An Old-Fashioned Romance

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “Sounds quite intimidating,” Breck sighed.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. You’ll love my family,” Reese assured her. And Breck had no doubt about it. “And they don’t know anything about your weird friends or how they talked me into being a piece of beefcake for your birthday, or anything like that.”

  “What?” Breck exclaimed, blushing vermilion.

  Reese laughed and then said, “Come on, Breck. You gotta admit, those girlfriends of yours go to some extreme measures.” Breck could only nod in agreement. He was right, after all, and many were the times she’d been on the planning end of the measures. “All I have to say is you’re one heck of a good sport.”

  “No,” she corrected. “You’re one heck of a good sport.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I am. But…I wasn’t entirely the innocent participant you may think I was.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “You seem to have forgotten that I placed a condition of my own on the event.”

  Breck thought back, but all she could remember now was how fabulous he’d looked in the costume of the Highwayman—how thirst-quenching his kiss had been.

  “They paid you?” she thought out loud. She was horrified at considering it.

  But before she could be totally crushed, he answered, “No. I told them I better get a kiss from you out of the deal. I made them swear to me you’d kiss me before I agreed to do it.” Breck’s mouth was gaping open again, and he laughed as he glanced at her. “I guess I’m just spilling secrets left and right.”

  He was right! She remembered now. We promised him you’d kiss him too, Breck, Barb had said that night. But amid all the excitement and passionate kissing, Breck had completely forgotten.

  “You were a little freaked out, making it a little short-lived,” he chuckled. “But it was nice. Wasn’t it?” He was smiling at her, knowing full well how embarrassed she was.

  She was mortified! She was elated! She was horrifyingly delighted! He’d wanted to kiss her. That’s what it all boiled down to. He’d wanted to kiss her!

  “You’re redder than a beet in a basket,” he laughed. “And with that, I’ll let you off the hook for a minute or two.” He chuckled some more and tuned the radio to a country station.

  Breck had to fight the urge to pinch herself to make certain she wasn’t dreaming. It couldn’t possibly be real—riding along with Reese Thatcher in his pickup, on the way to spend Thanksgiving with his family—his confessing that he had wanted to kiss her that night at Marcelli’s? Suddenly she wanted to throw her arms around him, kiss him square on the mouth, and thank him for being so wonderful! But she resisted and simply smiled at him as his hands drummed on the steering wheel in time to the music.

  ❦

  Eventually Reese led Breck to more comfortable lines of conversation, and the remaining trip out to Reese’s parents’ house was more at ease. Breck had watched the snow on the side of the roads getting deeper and deeper the more isolated the roads became. But just before eleven, Reese pulled up in front of a cozy-looking farmhouse—much newer than Breck had expected—and she felt a bit disappointed.

  She’d been in the old ranch house out at El Costa Lotta. No one lived there now, but her Grandpa and Grandma McCall had lived their entire married lives. It was creaky, drafty, and needed a load of work. But it spoke of the past, of simpler times, of love, and of comfort, and Breck had adored it. She’d secretly hoped Reese’s family home was a bit older—a bit more weathered. Still, the warm light that flooded the snowy ground outside the front window spoke of all the things farmhouses did—old or new.

  No sooner had Reese helped Breck down from his pickup than Marjie Thatcher was racing out the front door, arms flung wide in greeting, jolly red apron strings flying at her back.

  “Oh, there you are, you sweet girl!” Marjie greeted Breck, throwing her arms around her and hugging her tight. “And Reese, my baby,” she cooed, releasing Breck and nuzzling into Reese’s powerful embrace.

  “You cooking already, Mom?” Reese asked.

  “Of course!” Marjie said. Immediately she began to ramble, “Did you two have a nice trip up? What do you think of the drive, Breck? Reese said he was going to force you to bring some of your pumpkin pies. He says they’re better than mine.” All the time she rambled, Marjie smiled—looking like some sort of kitchen angel and smelling like flour, butter, and brown sugar.

  “Oh…oh…I’m sure mine aren’t nearly as—” Breck began.

