by Patti Berg
“I remember.”
He closed his eyes, and she wondered if her inability to converse about business had bored him enough to put him to sleep.
“Do you like opera and the ballet?” he asked, his voice sounding relaxed, tired.
“I went to see Phantom of the Opera once and loved it, but I don’t think true opera buffs consider that much of an opera.”
“No, they don’t.”
“As for ballet, I once watched the Nutcracker on television at Christmastime. I liked that, too.”
“What about camping, Sam. Do you like sleeping out under the stars at night?”
Rolling onto her back, she looked at the play of the firelight on the ceiling. “Mama and I lived outside one summer. We even stayed in the park a few times, until the police ran us off. But I remember looking up at the stars and thinking how pretty they were, that I wished I could reach out and touch them. That was an awfully nice summer.”
She’d revealed too much. She tilted her head to see if Jack was laughing, but he was standing beside the bed, looking down, smiling. “The stars are awfully big out here, Sam. They might be easier to touch than the ones in the city.”
“You think so?”
Nodding, he sat on the edge of the bed. “Do you feel like learning to ride tomorrow?”
“Think I can learn the right side to mount on?”
“Just remember that the right side is the left side, and you’ll have it made.”
“Seems simple enough.”
He lifted one of her curls, wrapping the spiral around his finger. He watched her, and she could see the warmth of the fire mirrored in his eyes. She was afraid he was going to kiss her. Afraid he wouldn’t—because she’d told him earlier that when they were alone he couldn’t touch her.
Oh, why had she said such a crazy thing? She wanted him so darn much she ached.
He leaned toward her, resting an arm on the pillow beside her head. “This bed’s big enough for two, Sam. You wouldn’t reconsider sharing it, would you?”
“No.” She’d thought about saying “yes,” but her common sense stepped in and rescued her.
He grinned, her negative answer obviously not surprising him at all. “Could you at least give me a good-night kiss?”
That would be a very foolish thing to do, and she knew it, but her common sense had already retreated. She touched his cheek, feeling the stubble on his face as he moved toward her. His lips touched hers lightly. They lingered only a moment, long enough for her to smell the scent of soap on his skin, to hear him draw in a deep breath before he drew away, long enough for the beat of her heart to quicken.
“Good night, Sam,” he whispered.
She watched his back as he went to the chair. He didn’t look at her again, but seemed to relax as he watched the fire. Slowly, his eyes closed, his breathing deepened, and she hoped she wasn’t imagining it, but it seemed as if he’d fallen asleep with a smile on his face.
Sam bounded down the stairs at five minutes until ten the next morning, shocked that she’d slept so late, upset with herself that she’d missed the sunrise and most of the morning. She wasn’t going to have much time at the ranch, and she fully planned to take advantage of every moment she could.
The black cowboy boots she’d found in one of the suitcases fit her like a glove, and they clomped on the wooden stairs, echoing throughout the house. Jack had done a good job picking out jeans, too, but she’d ignored the suitcase full of pretty blouses and sweaters, opting for one of Jack’s big flannel shirts instead. It felt comfy, secure, and was the next best thing to being swallowed up in his embrace.
She found Crosby in the kitchen, stooped over the sink slowly washing pots and pans. “Good morning.”
“Mornin’.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “Coffee’s on the stove. There’s eggs, bacon, and biscuits warming in the oven.”
Leaning over the coffeepot, she savored the scent of Crosby’s brew. “Smells like you doubled the amount of beans.”
“I did. You want it different, you gotta make it yourself.”
“My mama always told me strong coffee’s good for the soul.”
“I don’t know much about souls, but I do know coffee, and I like it strong. Of course, ain’t no one else around here feels that way.”
Sam poured herself a cup and leaned against the kitchen cabinet, taking slow sips of the scalding liquid. “Where’s Jack?”
“He left right after breakfast—a good three hours ago. Went huntin’ coyotes.”
“Will he be gone long?”
“No tellin’. Said he would have taken you with him, but you was out like a light.”
“I don’t know what possessed me to sleep so late.” She opened the oven door and plucked a piece of bacon from the plate. “It’s not like me at all.”
“You ain’t late. Miss Lauren won’t be out of bed till at least noon, maybe later. Pampered socialite is what she is, but it sure does make me feel good seein’ her here.”
“Did you spend much time with Jack and Lauren when they were little?”
“Yep.”
“What were they like?”
“Trouble. Both of them.”
“That’s it?”
“You want to know more, you gotta ask them. I ain’t never been one to tell tales about others.”
“I knew there was a good reason to like you.”
Crosby looked away from the sink and grinned. “You ain’t so bad, either.”
Sam rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. “Want some help?”
“Almost done here.”
“Then tell me where you keep the cleaning supplies.”
“Jack would have my hide if he knew I was lettin’ you work around here. Besides, we got a maid who comes once a week to do the cleaning. Course, he don’t like her touchin’ his office. Don’t trust her, I guess. If you’re so all-fired ready to do somethin’, s’pose you could tackle that room since you’re gonna be family.”
“If Jack gives you any grief, you tell him to see me. I know how to handle him.”
