by Wendy Warren
“Yes. Now.” And she was. Something about Derek’s strong embrace made her fear evaporate. No wonder everyone seemed to trust the sheriff of Thunder Ridge, she mused as she looped her hands around his arms.
The air fled from her lungs as they took off after Gilberto. Giddy squeals filled her ears, and it took a moment before she realized they were coming from her mouth. They were flying! Rapidly they soared, up and over the occasional bump that tickled her stomach and stole her breath. The flames from the torches blended into an orange blur and all too soon they were at the bottom of the hill, plowing into a snow berm and panting with laughter.
Willa’s face was nearly frozen, her nose dripping snow, and her wool hat sagging over her eyes. She felt alive, a feeling that was familiar and foreign and fantastic all at once. Pulling her to her feet, Derek straightened her hat, kissed the tip of her nose, then set off to get Autumn for a ride back to the top.
For over an hour Willa heard herself rivaling Gilberto’s shrieks all the way down the hill, and then chatting over each other as the horse towed them back up. And, like the young boy, she was disappointed when Derek finally announced it was time to head inside and eat—although she had to admit, the aroma from his back deck had her stomach growling. Besides, it was snowing again and visibility was growing sketchy.
Caked with snow, her boots crunched along after Derek as he led Autumn to the stable. “You were right—that was so exciting! Much better than dancing.”
Derek mock glared at her. “I’m going to take that as a challenge.” Slipping an arm around her waist, he kissed her temple. “I’m glad you had a good time. I was looking forward to Hooligans, but I appreciate your going with the flow.”
“Anytime you want to do this again, count me in.”
“It was my idea,” Gilberto announced, trudging up behind them. “Can I comb Autumn’s hair with that one thing? You know?”
“Yup. Curry comb’s in the tack room. Run ahead and open the stable door, sport.”
They watched the preteen hike through the snow toward the sliding wooden door.
“He really seems to love it here. With you,” Willa observed. She couldn’t blame him. The ranch was a great place for a boy like Gilberto. And Derek... Derek was fun and funny and encouraging. A perfect role model. “Do you think he’ll ever go back to live with Roddy?”
Derek’s reply was swift and decisive. “I sure as hell hope not.”
“Does he have other relatives he can live with?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t sound like it. Sometimes DHS can dig up a distant relative who’s willing to help.”
“When they can’t,” Willa ventured, “what happens then?”
From the grim expression on Derek’s face, Willa sensed that Derek had already begun to care pretty deeply for the child. “When no relatives are available, or capable, the state assumes guardianship.”
“Foster care.”
With one hand on the reins leading Autumn, Derek used the other hand to whip off his sodden wool cap and stuff it in his pocket. “We’ve got a long way to go before any permanent decisions are made.” He shook his head at her. “This evening has been perfect so far. I don’t want to worry about tomorrow’s problems. And that’s saying something for me.”
Willa reached for his free hand and continued walking, a silent agreement to keep the night light.
Even so, as their boots and the horse’s hooves stamped the snow and the tiki torches flickered on, she worried about the conscientious sheriff at her side. Because where Gilberto was concerned, Derek wasn’t simply a sheriff taking care of a community matter. The boy’s future had become personal to him. She saw the telltale signs of true affection, maybe even love. Without actually meaning to, she squeezed Derek’s hand. Smiling crookedly, he squeezed back.
Please don’t let him get hurt, she prayed. But even as she sent the prayer up, she knew it would be futile if he crossed the line from affection into love.
* * *
A blast of warm air greeted them as Derek held the kitchen door open for Willa and Gilberto. Immediately, Willa was in love. His kitchen was gorgeous. Knotty pine walls and cabinetry were the perfect backdrop for the chocolaty granite countertops and island. The appliances were state-of-the-art stainless steel; he even had an eight-burner stove that made her fingers twitch with the desire to grab a saucepan and start cooking. Beneath their feet, the hardwood floors were softened by colorful throw rugs.
