by Brenda Mott
“No, actually, I don’t.” Bailey felt her face warm. “I really don’t have much time for things like that.”
Trent grunted. “Too busy making sure farmers’ loans get turned down, or are you just all tied up thinking of new ways to make the folks in town crazy?”
Though Trent’s tone was teasing, the words stung. Bailey set her cinnamon roll on her plate. “Is that really the way everyone sees me—as the mean old banker? Is that what you think of me?” If so, why had he even bothered to be nice?
Trent surprised her by reaching across the table to enfold her hand in his. “Hey, I was just razzing you.”
A shiver started at the base of her spine and crept up to her neck. His touch was gentle and reassuring. It felt far too good. Far better than her fantasies. As though thinking the same thing, Trent glanced down at their hands, then quickly removed his.
Bailey cleared her throat. “Hey, it’s no big deal. There are aspects to my job that aren’t always pleasant.” She picked up her roll once more. “For the record, I don’t enjoy seeing anyone turned down for a loan.”
“Like I said, I was just razzing you.” Trent took a swallow of milk, leaving behind a trace of mustache that made her recall a recent commercial that sometimes featured sexy men.
Got milk indeed.
Mmm-mmm.
Bailey pictured him shirtless again and mentally kicked herself.
“But people in town do talk about me,” she said, her words more statement than question.
“Sure they do,” he admitted without hesitation. “You’ve created quite a stir, coming in here with ways of doing things that aren’t typically small-town. That day care, for instance. And you’re holding a job position that traditionally has been male since Ferguson opened its very first bank. The old-timers, who’ve done the same things the same way their entire lives, are shook up.”
Bailey picked up her glass of milk. “I can assure you that accepting the position of bank president at Colorado Western National had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to create a stir in this town. If something happens to the economy, given the crises the majority of family-owned and-operated farms and ranches face these days, then the bank could go under and take the town with it. I’m trying to help by making money available to new businesses. This will benefit the town by keeping more young people here, rather than forcing them to find work elsewhere. That’s why I was brought to Ferguson.”
Trent lifted a shoulder. “I suppose. Folks just need a while to get used to it, to realize that things change.”
He grew silent, and Bailey wondered if he was thinking about the changes that had occurred in his life the past year. She wanted to offer him a shoulder to lean on. But Jenny had said he didn’t like to talk about his daughter’s death, and Bailey had her own reservations in this regard.
Trent saved her from her troubled thoughts with a crooked grin. “Hey, I wouldn’t let it bother me if I were you. Besides, a woman who bakes homemade cinnamon rolls can’t be all bad, even if she does own a rogue dog.”
“He’s not a rogue,” Bailey said. “He just needs a little love, that’s all.” She finished the last bite of her roll. “What kind of dog do you figure he is?”
A shadow passed over Trent’s features and was gone so quickly Bailey wondered if she’d imagined it. “I’d say he’s a blue heeler-mix,” he said. “Maybe part Border collie. They’re both herding breeds, which would explain why he chased my horses.”
“You said you first saw him some time ago,” Bailey remarked. “Do you suppose he ran away from somebody during the Fourth of July weekend? I’ve heard that a lot of dogs get scared of the fireworks and take off.”
“I guess he could’ve, but I don’t recognize him as belonging to anyone around here.”
“Do they have a fireworks display in Ferguson?” Bailey asked. “He might have gotten away from someone who was just passing through and stopped to see the show.”
Trent finished his milk and set down the glass. “I didn’t pay any attention, Bailey. I’m not much on holidays.”
“Boy, I am. I go all out for every one of them, especially Christmas.”
Trent’s expression went completely dark, then his face paled beneath his tan. Bailey could have kicked herself.
Christmas. Trees. Duh.
But before she could say a word, he pushed away from the table and put his dishes in the sink—a little too hard. “I’d best get back to work.” He strode from the kitchen and left her sitting there, feeling like a complete idiot.