How’s that for a big, whopping fib? she asked herself. If she knew how to handle Jack, she wouldn’t be here in his house preparing to have her heart broken. He was too darn gentlemanly, too nice, too anxious to make her happy. The men in her life didn’t act that way—maybe that’s why none of them had ever come close to even touching her heart.
Grabbing a napkin from the table, she took a few more pieces of bacon and headed off to explore the house. It didn’t take long to discover that the entire place, not just Jack’s bedroom, was devoid of frills. The furniture in the living room was leather and tweed, the tables heavy oak. A moose head hung over the fireplace mantel, and the other walls bore the trophies of pronghorn, elk, and deer.
The entire place needed a woman’s touch. The animals could stay, but the rooms needed sprucing up. Throw pillows, rugs to warm the hardwood floors, a vase or two brimming with flowers. If she lived here…She let the thought slide right on through her head. This is temporary, Sam. Only temporary.
She wandered down a hallway off the living room. Through one of the doors she found a library with floor-to-ceiling shelves, and knew she could get lost in a room like this. She’d never had time to read, but she could easily imagine curling up in one of the big leather chairs set on either side of the brick fireplace.
After thoroughly perusing the books on the shelves, she left what could easily become her favorite room in the house. She crossed the hall and went through the closed but unlocked door. Definitely Jack’s office.
The familiar fragrance of cigars and aftershave wrapped around her. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the scents, picturing Jack in front of her. His smile, the lift of his brow. She could almost feel him tugging her toward him, lowering his mouth, and kissing her slow and gentle.
Leaving his home—and leaving Jack—would be one of the most difficult things she’d ever had to do. But she’d been through tough times before, she’d known heartache, an
d she’d always bounced back.
Of course, this time it might be different. This time she might not recover.
She leaned against the bookshelves, studying Jack’s office. It was neat, organized, and unadorned, but it seemed to match the rest of the house, not to mention his personality. He didn’t go for frills, for the trappings most rich people seemed to love. He liked the wide-open prairies and the small, sometimes underappreciated things in life like sunrises and sunsets.
Her mama definitely would have liked Jack Remington—even with his faults.
Sweeping her fingers over the bookcase, checking out the titles on the shelves, she found a brown-leather photo album with a gold-leaf border wedged in the far bottom corner. She knew she was snooping, but she couldn’t resist taking a peek. After all, it was only a photo album. Jack might not approve of her looking at something personal, but it seemed an easy way to get to know a man who was short on words.
She opened the album, and the first thing she saw was a wildflower pressed beneath the plastic page, with the photo of a pretty young girl above it. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, with straight blond hair and a wide smile.
Turning the page, she was treated to even more pictures of the same girl, but a boy was in the photos with her, and in most every one they were hand in hand. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and thin. He had a cowboy hat tilted low on his brow and even though Sam couldn’t see the eyes, she could see the off-kilter smile, and knew it was Jack.
He was good looking in a boyish way. He was obviously in love, she could see it in every picture. He had that special smile, that warm gleam in his eyes—the same look she’d seen on his face during the night.
No, no. That wasn’t true. That was the look she’d wanted to see, nothing more.
Once more she flipped a page. The young girl was leaning against a tree, her hands resting on her swollen belly. She must have been eight or nine months pregnant, and even though she was far too young to be a mother, her face held a certain glow. On the bottom of the same page, the girl held a bundle in her arms. Jack knelt beside her, looking down at the baby, smiling.
There were no more pictures of the girl after that. No more photos of Jack. Instead, there were fifteen pages, each with one, single photo centered beneath the plastic sheets. They showed the steady progression of a baby growing into a toddler, a child, a teen. They were nothing more than wallet-sized school portraits, the kind kids exchange with friends. They weren’t personal. There were no snapshots taken when the boy took his first step, when he blew out the candles on his birthday cakes, when he opened presents at Christmas.
But the pages were worn, the corners dog-eared, as if Jack had looked at the collection nearly every day for sixteen years.
She closed the album and held it against her. Suddenly, she felt as if she’d trespassed on Jack’s heartache, and it became clear to her that he’d wanted to be a father—but for some reason, he’d never been given the chance.
Shoving the book back into its place in a far corner of the shelf, she wiped the tears from her eyes and walked across the room. She stood beside the window that looked out toward the barn. A chair had been dragged across the floor, as if Jack had been in here recently but wanted to look outside rather than concentrate on work. She wondered what he looked at—and then she knew.
Beau stood in the middle of the yard, with a rope in his hands. Rufus ran around, barking and kicking up dust, as Beau tried his hardest to lasso the creature.
She must have watched him for nearly five minutes, and when he looked toward the window, as if he knew she was there, she waved. Like the cowboys she’d seen in black-and-white Westerns, he touched the brim of his Stetson in greeting, then went back to his roping.
She liked him instantly. Leaving the office, she walked out of the house. The cool air seeped through the flannel shirt she wore and stung her chest and arms, but the sun was shining, and it felt warm when she tilted her face to drink in the clear blue sky.