“This is a beautiful remodel,” she stated, knowing it couldn’t be original to the house. “It should be on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens. Must have been a big project.”
“The house deserved it. I had some money saved. Remodeling seemed like a good investment in the future.”
A quiet woof punctuated his explanation, and Willa turned toward its source.
In one corner of the kitchen, an ancient dog, a shepherd mix, lay on a bed in the corner, slapping the floor with his tail in greeting.
“Hey, Captain,” Derek murmured as they walked over. He bent to scratch the grizzled head. Captain honored Derek with several kisses before he curiously eyed the new visitor. “Willa,” Derek said, “this is Captain. He’s about ninety in people years. He doesn’t see too well anymore, so you always want to let him smell you before you touch him.”
A dog lover her whole life, Willa extended her hand, grinning at the large twitchy nose that examined her thoroughly. At last, the old fellow decided she was kiss-worthy and licked her with the slowest, gentlest canine kiss she’d ever felt.
“What a lover,” she cooed to him.
“Captain was named after Captain Hook in Peter Pan,” Gilberto explained. “Tell her, Derek. Captain was a brave dude when he was younger.”
“Later, sport. Why don’t you two wash up at the sink and then, Gilberto, show Willa to the table while I rustle up the food.”
“Can I help you?” Willa asked.
“Nope. Everything’s under control. You relax.”
“I want to light the candles.” Already becoming familiar with Derek’s house, Gilberto zoomed to the correct drawer to locate matches.
“Okay. Willa, make sure he doesn’t set the house on fire.”
Gilberto snorted. “Please, I’m eleven. I can light a match. Been doing it all my life.”
“I hope not.” Willa caught Derek’s eye and returned his grin.
“Hey, I’m in the fifth grade.”
“In that case, maybe Derek will let you drive me home tonight.”
“Fifth graders aren’t allowed to drive, but I could do it,” Gilberto mused as he led Willa to the dining room. Tongue protruding slightly as he worked, he managed to light the match on the ninth or tenth strike. Soon, the candles on the table were flickering happily, lending a festive mood to the evening.
“You sure I can’t help you?” Willa offered again as Derek moved back and forth from the deck and kitchen with mounds of food.
“Positive. You’re our guest. Gilberto, help me with the dishes so Willa can relax.”
While Gilberto willingly trotted behind Derek, Willa took the opportunity to make an exploratory stroll around the open-concept living and dining area. Much like the man who owned the house, the surroundings were ruggedly masculine, yet a woman would feel right at home here, too. Safe. Isolated from the outside world and its cares. Maybe that’s what he meant when he’d said he’d remodeled with an eye toward the future—not merely that he was thinking about his investment, but that he wanted the ranch to be less a bachelor’s retreat and more a family dwelling.
The living room was outfitted with large leather chairs and couches, covered with ivory and beige throws so soft they begged you to cuddle up. Hand-woven Indian blankets and artifacts adorned the walls, lending color and character. Soft music came from speakers in the polished wood ceiling, and built-i
n bookshelves bore evidence of a well-read owner. A fire crackled merrily in a river rock hearth.
Setting the last dish onto the farmhouse table that divided the kitchen from the living area, Derek called, “Dinner is served.” Ravenous, Willa found her seat opposite him.
“I’m starving!” Gilberto announced as he watched Derek dish up a steaming plate of barbecued chicken, baked potatoes and savory roasted vegetables for Willa. “But I don’t want any of that veggie stuff. I hate green junk.”
“Fine. But, if you expect to get any of the dessert you ordered, green junk is on the menu.” Derek’s tone, though placid, brooked no argument, and Willa hid her smile behind her water glass. He really was a natural father figure. Someday, some lucky kid would no doubt reap the benefits.
Just...not with her.