  “Nonsense,” Marjie interrupted. “If Reese says they’re better, then they are, and I can’t wait to taste them.”

  Marjie put her arm around Breck’s shoulders and began walking her toward the house. “Did Reese drive the speed limit? It scares me to death, these back roads. And in the winter…whew! Let me tell you, it’s downright dangerous.”

  Reese smiled. Breck looked back at him over her shoulder as his mother pushed her along toward the house. She looked scared to death, and he chuckled—though feeling sympathy for her at the same time. She’d be fine once she was inside and everyone had gushed all over her. Breck would be fine with his family. But would he? He wondered if he had his head on straight enough to have come home for Thanksgiving and not make any rash decisions. He wondered if he had his head on straight enough to keep his hands off his adorable little assistant, Breck McCall. Probably not, he thought. And he chuckled, recalling the astonished look on her face when he’d told her he’d bargained with her friends to steal a kiss. He shook his head and swallowed the extra moisture that had flooded his mouth at the thought of kissing her. Four days out in the middle of nowhere? It could get interesting.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mrs. Thatcher pushed Breck into a warm, cinnamon-scented home, filled with welcoming, smiling faces. Taking a quick inventory, she guessed everyone in Reese’s family was there. Two little dark-haired girls sat in front of the fireplace playing with a pile of banged-up looking baby dolls. Two handsome young men with dark hair and striking resemblances to Reese stood with another young man with lighter hair. The three seemed to be steeped in conversation with an older, gray-haired man, lounging in a recliner nearby. And as Reese closed the door behind him, a very pretty young woman with Mrs. Thatcher’s twinkling eyes squealed with excitement and threw her arms around Reese’s neck.

  “Oh, Reese!” the young woman laughed. “It’s so good to see you.” Then turning to look at Breck, she added, “And this must be Breck.” She put a friendly arm around Breck’s shoulders and hugged her briefly. “I’m Reese’s sister, Katie. And Mom has told us all about you.”

  Breck felt like a new toy on Christmas morning. She drew back slightly as Reese’s father, brothers, and the light-haired young man made their way toward her. Stepping back—intimidated by the four men approaching—she heard Reese chuckle as she bumped into him.

  “Don’t worry, Breck,” he whispered in her ear. “They won’t eat you.”

  But Breck wasn’t so certain. What had she been thinking when she’d accepted Mrs. Thatcher’s invitation to visit?

  “Nick Thatcher,” one of the dark-haired men said, offering her his hand.

  Breck accepted it and managed a timid, “Breck McCall,” in response.

  “Bobby Thatcher,” the other young man with darker hair said.

  He too offered Breck his hand, and she took it saying, “Nice to meet you.”

  “Keith Donaldson. I’m Katie’s husband,” the blonde man said, taking her hand as well. Breck managed another smile.

  “And I’m Ben Thatcher, pretty girl,” Reese’s father said, moving to stand next to her and putting a strong arm around her shoulders. Breck smiled when she caught the scent of wind and hay as he hugged her. “And I’m sure you’re just about plum overwhelmed with all us, now aren’t you?” Ben Thatcher chuckled, and Breck noticed how much his chuckle sounded like Reese’s.

  “Katie and I are just whippin’ up some barbeque for lunch, kids,” Mrs. Thatcher said. “Would you like to give us a hand
in the kitchen, Breck?”

  Breck sighed, relieved at being saved by the women, who no doubt understood her discomfort at being inspected from head to toe by the men in the room. “I’d love to,” she said and smiled as Katie took her hand and led her away from the towering grove of Thatcher men.

  “Reese, that there…that’s worth livin’ in the city for,” she heard one of the men say in a lowered voice as she left. She heard the other sounds of men greeting each other, their low chuckles, and suddenly felt safer somehow—safer than she’d felt in years.

  “We’ve just got some potato salad, baked beans, barbeque sandwiches, and chips,” Marjie Thatcher said. “Thought we’d just pile each of them up a plate and slop ’em where they stand.”