CHAPTER FOUR
TRENT DROVE the posthole digger into the ground, furious with himself for letting his emotions show. Bailey’s comment had been totally innocent. She couldn’t have known. Still, the words burned inside him.
He hadn’t celebrated a single holiday since Sarah died. Unless one counted his hanging an ornament on her grave on Christmas, as he had on her birthday and other special occasions…as he’d done the other day on the anniversary of her death.
He gripped the double handles of the tool and let the blades bite furiously into the earth, venting his pain. A part of him wanted to block the memory of his daughter’s voice from his mind, and another part wanted never to forget it.
I wish every day could be Christmas, Daddy….
The back of his throat swelled, and he swallowed hard and blinked. He hadn’t ever viewed a Christmas tree—or a holiday—in the same way after planting the blue spruce on Sarah’s grave. He’d decorated it by himself. Amy hadn’t wanted any part of that.
Pushing the thought from his mind, he continued to dig. He had all but two of the holes finished by the time the screen door creaked open a couple of hours later. Though he knew Bailey had come outside, he ignored her. He heard her footsteps on the porch, then in the grass as she walked up behind him.
“I thought you might like some iced tea.”
Damn it. He shoved the posthole digger into the ground and faced her, then wished he hadn’t.
Bailey looked good standing there in her tank top and cutoffs, holding a glass out to him. Her well-manicured fingernails, painted with clear polish, weren’t overly long. She had pretty hands and a great smile, and he was sorry to see he’d made that smile vanish.
He accepted the tea and gritted his teeth when his fingers brushed hers. “Thanks.” He took a drink. The tea had lemon, no sugar, just the way he liked it.
“I’m sorry, I don’t keep sugar in the house,” Bailey said. “I seldom use it.”
His gaze boomeranged to her once more as he wondered if she realized her slipup. She looked back at him, unaware. It was enough to break his black mood.
“Except when you bake, I guess. Did you use it all up when you made the cinnamon rolls?”
Bailey’s face turned three shades of crimson, and warmth snaked through him. Belatedly, he realized just how much he’d enjoyed teasing her, watching her squirm. He’d been alone for a long time. His self-imposed banishment from social scenes, no relationships with women, had been bearable up to this point. It was a way of punishing himself, although for what he couldn’t quite decide. Because he couldn’t save Sarah? Because he hadn’t been strong enough to take care of her and still manage to hold his marriage together?
Whatever the reasons, he hadn’t dwelled on them. All he knew was he wanted to be alone, and he’d been fine doing that, until Bailey came along. He wasn’t sure what it was about her that brought out this side of him, one that had lain buried for so long. Guilt threatened to take hold of him. He didn’t deserve to be happy or have fun. Sarah was gone. What right did that leave him to go on living, loving and laughing? None, as far as he could see. But something about Bailey swayed his reservations and demanded he let loose and enjoy a little friendly bantering with her.
Maybe he’d give in. Just this once.
He knew damn well she hadn’t made those cinnamon rolls. She might have heated them in the oven, but he’d recognize Camille Kendall’s recipe anywhere. Nobody baked like Camille.
The town’s café owner constantly asked her to supply him with baked goods.
Besides, Trent had seen the burned bottoms of the cinnamon rolls in Bailey’s trash can and the bread knife in the sink, which she must have used to cut them. He’d gotten a kick out of the lengths she’d gone to to keep him from knowing she couldn’t cook.
“They take quite a bit of sugar,” Bailey said, lifting her arms in a casual gesture. “I hope the tea is all right with just lemon.”
“It’s fine,” he said, letting her off the hook. She was damn good at sidestepping the truth without telling an out-and-out lie.
“I’m going to the feed store to pick up the chain link,” Bailey said. “Would you like a sandwich before I go?”
Trent shook his head. “Maybe later, thanks.” He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his forearm and looked up at the sun. It must be about noon. The time had slipped away from him while he worked, as it always did, one hour fading into the next, one day into another.
He focused on the here and now. “How do you plan to haul the wire?” He glanced pointedly at her Mustang convertible parked in the driveway.