Because the very idea threatened the cozy mood the evening had invoked, Willa pushed away all thoughts of tomorrow and simply allowed herself to revel in the delicious food and easy conversation. There were no lulls in said conversation, either. Gilberto treated them to an insane number of knock-knock jokes as they ate, and she and Derek laughed or groaned on cue. When they’d done justice to the meal, Gilberto moved into the kitchen to feed Captain a few remnants of barbecue that he’d saved from his plate.
“How did you end up living on a ranch?” Willa asked over a cup of after-dinner coffee.
Setting his napkin next to his plate, Derek leaned back in his chair. “Walt and his wife, Julie, weren’t able to have kids. We became like family. When Walt was diagnosed with lung cancer, I was in the police academy, but came back to help. Julie had had heart surgery and wasn’t doing well. When she passed, it took the wind out of Walt’s sails. He went downhill pretty quickly.”
“I’m—” Willa swallowed “—so sorry. I know how hard it is to lose someone you love.” Eyes downcast, she twisted her napkin between her fingers, and blinked back the sudden, unwelcome urge to cry.
“Right before he passed, Walt claimed he was going to leave the acreage to his horses.” Derek smiled wryly. “And the old codger actually did. But, there was an addendum that left the horses and everything they owned to me. And that’s how I came to own a little piece of paradise.”
“That’s amazing,” Willa murmured. “Walt sounds like he was a real character.”
“He was. One in a million. Everybody in Thunder Ridge loved him. I figure...” Derek glanced over his shoulder at Gilberto, who lay on the dog bed with his arms around the snoring Captain. “I figure that Walt is the reason I give a damn about what happens to that kid.”
Chapter Ten
“Dang.” Gilberto sagged as yet another marshmallow fell off his stick in a flaming ball of goo. “Willa’s come out way better than mine.”
“She does seem to have the Midas touch, doesn’t she?” Derek scowled at the black char on the end of his own skewer, adding another failure to their ever-growing discard pile.
Relaxed, happy and sated with food, Willa laughed at her two dinner companions. “Now are you willing to let me teach you how to make the perfect s’more?”
Together, they had cleared the dining table and settled onto a pile of pillows in front of the fireplace for dessert. Gilberto had lobbied to put s’mores on the night’s menu, eager to try them for the very first time. Derek had loaded a tray with graham crackers, chocolate bars and a mountain of jumbo marshmallows, but so far the results were sketchy.
“I can’t believe I need a lesson for this,” Derek grumbled as he attempted, mostly in vain, to clean his metal skewer.
“Humility is the first ingredient in any successful recipe.”
“You made that up.”
“Not at all.” Taking a sip of incredibly good coffee, Willa smiled. “In my former life, I taught at a culinary institute. The best chefs were invariably the ones who were the most teachable.”
Derek’s attention peaked. “Where was this culinary institute?”
“South Pasadena. I taught at Le Cordon Bleu,” she shared. “It’s not there anymore, unfortunately. I was also a pastry chef at a restaurant on Lake Boulevard.”
“Lake Boulevard?”
“It’s the South Pasadena equivalent of Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, or—” she paused to think “—Northwest Twenty-Third Avenue in Portland.”
“Overly trendy and expensive?”
She laughed. “An epicurean’s delight,” she countered. “A hub for the most creative food in the city.”
Pleasure filled Derek’s face, and he nodded. “I like your confidence.”
It was true: when it came to career, she’d rarely faltered.
“Confidence is very...” S-e-x-y. He mouthed the word, even though Gilberto was too involved in biting burnt marshmallow off his skewer to listen.
“Oh, I agree.” Connection sizzled between them.
“So you had a great career,” he observed. “Why did you leave?”
Crud. She’d walked right into that, and the answer was guaranteed to open the floodgates of her past. It would happen eventually, she knew, but she wanted to control when, where and how much she revealed. Tonight had been light and fun with moments of unexpected bliss. It had been, so far, much more than she’d expected. Discussing her past would change all that.
