Leftover Love

by Janet Dailey

  “It’s quite a sight from up here, isn’t it?” Layne murmured.

  “Yup.” But Creed never paused in his task to take a look.

  His lack of interest didn’t alter hers. All the statistics Layne had heard and read over the years about the Nebraska Sand Hills came to her mind. They comprised some nineteen thousand square miles of long ridges and mounds—the most extensive dune formation in the Western Hemisphere, likened to the Great Eastern Erg of the Sahara Desert.

  Only here, the desert was an oasis because the vast dunes sat atop great aquifers. The abundant supply of moisture gave the wind-sculptured sand its lush mantle of grass—a veritable sea of waving grass.

  Having driven through the area, Layne knew it was large, but nothing had prepared her for the immensity to be seen from this high viewpoint. There was nothing for mile upon mile but small, angular peaks and flat, broad mounds, heaving and swelling like the ocean. Here and there the smooth ripple of grassland was dotted with trees and thickets growing up around half-hidden spring runs. There was an odd patch of white, too, marking the location of one of the many lakes and ponds that were strewn through the area.

  “Cherry County is supposed to be larger than Connecticut, isn’t it?” She directed the question at Creed without turning to look at him.

  “Yup.”

  “Is it true that there’s a part of Cherry County—larger than Delaware—that doesn’t have a town or a post office?” Once that had seemed a gross exaggeration. Now Layne was prepared to believe it was possible.

  “That’s what they say.” Creed leaned his weight into the wrench to tighten the bolt that last fraction.

  Slightly miffed at his indifferent response when she was seeking information, Layne sent him an irritated glance. Having a conversation with him was like pulling teeth.

  It goaded her into challenging him. “Don’t you ever talk?”

  There was a small pause in his work as Creed cast a sidelong glance at her before his attention reverted to the long shaft. “When I’ve got something to say.”

  Layne stubbornly persisted in her subtle attack on his laconic attitude. “The Scots have a word to describe men like you. It’s ‘dour.’ “But it didn’t seem to faze him. “Do you ever smile?”

  “When there’s reason.” He made one last adjustment.

  Half turning, she rested her weight on one elbow to closely study him, her eyes gleaming with curious speculation. “What would it take to melt that iron composure of yours? What would I have to do to coax a smile out of you?”

  His glance raked her briefly as he straightened away from the wind wheel. “You could try climbing down the windmill. I’m all finished up here.”

  With a barely concealed sigh of exasperation, Layne maneuvered around to swing her feet onto the crossties and begin her descent. Creed followed her, keeping a cross-board empty between them so he wouldn’t accidentally step on her hands.

  When she neared the bottom, Layne started to push off to jump the last couple of feet. But the slick sole of her boot slipped on the rough edge of a board. Her feet became tangled and she fell, landing heavily on her back. The impact drove the air out of her lungs, momentarily seeming to paralyze them. For a dazed second she wasn’t quite sure what had happened to her.

  She blinked her eyes. When she opened them again, Creed was crouching over her and she was looking into his broadly lean features. She was fascinated by the concern that animated them, when they were usually so masked.

  “Layne.” He pulled off his glove and laid a callused hand along her cheek while a finger sought the pulsepoint in her neck. “Are you hurt?”

  Unable to make her lungs work to operate her voice, she could only shake her head negatively against his rough palm.

  With a frown Creed watched her labor for air. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded mutely and grabbed at his arm to try to pull herself upright. Then his hands were gently and carefully lifting her so she could sit up. Conscious of his close scrutiny and the strong, supporting arms that stayed around her, Layne knew he wasn’t convinced.

  After the first tentative gasps of air she managed to vocally assure him. “It just … knocked the wind out of … me. That’s all.”

  His features relaxed and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly at her answer. She noticed the small movement that altered the straight line of his mouth. Like a child captivated by the thing that had charmed her, she wanted to touch it. With hands still shaky from the fall, she tugged off a glove and reached up to let her fingertips rest lightly along an indented lip corner.

  “You’re actually smiling,” she marveled.