“I have a pickup truck,” Bailey said. “If you change your mind about the sandwich, help yourself.” She started to leave.
“Bailey, wait.” The words were out before he could stop them, though he knew he should leave well enough alone. It was best to keep his distance from her. He’d made a choice to spend the rest of his life alone, and he aimed to stick with it.
Bailey paused, and Trent ran his hand through his hair, unable to leave things the way they were between them. No matter what his innermost feelings were. “Look, I’m sorry about how I acted earlier. I know you didn’t mean anything by what you said.”
“Forget it.” She smiled softly. “I’d better go before the feed store closes. Apparently, they roll up the sidewalks shortly after lunch on Saturdays here in Mayberry.” She headed for the garage.
Trent leaned on the posthole digger and watched her walk away, still liking what he saw far too much. A moment later a familiar pickup truck shot away from the building, with Bailey behind the wheel.
“I’ll be damned.” Trent shook his head and chuckled dryly. The ’53 Chevy Bailey drove was one he’d often seen parked outside the Texaco station where local mechanic Lester Godfrey worked. Coated with primer-gray paint, the truck bore the loving touch of countless hours of work getting body and engine back to near-new condition. The tires probably hadn’t seen fifty miles, and the 389 Pontiac V–8 engine, with three 2-barrel carburetors, purred like a cream-fed cat. That truck was one of the few things Lester gave a damn about, outside of his kids and his fondness for Budweiser.
How the hell had Bailey gotten possession of Lester’s pride and joy?
Trent wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
By the time Bailey returned from the feed store, he had the holes dug and had stopped to take a break. He sat under the shade tree and tried to coax the dog to come to him. As the morning had worn on, he’d noticed the heeler-mix had relaxed somewhat, at least to the point where he was no longer choking himself. But now, as Trent held out his hand and spoke, the dog tensed once more and retreated.
“I hope I’ll be able to win his trust sooner or later,” Bailey said, coming up behind Trent.
He rose to his feet, causing the heeler to move away as far as the rope would allow. “Good luck. Do you want to back your truck over here so I can unload the posts and wire?”
“You don’t have to do that,” Bailey said. “You’ve already done enough.”
“I might as well set the posts for you,” he said. “That way the cement will have a chance to harden and you can finish the rest tomorrow.”
“We’ll do it together, then,” Bailey said.
The simple meaning of the word sent a shiver creeping up his back. Together. It was something he really couldn’t relate to anymore. But he had to admit, working with Bailey turned out not to be such a bad way to spend the afternoon. She helped him mix the cement and they did half the job, stopped to eat a sandwich, then finished the rest. By late afternoon, the steel posts jutted from the ground around the entire perimeter of the yard like so many elongated teeth.
Bailey stood back to admire their handiwork. A satisfied smile curved her lips. “Looking good.”
Trent thought the same thing, though it wasn’t the fence he admired. Bailey’s long legs had grown all the more brown from being in the sun all afternoon, and moisture flecked the cleavage between her breasts. Swallowing, Trent put his shirt back on. “We might as well call it a day. You want to go see the horses? Ride a couple of them?”
He told himself he’d extended the invitation because he wanted to get it over with. He’d string the wire on his fence that evening by himself and be done with it. Done with the day’s work and with Bailey. There was no point in drawing things out. The sooner he showed her the horses, the sooner she could choose one and the quicker he could get her out of his hair. Fun was fun, but he had to come back to reality. After today, he’d be wise to remember Bailey Chancellor was off-limits.
“I’d love to.” Bailey nodded toward the dog. “Let me feed him and change my clothes first.”
A short while later she stood dressed in Levi’s, a sleeveless blouse and, to Trent’s surprise, cowboy boots. He raised his eyebrows. “You actually own a pair of boots?” Somehow, he’d expected her to ride in tennis shoes, which was dangerous and exactly the type of fool thing he’d thought a woman like her would do.
Bailey eyed the toes of her black boots. “Sure I do. I told you I’ve been taking riding lessons.”