  Even though she was quite overwhelmed with new people, an unfamiliar place, and being a stranger in her boss’s family’s home, Breck did begin to feel herself settling down. The Thatcher home was inviting—safe—the perfect haven for relaxation. As she entered the kitchen, she glanced around quickly, smiling at the quaint vintage decor and architecture. If it hadn’t been for the microwave oven and other modern-day appliances, she could’ve sworn she’d stepped right into the 1940s. It was fabulous! The windows were dressed with yellow gingham valances and lace sheers, and a yellow tablecloth covered an old kitchen table. It was warm, fragrant, and beautiful.

  “You wanna just plop a big ol’ spoon of potato salad on each plate, Breck?” Katie asked, handing Breck the largest serving spoon she had ever seen.

  “Sure,” Breck said.

  She began putting potato salad on each plate Mrs. Thatcher handed her, handing each plate in turn to Katie, who added a sandwich. When they’d finished and had deposited a plate heaping with good food into the hands of each man in the other room, Mrs. Thatcher, Katie, and Breck sat at the kitchen table to eat their lunch.

  “Gotta slop the hogs before we can settle down to eat, don’t we?” Katie giggled. Then, taking a sip from her cup of water, she asked Breck, “Did you have a nice drive down?”

  “We did,” Breck answered. “It seemed to go really fast too.”

  “Well, I don’t know how,” Marjie Thatcher sighed, “in that beat-up old thing Reese calls a pickup.”

  “Mom, you know he’s got, like, 250,000 miles on that thing?” Katie said.

  “I know it. He’ll drive that thing ’til its guts fall out somewhere,” Marjie remarked. “It probably jostled your kidneys clean to death,” she added.

  Breck giggled. “No. Not too badly.”

  “Makin’ all that money and he still prefers to drive that old thing,” Katie said. “Guess he’s not as far from bein’ home as he likes to think.” There was a moment of quiet.

  But not too long a moment before Marjie said, “So tell us about yourself, Breck.”

  Breck was feeling quite comfortable and asked, “What do you want to know?” It was a loaded question.

  “Is my brother as good a kisser as he always bragged he was?” Katie asked.

  Instantly Breck felt her face turn crimson. “I-I…”

  Katie giggled and, aside to her mother, said, “Must be.”

  Marjie patted Breck on the hand, understanding her discomfort. “We tease a bit now and then, honey. You just let it roll off, and you’ll be fine.” Then, smiling warmly, she added, “Now, tell us…where did you grow up exactly?”

  ❦

  Breck spent most of the afternoon in the yellow kitchen talking and laughing with Katie and her mother while Reese and the other men visited in the other room. Katie and Keith’s little girls came in periodically for drinks of water, help with baby doll diapers, and cookies from grandma’s cookie jar. But for the most part, the two toddlers stayed fairly well entertained by the men. Breck could remember being a small girl and sitting in front of the fire or in the old kitchen at El Costa Lotta—listening to the low, comforting hum of the adults as they visited. Those were some of the most secure, happy times of her life, and she relished the opportunity to be in a home permeated by a similar atmosphere.

  Dinner came and went as well, and it wasn’t until afterward that she even had the chance to talk to Reese again. Yet just knowing he was there in the other room gave her comfort.

  However, once dinner was over and Reese’s brothers were busily doing up the dishes, Reese walked into the kitchen smiling. Breck noticed how relaxed he looked. The frown that often puckered his brow at work was gone.

  “You wanna go with me to bust up the ice in the watering tanks?” he asked.

  Breck smiled. “Sure,” she said.

  “Well, grab a coat ’cause, baby, it’s cold outside,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. Instantly, his mother and sister broke into a verse of the popular song from the 1950s, whose title Reese had just quoted.

  As they sang, Reese unexpectedly pulled Breck against him, leading her in a two-step as he joined his mother and sister in a chorus. Breck giggled, delighted by Reese’s unexpected knowledge of one of her favorite old songs. When they’d finished their chorus, and it was quite well done, he took her hand and led her toward the door.

  “We’re going to bust up the troughs,” Reese told his father as he helped Breck on with her coat.