  When she glanced up to his eyes to seek confirmation of this amazing fact, they were very dark, yet glowing with an intensely warm light. It wasn’t until then that Layne noticed how fast her heart was beating—a reaction from the fall, no doubt.

  There was a suggestion of movement toward her, a barely discernible dipping of his head closer to hers. For a second she thought he intended to kiss her. Then something changed, and he was taking hold of her hand and lowering it away from his mouth. All in one motion, his hands were gripping her clothes-padded sides to help her stand.

  “Come on. Let’s get you on your feet,” he urged with a faint gruffness.

  In her mind the actions ceased to be two separate incidents. The tilting of his head had been a preliminary movement to helping her stand up. There was no reason to attach any special significance to it. She did a haphazard job of brushing herself off while Creed stood back.

  “Hoyt’s waiting for you. You’d better get a move on,” he said and swung around to walk to the pickup and put his tools away.

  Her legs felt a little rubbery the first few steps. By the time Layne crossed the long stretch of grass to the truck and horse trailer, she had walked off most of the effects of the fall, although a few spots remained tender.

  “Took a flyer, did you?” Hoyt observed as she climbed into the cab of the truck.

  “My foot slipped.”

  “You’re just lucky you weren’t another five feet off the ground, or you would have broken your neck,” he declared and started the motor.

  “Thanks for making me reel better,” she countered dryly. As they drove away, her gaze was drawn to the solitary figure standing near the windmill. It tugged at her.

  By the end of her third week on the ranch, Layne was beginning to feel like an old hand. Despite the three big meals she ate each day, she was slimmer and every ounce of flesh was solid. She could sling eighty-pound bales of hay like a pro and stay in the saddle when a horse did a fancy rollback in pursuit of a cow instead of getting left in midair while the horse ran out from under her. Mastering the art of milking a cow was another milestone.

  The orange sun was lying flat on the flanks of the distant ridges as Layne carried the pail of milk across the yard to the house. She had managed to finish her evening chores and milk Flo and be done before the others.

  When she entered the house through the back porch, the smell of fried chicken awakened her appetite. She used the bootjack to remove her muddy boots and kicked them into a paper-strewn corner of the porch.

  “Smells great,” Layne declared as she entered the kitchen and crossed to the sink to strain the milk into a clean pitcher. “Need help with anything?”

  “I don’t think so.” Mattie turned the chicken and dodged the spitting grease. “Oh, damn, I didn’t fix any dessert. Well, the boys will just have to be satisfied with some fruit sauce again tonight. Look in the cupboard and see if I have a jar of peaches up there, Layne.”

  Layne checked the cupboard and said “There is, but I think we have a little bit of peach sauce in the refrigerator, as well as some small containers of apricots and pears.”

  “You can set them out, but I doubt if this picky bunch will eat leftovers.”

  “They’ll never know it,” Layne assured her. “I’ll chop up the fruit, add this small can of fruit cocktail that’s in the cupboard, and mix
it all with some coconut and whipped cream. Voilà, you have ambrosia.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “It’s a trick I learned from my mother.”

  “Go ahead and fix it,” Mattie urged. “I might even have some of that.”

  None of the men exhibited Mattie’s enthusiasm for the dessert when Layne set it on the table that night. Stoney tentatively spooned some into a dish and questioned Mattie about the ingredients. He didn’t appear eager to try it until he found out what was in it.

  “Ambrosia, huh?” Stoney frowned at the uncommon name that didn’t give him much of a clue about the taste and slapped at Hoyt’s hand when he dipped his spoon into Stoney’s helping of the dessert to sample it before taking any for himself.

  “Hey! This is good,” Hoyt said with some surprise and filled his dish to the top before passing the bowl to Creed. “Did you make this, Mattie?”

  “Layne did.” Mattie was quick to give her the credit.

  “It’s my mother’s recipe,” Layne explained.

  “Well, if your mother knows any more dishes that taste as good as this, be sure to fix them,” Hoyt insisted, hardly letting his attention stray at all from the dessert.