Trent grunted and led the way across her pasture, toward the gap in the fence. The route was quickly becoming familiar and comfortable. It was a good thing the fence would be back up soon, putting an end to that.
In the barn, Trent gathered the tack and grooming tools they would need, then set them outside near the hitching post. Halters in hand, he and Bailey headed for the pasture. They brought back the horses she was interested in and worked them in the arena. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised when, after riding all of them, Bailey chose Star.
“Are you sure?” Trent asked.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“He’ll need special handling and lots of understanding.”
“I’m fully aware of that.” Bailey stroked the gelding’s nose and held on to the lead rope possessively. “I’ll give him everything he needs.”
Trent didn’t doubt that for a minute. He only hoped he wasn’t making a mistake. If Bailey got hurt because Star shied and threw her… Well, he couldn’t dwell on that. Her mind was made up, and while he could have refused the sale of the horse to her, somehow he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The two of them looked as though they belonged together, Star’s head hanging over Bailey’s shoulder, the gelding’s blind eye closed as he sighed and wallowed in the attention Bailey lavished on him.
“Okay,” Trent said. “You’ve got yourself a horse.”
Bailey grinned at him like a kid with a new bicycle.
She had a horse, and he had an incurable ache for something he had no business wanting.
IT TOOK BAILEY two days to put up the fence once the cement dried around the posts. She’d planned to rent a fence stretcher, but Trent had insisted she borrow his. She frowned, recalling the way he’d tried to restring the wire between their properties without her Saturday afternoon after she brought Star home.
He’d acted as though he was calling it a day and told her to lock Star in the corral next to the barn until they could string the wire. She had done just that, and had been brushing and petting Star when she’d spotted Trent putting the fence back up. Annoyed, Bailey had marched straight over and confronted him. After all, he’d worked hard helping her set fence posts, and the cinnamon rolls hardly qualified as sufficient payment. His generosity had gone beyond neighborly duty, so why had he tried to sidestep her offer of help?
Her question had remained unanswere
d. Trent simply acted as though it was no big deal. He came up with a string of excuses—he hadn’t wanted to bother her, had thought she was tired; he’d decided at the last minute to put the wire up and be done with it… Though she bought none of it, Bailey let the subject drop.
Trent had reluctantly let her help, and he’d taught her how to pull the wire tight with the fence stretcher, which looked like a pulley with two big metal hooks on each end. But he’d hardly said two words to her the whole time.
She certainly couldn’t figure the man out. It was probably best not even to try.
Today was Tuesday, and Bailey had gotten home from the bank at four, then gone straight to work on the fence, stopping only for a quick bite to eat. The poor dog had finally accepted the rope, but she knew he was still afraid of it. The sooner she could untie him, the better.
Bailey finished just before dark. She’d spent the better part of the day on Sunday gathering rocks to line the bottom of the fence so the heeler couldn’t dig his way under it. She would turn on the yard lights now and complete her job by laying the rocks. She’d already unloaded them from her pickup Sunday night before the fence was up, piling them in the yard where she could easily get to them.
She spoke to the dog. “I guess I might as well let you loose.” After all, he couldn’t dig his way out with her watching him. If he tried, she’d catch him and put him back on the rope. “I bet you’ll be glad to get off that rope, won’t you, boy?” Bailey walked slowly toward him with the back of her hand outstretched. He’d grown to trust her a little over the past few days, in spite of the fact that she’d initially cornered him in the barn in order to catch him and tie him up. She petted him each night when she fed him, though he tolerated her touch grudgingly and quickly moved away when he’d had enough.
“You need a name, fella,” Bailey said, gently grasping the rope near his neck. “And a collar, and shots…” She stroked his head, soothing him. The heeler pinned his ears, but slowly relaxed beneath her touch. Bailey untied the rope and slipped it off his neck. “There you go.” She smiled and stood watching him. It took him a moment to realize he was free, but once he did, he trotted around the yard with obvious relief.