She shook her head. “I didn’t leave. I’m still doing what I love, but now I’m doing it in Thunder Ridge. And I don’t have to tell you why living in Thunder Ridge is so attractive.”
She considered that an excellent save, but Derek’s eyes narrowed. He knew she was hedging.
Curved around his skewer, his hands looked tense. Taking a chance, she covered his knuckles with her palm. “I like where I’m at right now, working in Thunder Ridge. Being here, with you and Gilberto. I loved today. And tonight has been perfect.”
Let it stay that way, she implored silently, breathing a sigh of relief when his hand relaxed beneath hers.
“Rrrrrrrgh.” Gilberto’s frustrated growl claimed their attention. He thrust his skewer at them. “I can’t get it right. Willa, can you do mine?” he requested.
“Of course. I’ll show you a few special tricks for the perfect s’more.” She sent Derek a benevolent smile. “And may I say that the willingness to be taught shows true strength of character.”
As she leaned forward to take Gilberto’s stick, Derek whispered, “I’m going to remember you said that when it’s time for me to show you a few special tricks.”
His words filled her with a flush of anticipation. Quickly, she glanced at Gilberto, but he was busily engaged in choosing the perfect marshmallow for her to roast.
Ordering herself to focus on dessert, Willa cleared her throat. “Alrighty. Lesson one. Lightly—very lightly—warm your graham crackers and the chocolate to prepare them for the marshmallow.”
“Prepare them. Check,” Derek murmured.
Willa placed the crackers and chocolate in the metal grill basket Derek had bought especially for tonight and held it high over the flames. “We’re not trying to toast these or melt the chocolate yet, remember. We’re just getting them ready.”
She jumped slightly as Derek’s hand slid up her back. Softly, he kneaded the muscles at the base of her neck.
“What are you doing?” She sneaked the question out the side of her mouth.
“Getting ready.” Smooth as silk, his voice matched the ministrations of his hand—soothing, confident, sexy. Willa’s vision blurred a little.
“Now can we do the marshmallow?”
Gilberto’s pleading question jerked her back to attention. “Right! So. You hold the marshmallow far enough away that the flame is just teasing it.”
“That makes sense,” Derek agreed in a tone that could only be called a purr. His fingers wandered to a spot—ooh, it was a very sensitive spot—below her right ear. “Only enough heat
to tease...”
She closed her eyes for a second—honest to Pete, no more than a millisecond—until Gilberto shouted, “Look out!”
“Oops!” Willa yipped, laughing sheepishly as her marshmallow burst into flame.
“A little too hot for you there?” Derek goaded. To Gilberto he said, “She’s demonstrating how not to do it, I guess.”
“That’s exactly right.” Reaching for her own skewer, she jammed a fresh marshmallow onto the tip. “I allowed myself to get distracted. That’s very bad.”
Serenely, utterly serenely, she held the marshmallow over the flame, proud of how steady her hand was. “There. See how it’s light brown all over? That’s what we’re looking for. It’s per-FECT!” Nearly shouting the second syllable, she sat bolt upright. Was that Derek’s hand dipping below the waistband of her jeans?
While she sat there stupidly, doing absolutely nothing with the marshmallow, he let her go, took the skewer from her useless fingers and started to make the s’more for Gilberto exactly the way she had shown him. He presented it to the boy, who announced, “This is the best s’more ever.”
“Isn’t this your first s’more ever?”
“Yeah. It’s the best.”
Derek laughed.
He was acting as if nothing at all had happened. Several s’mores later, a few of which Gilberto proudly made on his own and served to them, Willa began to relax again.
“That’s it for me. I pronounce you top chef,” she told Gilberto, leaning back and holding her belly. “I’m retiring my skewer. I’m stuffed.”
“Lightweight,” Derek said good-naturedly as he, too, settled back.
“Hardly. I probably gained five pounds tonight.”
“I don’t see it. You’ll have to show me where.”