down the waitress and ask if I can speak to Lorelei.

  Moss pats the stool beside him. “Hey, Reese, sit down here and help me pound some sense into this mule.”

  Manny protests, and I tune out the rest of their daily grousing.

  Lorelei pushes through the swinging door, her brow scrunched with concern. “What’s wrong? I thought you were already gone.”

  “I need to talk to you.” I look around. The few diners are studying their plates…and eavesdropping. “Is there somewhere?”

  She leads me to the front door, out to the sidewalk, across the street, to the scruffy patch of grass that constitutes the town square.

  Thunder rolls, and a huge drop of rain hits me square on the top of my head.

  She squints up at the sky, then heads for the gazebo in the center.

  I trot behind, and we just make the steps when the sky lets loose with a crash of thunder and torrents of rain. It drums on the roof like it’s trying to beat its way in.

  She turns, crosses her arms, and her face falls into those wary lines that she wears most when I’m around. “What did you want?”

  Even concerned, she’s pretty. And I so wish I didn’t cause her concern; she has so many already. The negotiations class I took recommended leading with the positive. “I know you don’t care for me much, and you’ve been generous and kind to me this week, letting me visit and get to know Sawyer. Thank you.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like you.” Her mouth twists. She studies me for a few seconds before turning to look out at the rain. “I don’t like who I become when I’m around you.”

  Her honesty tugs the same from me. “I like who you are.”

  Cheeks pink, she looks at her feet. “It’s just that, since Sawyer came, I’m so afraid all the time.” She wraps her fingers around her biceps and hunches her shoulders.

  “Here.” I shrug out of my jacket and spread it over her shoulders. “Why are you afraid?”

  “Thanks.” Thunder cracks overhead, and she flinches. “I don’t know. Before it was just me and Momma. Adults. Now I’m responsible for a helpless human. What if she gets sick? What if she falls? What if…?” She looks at her feet. “What if I’m not a good enough person to be her mother?”

  The naked vulnerability in her words raises something strong and protective in me, making me want to go find a white horse and sword. Oh yeah, that’s me. Bet Carson and Bo are laughing their asses off right now. I look down at her big eyes, dusty blue, so much like Sawyer’s. “I think you’re an amazing woman. You handle more in a day than I could in a week.”

  I take a deep breath. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You have so much on your shoulders. I’d like to share some of the responsibility for Sawyer.”

  She’s shaking her head before I get the words out.

  I came here for this. I have to say it, even though I know from her look it won’t help. “What if we shared custody? I could take Sawyer for a couple of weeks. I’ll be responsible for getting her to and from—”

  “What?” Her eyes widen with panic as red rises up her neck to splash her cheeks in a flush of crimson. “No, no, no, no, no.”

  “But I could help—”

  “Oh, right. I see. Let me help you, Lorelei. Really, I’m just trying to lighten your burden.” Her lip curls. “I open up to you, and you use it to get your way.”

  “That’s not fair.” Anger fires down my nerves, and I don’t feel the loss of my jacket for the heat. I’ve groveled and apologized all I’m going to. “I have more resources. I can give her—”

  “I can’t believe I fell for your charm. You told me that first day that you wanted Sawyer, but you’ve been so nice, I let myself forget.”

  “I am nice.” I spread my hands. “Look. You are an intelligent woman. Why would you let your pride and stubbornness deny Sawyer—”

  “Well, don’t worry. It won’t happen again
because—”

  “A chance at things you can’t give her? This doesn’t have to be either/or, you know—”

  Lightning cracks close enough to make me duck. Her mouth is moving, but the thunder drowns out the words.

  “…arrogant, pushy man I’ve ever met. I have zero intention of sharing custody. Do you hear me?”

  They can probably hear her in the café. “Lorelei, just listen for a minute—”

  “I won’t keep you from seeing her, but if you want to take time out of your important life, you can come here. Maybe Christmas. Or her high school graduation.”

  She stalks to the edge of the steps. The rain is an opaque curtain, and there are puddles between the tufts of weeds below. She looks back over her shoulder, fear glittering in her eyes. “Sawyer and I don’t need you, your money, or your hand-me-downs, cowboy.”

  She takes the steps in one leap and runs splashing through the rain for the café.

  * * *

  Reese

  I’ve been trying to call Lorelei for a week, but she won’t pick up. “Dammit!” My shout echoes off the high ceiling of my kitchen. I’m tired of leaving voice mails that aren’t returned.

  I want to know what they had for dinner, how the latest puzzle is coming, what new thing Sawyer has learned. I really want to know that Lorelei’s okay. That I’m sorry I upset her.

  I miss her.

  The forkful of eggs is dry, and I wish for some fry bread to go with it. I look around at the cavernous kitchen. Lately, this house irritates me. I’ve lived here alone since Bo died, but it didn’t feel so empty then—as if the potential for Carson’s return helped to fill the empty rooms. But since I returned from Unforgiven, it seems even bigger than ten thousand square feet. It’s sterile, echoey, and a bit spooky—like a museum at night. Or a mausoleum.

  Hell, in a way it’s both. This house is a testament to Bo and his ego. Who needs a house this big, out in the middle of nowhere? It’s decorated to my father’s taste: ornate, ostentatious, and odd. Funny, you just take it for granted that the house you grew up in is “your” place. Now that it really is mine, I realize there’s nothing of me here, outside of my bedroom.