  “I gotta admit, Mattie, this is almost better than your coconut cream pie,” Stoney warned.

  Creed was the only one who hadn’t said anything about Layne’s dessert. She watched him calmly eating it, apparently unimpressed by its taste. His silence was galling when she wanted to hear his opinion.

  Grudgingly she asked, “Do you like it, Creed?”

  “It’s good.” He nodded but the answer was so bland it was almost meaningless.

  “Good?” Hoyt reacted to the passive compliment. “Is that all you can say about it?”

  “He’d say the same thing whether you set a can of peaches in front of him or some French pastry,” Mattie declared. “Nothing gets singled out for special praise.”

  “Well, just ignore Creed,” Hoyt advised Layne as he reached for the bowl to have a second helping. “This is delicious. What is it? Some kind of Swedish dish?”

  Layne shrugged. “I guess you could call it an ‘American leftover,’ like me.” It was a phrase she’d used so often that she said it out of habit, the words hitting her after they were out.

  A confused frown knitted Hoyt’s forehead as he gave her a curious look across the table. Even Creed’s spoon paused halfway between his dish and his mouth.

  “What do you mean by that?” Hoyt asked. “I never heard of anybody calling themselves an ‘American leftover.’”

  “It’s kind of a family joke.” Layne had a brief debate with herself, then decided to tell the truth. “You see, I was adopted. When I was growing up, I didn’t know what my family’s nationality or background had been, like the other kids in my class. So my dad made up this story about children God had ‘left over’ and how he put them in different countries for childless couples to love. That’s how I came to be an ‘American leftover.’”

  While she made her explanation, Layne was conscious of how silent Mattie had become at the head of the table. She listened intently to every word and studied Layne closely with those faded green eyes. Layne held her breath, almost afraid Mattie would guess, and scared that she wouldn’t. It was crazy.

  When she had finished recounting the story, there was a short lull. Then Mattie spoke quietly. “That’s a lovely explanation, Layne. He must be a very special man.”

  “He is.” Her voice was taut with emotion, too choked to say more.

  The comments seemed to remove the reluctance on the part of the others to ask about her past. “What about your real parents?” Hoyt inquired. “Did you ever find out anything about them?”

  Mattie spoke, almost defensively, before Layne could respond. “I’m sure Layne regards her mother and father as her real parents. After all, they did raise her and love her.”

  “I’m sorry.” Hoyt looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay,” Layne inserted, including Mattie in the assurance that she wasn’t sensitive on this issue. But this time she chose a half-truth. “The adoption agency told my parents that I came from an unwed mother who elected not to keep her baby.”

  “When you found that out …” Mattie began, then paused, hesitating over the question, “did it bother you?”

  “For a while it did. I felt rejected, abandoned … even though I had two wonderful people who loved me more than anything. It hurt to think my natural mother hadn’t wanted me. Then … I did a series of articles on teenage pregnancies and unwed mothers. After talking to those young, and sometimes frightened, girls, I discovered it was never a casual decision to give up a baby. Even the ones who were the most confident in their minds went through emotional turmoil. And gradually I learned to accept that my natural mother had made a decision that was best for both of us at the time.”

  But that hadn’t affected this driving need to find the woman who had given birth to her, and get to know her. Now it was happening. She was even getting a chance to tell her side of the story. Best of all, no one was getting hurt.

  “How about some coffee?” Stoney leaned back in his chair, rocking it on its rear legs. “Is there any more in the pot, Mattie?”

  “There should be.” Mattie started to rise, but Layne motioned her to stay seated.

  “I’ll get it,” she volunteered, feeling that it was a wise time to change the subject.

  As she went to bring the coffeepot from the kitchen counter, there seemed to be a general shuffling of interest to fill the lull. Hoyt patted the empty breast pocket of his shirt, then nudged Stoney.

  “Can I bum a cigarette off you?” he asked. “I’ll buy you a pack when I get paid.”