  “Yep. Bustin’ up the troughs,” Nick chuckled. “That’s what Katie and Keith used to call it too.” Breck felt herself burn a terrible blush. She was somewhat relieved as Reese made an attempt to defend her.

  “Now, Nick,” he began, “Breck’s not used to such teasing. You behave.” Still, she saw him wink at his brother and continued to burn a blush.

  Once outside, Reese shivered a low, “Brrrr!” and pulled his gloves on. “It’s gonna get cold tonight. I hope you brought some warm pajamas.”

  “I did,” Breck assured him.

  “Come on then,” he said, pulling her toward a four-wheel ATV parked nearby. Reese hopped on the four-wheeler, and it roared to life. “Hop on,” he instructed, looking over his shoulder at her. “And hold on.”

  Breck smiled, delighted at the prospect of riding behind Reese on the four-wheeler and wrapping her arms tightly around him. Climbing on behind him, she put her arms around his waist and rested her chin on his shoulder. He smelled divine—like Speed Stick, chewing gun, and aftershave.

  “Hang on,” he told her again. In the next moment, they were riding through the night, the cold air stinging the tip of Breck’s nose, but she didn’t care. The air was fresh—still—alive with frost, and she was snuggling up against Reese Thatcher.

  Not too far away from the house, they stopped. Reese climbed off the four-wheeler and told Breck to wait while he broke up the thin layer of ice that had formed over the top of the water in the tank. Even before he was finished, a group of cows began ambling their way toward the tank.

  Climbing back on the four-wheeler, Reese let go another, “Brrr!” before adding, “They’d better tank up for the night. I’m not coming out before three in the morning. I want a good night’s sleep.”

  “Three a.m. is a good night’s sleep?” Breck asked.

  Reese simply chuckled and started the four-wheeler toward the next watering tank.

  ❦

  That night Breck lay in bed staring over at the warmth of the wood-burning stove, still aglow with the dying embers of a fire. She was staying in Katie’s old room, and the bed was soft and covered with well-worn quilts. Marjie had explained that in the morning Katie would be over to help prepare Thanksgiving dinner. Breck could imagine the excitement in the kitchen, the heavenly aromas.

  She sighed, smiling as she listened to the low mumbles and chuckles coming from the room next door—the room where Reese was bunking in with Nick and Bobby. She wondered what they were talking about—family, friends, and the farm—maybe even her. It had been a wonderful day. Especially the hours spent in the pickup with Reese on the way to the farm—and the hour spent riding around with him as he broke up the ice in the water tanks. That had been blissful! She thought of the way he’d tweaked her cold nose after
they’d finished—the way his eyes twinkled as he looked at his mother. Reese Thatcher had come home. And he’d brought Breck with him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Thanksgiving morning on the Thatcher farm dawned cold, crisp, and frosty. The sun was trying to peek through the clouds, but Ben Thatcher said he was doubtful that it would succeed. Breck had awakened to the homey sounds of clanking dishes and the heavenly smell of frying bacon. She could hear the delighted giggles of little girls and figured Katie and her family had already arrived. She was thankful for the bathroom adjoining Katie’s old room. It gave her privacy and enabled her to get ready for the day very quickly.

  Stepping into the kitchen, she was met with the warmth and smells of a kitchen on Thanksgiving Day.

  “Good morning,” Katie said, smiling and giving Breck a quick hug. “Did the girls wake you?” she asked.

  “Oh, no,” Breck said. “The smell of bacon did.”

  “Well, now you sound like Reese,” Marjie said, smiling at Breck. “That boy eats far too much of it, and if I don’t cook enough, no one else will get a lick.” Breck smiled as Reese’s mother motioned for her to come over to where she stood at the stove frying the bacon. “Did you sleep well, honey?” Marjie asked her, hugging her with one arm as she slid the bacon around in the skillet with the other.

  “Yes, thank you,” Breck assured her. “And I’m sorry I slept so long.”

  “It’s only six, Breck,” Katie explained. “But Keith dropped me and the girls off on his way into town. I forgot the cranberries and had to send him to the store for some.”