Rufus jumped up and pawed at her knees and she knelt, taking a moment to run her fingers through silken fur.
“Do you like dogs?” Beau asked, walking toward her.
“Friendly ones. I’ve never been all that keen on the ones that growl when I walk by.”
She stood, and held out her hand. “I’m Sam.”
Beau’s eyes narrowed. “Sam?”
Somehow she laughed, but inside she was berating herself for making the slip. “I wanted to be an actress once and my stage name was Samantha.” Telling something close to the truth was easier than telling another lie. “Your dad calls me Sam sometimes, too.”
“Yeah, I imagine he would.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He doesn’t talk all that much, and Arabella’s got too many syllables,” he said, tossing the rope again.
She smiled at his words, at his typical teenage no-nonsense attitude. She picked up a stick and threw it out for Rufus to chase, all the while watching Beau’s movements. He and Jack had been apart for sixteen years, but Beau had the same long-legged gait, the same swing to his arms. He even twisted around and stared at her like Jack.
“Dad’s not around, if you came out here looking for him.”
“I came out here to meet you. Thought it would be nice if we got to know each other.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”
Rufus ran back with the stick in his mouth and Sam tugged it from between his teeth, then threw it again. “If you’re worried about me coming between you and your dad, that’s not going to happen.”
“I’m not.” He looked her up and down. “You’re not going to want me to call you mom, are you?”
“I’d rather you just called me Sam.”
She saw the first hint of a smile on his face.
She walked toward the corral and turned, watching Beau’s perfect rhythm as he tossed the rope. “You’re awfully good with that.”
“Gettin’ to be. Takes a lot of practice.”
“Think you can teach me?”
Beau laughed, sounding so much like his dad. “Women aren’t good ropers.”
“And who gave you that piece of misinformation?”
“Crosby.”
“Well, Crosby’s full of it.”
He grinned, nodding slowly. “What do you want to learn to rope for? You’re not going out on any cattle drives, and I doubt you’ll be branding calves in a few weeks.”
“Is there some unwritten code out here that says I can’t do those things?”
“I suppose not, but why would you want to?”
“I imagine for the same reasons as you. First, I’ve never done it, and I like to try new things. Second, I want to be with your dad.”
The revelation hit her smack in the face. She wanted to be with Jack more than anything, and when it was time to leave, she wasn’t going to bounce back easily.
“As for you teaching me how to rope,” she said, “it’s an opportunity for us to get to know each other. On top of that, if I don’t do something constructive, I’ll go stir-crazy.”
“You mean my dad didn’t give you an endless amount of chores to do while you’re here?”
“No. How about you?”
“I’ve shoveled shit till I’m blue in the face. I’ve curried horses, trimmed hooves, learned how to shoe, and polished every piece of leather in that whole blasted barn.”
Sam laughed as the somber kid she’d been talking to loosened up and became the boy she really wanted to know. “Did your dad teach you how to do all those things?”
“Yeah.” Beau tossed the lasso over Sam’s shoulders and pulled it tight. “He can shovel shit better than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“He’s not what you expected, is he?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he’s nothing like I expected, either. When I met your dad, I expected some snooty millionaire with half a dozen attendants following in his wake. I thought he’d have an attitude, you know,
sort of holier than thou.”
Beau loosened the rope and pulled it over her head. “I didn’t know what to expect. I spent nearly sixteen years wondering what kind of man would ditch his kid.”
“So, you came here hoping to find out that he wasn’t worth thinking about anymore?”
“Yeah.”
“And what do you think?”
Beau shrugged, then worked the rope into another big circle and tossed it over Sam’s shoulders again. “I don’t know if he’s worth too much trouble or not.”
“But you haven’t left.”
“I like it here. Shoveling shit isn’t all that bad.”
Smiling, she worked the rope loose and pushed it over her head. She went to Beau and took the lasso from his hands. “Care to show me how to throw this?”
She tried making a circle like she’d seen him do, but she ended up smacking her head and shoulders with the unwieldy piece of rope. “First you’ve got to learn how to build a loop,” he told her. “Hope you aren’t in any big hurry.”
I’ve only got a few days, she could have told him, hating the fact that she was going to leave heaven when she liked it so well. Instead, she said, “I’ve got all the time in the world.”
They went into the barn to find a rope. Beau told her there were different lengths, different widths, different stiffnesses and materials, and every cowboy had to have a rope that worked just right for him. Then they got down to serious business.
At noon, with blisters rising on her palms and sore arms and shoulders, she begged Beau to take a break. Lauren appeared fresh and alert from a good night’s sleep, and hopped into the Explorer. She’d decided to take advantage of the pretty day to drive the two hours into Sheridan to shop. Sam had declined the invitation to go along, and went to make steak sandwiches and fried potatoes for Beau and Crosby.
They ate at the kitchen table and talked about the cows, about rodeoing, about the changes Crosby had seen on the ranch in sixty-some-odd years, and horses. Beau talked endlessly about the black gelding named Diablo that Jack had given him when he’d first come to the ranch, and Pecos, the dun-colored stallion Jack always rode, who liked the mares and Jack but nothing and no one else.