  “It’s more like three packs,” Stoney grumbled, but obligingly shook an unfiltered cigarette from his pack and offered it to Hoyt. “At the rate you’re smoking my cigarettes, I ain’t gonna have enough to last me till the weekend.” Layne filled his cup first. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Hey, that’s right. We got a payday weekend coming up,” Hoyt realized as a wide smile sprang to his face. Layne stopped by his chair, holding the coffeepot. “Yeah, I’ll have some,” he affirmed in answer to her inquiring look. “Have you made any plans for the weekend, Layne?”

  “I haven’t even thought about it,” she said with a shrug.

  Hoyt wrapped an arm around her hips and pulled her closer to his chair. “Let’s you and me take off for North Platte. We’ll do the town in style and have a ball.”

  “On whose money?” Layne laughed, too used to his playful exuberance to be offended by his familiarity—or to take him seriously. “Mine? Or yours?”

  “We’d go dutch, of course.” Hoyt grinned up at her.

  “Meet Hoyt Weber,” she taunted. “The last of the big spenders.”

  The noisy scrape of a chair leg across the floor distracted her. She looked around to see Creed looming tall above the table. His dusty brown glance briefly met her eyes.

  “I’m going to skip the second cup of coffee,” he said and started toward the back door. “I’ve got some things to get finished at my place.”

  “See you in the morning,” Stoney called after him, but Creed was already shrugging into his coat and donning his hat as he walked out the rear door.

  His departure seemed rather abrupt to Layne, but no one else appeared to take any undue notice of it.

  Hoyt’s arm tightened around her hipbones to pull her attention back to him. “What d’ya say? Shall we head for North Platte this weekend?”

  “Sorry.” Layne shook her head in a smiling refusal and picked up his hand to unwrap it from around her. “But Stoney told me that you couldn’t be trusted.”

  “Stoney, you old hoss!” Hoyt accused in mock anger. “Why’d you go telling tales on me?”

  “Somebody’s gotta protect girls like Layne from the likes of you,” Stoney retorted in kind.

  The two went round and round in a mock argument, the old cowboy and
the young playing the same game. Mattie eventually shooed them out of the kitchen after their coffee was finished so she and Layne could clean up the dishes. Layne thought the subject of her adoption might come up once they were alone but it didn’t, and she didn’t raise it.

  On payday weekend Layne collected her wages on Saturday, like the others, and went into Valentine in the afternoon to cash her check and buy a few odds and ends. It felt strange walking around in regular clothes and the high-heeled boots after wearing jeans and flannel shirts for days. And the noise of the town seemed unusually loud after the silence of the country.

  After she had browsed through the stores and finished her shopping, she called her parents from a telephone booth and talked to them at length. Then she went to the same small café for supper. It was crowded, as usual, but the waitress recognized her from the last time she had been in.

  When she’d taken Layne’s order, she asked, “Did you ever find that woman you were looking for? That Martha something or other?”

  Layne hesitated a second, then forced a smile. “No. You were right though. She got married and moved away.”

  “It was a good bet that had happened.” The waitress nodded in a knowing fashion, then moved away from Layne’s small table to bring the supper order into the kitchen.

  With the meal finished, Layne lingered over her coffee. Mattie had said she was going to a neighbor’s that night, so Layne wasn’t in any rush to return to an empty house. Yet the night was young and she didn’t know what to do with it—alone and on her own in a strange town. She almost wished she had taken Hoyt up on his invitation for the weekend. He’d have been good fun, if a little rowdy.

  As she was leaving the restaurant she noticed an advertisement for the local cinema posted on the wall. The motion picture currently being shown was one she hadn’t seen. It seemed a logical if unexciting way to spend the evening. The cashier gave her directions to the movie house. Since it was close enough to walk, Layne decided to leave her car parked in the lot.

  The popular film drew a sizable crowd. There weren’t many vacant seats when Layne entered the darkened theater. With some buttered popcorn and a box of chocolate mints for company, she watched the film from an aisle seat in back. The jokes didn’t seem quite so funny when she had to laugh alone, and her eyes barely misted over in the sad parts.