She liked his house that much? “Not great. I’ve got a lot of work to do to bring it up to scratch.”
“That bad?”
“Nothing impossible.” Her wistful tone puzzled him. “It’s just a house.”
“Just a house?” she squeaked. “It’s beautiful. It’s got great bones and huge potential. Even with the work that needs to be done, it’s perfect.” She looked so damn cute with her warm eyes and thick eyelashes and tawny braid with wisps of hair floating around her cheeks. They were filling with color now that she was off her feet and eating.
He didn’t like this attraction. It made him antsy and tense. He started to back out of the room, but she asked, “Hardwood floors still in good shape?”
“They need refinishing. Oak. Three-quarter inch. They’ll be incredible once they’re done.” Travis had a good feeling about this house for his family, if he could get the work done by Christmas. “You should see the fireplace with the carved wooden mantel.”
In her smile, he saw longing. “Still beautiful?”
“A work of art. Looks like I’ve got to strip off about twelve coats of paint, though. From all of the moldings, too.” He cocked his head. “You seem to know the place well.”
She smiled, and it was sweet and wholesome. “The owner was a special friend. Before she became ill, we had tea together a lot.”
She swallowed and looked away. He thought it was sadness choking her up.
Unsure what drove him other than a need to reassure her about himself and her mother, because it felt weird to be attracted to the daughter, even if he didn’t want to be, while having drinks with the mother, he said, “It isn’t a date.”
Her hand paused on the way to her mouth, one lonely French fry dangling from her fingers. “What?”
“With your mom? Cindy? Tonight isn’t a date. She said we were meeting other folks. I thought I could get to know some townspeople.”
She chewed her fry with a small, thoughtful frown furrowing her brow. Another aspect he liked. She had depth, this one.
“I’ll meet ranch hands while I work, but not enough of every kind of person living here. My family—”
A gasp from the doorway caught his attention, and he glanced behind him. Cindy.
“What are you two doing?” Disappointment hovered beneath her suspicious anger.
Travis really didn’t have time for drama.
“Shooting the breeze,” he said in the most casual tone he could muster. He owed this woman nothing. He could talk to whomever he wanted, but he didn’t want to make trouble between mother and daughter. “Just getting to know one of my neighbors.”
Cindy spun away and slammed into the women’s washroom. Talk about being high maintenance.
“Am I in trouble?” he asked.
Rachel’s animation about the house leached out of her. “We’re both in trouble. Cindy can hold a grudge for days. You’d better go back to your table and make it up to her.”
Travis sighed. Was one night of peace and innocent fun too much to expect?
Just as he left the room, Rachel stopped him. “She’s not a bad person, honest. She’s just...” She shrugged.
Just real needy. “Got it.”
Throughout the rest of the evening, he managed to smooth Cindy’s ruffled feathers, not really sure why he was bothering. He didn’t know the woman and didn’t care whether she nursed a good pout, but he thought of Rachel and wondered how Cindy’s anger would affect her.
Shortly after ten, a fight broke out. Travis didn’t know who the two guys were, or what their beefs were, but they came too close to his table. When one of them bumped into Rachel serving nearby, he got up and steadied her, holding a hand up to let the guy know to keep his distance.
The guy could barely stand upright, wavering on his drunken feet and grinning idiotically.
The man who’d taken over for Honey earlier at the bar came running, grabbing the second guy by the scruff of his neck and propelling him against the wall with one of the guy’s arms shoved behind him and halfway up his back.
“Goddamn it, Clint,” Cole yelled above the driving beat of the music. “I told you before. You and Jamie need to keep your fights out of public places. You want to fight, take it home.”
He whipped a pair of handcuffs out of his back pocket and cuffed the guy. Travis stared.
Cole turned to the man Travis held off with his raised right hand. Three sheets to the wind, he burped up a lungful of beer and chicken wings.
“Do I need to cuff you, too, Jamie?”
“Naw. I’m okay now. I’ll go home peacefully.”
“And you, Clint? Should I call out one of the deputies? You wanna spend the night in jail?”
Clint shook his head. “I’ll leave.”
Cole unlocked the cuffs, then watched the pair of them stumble out, leaning on each other like the best of buddies.
The man stuck out his hand. “Cole Payette. I’m sheriff here. You’re the new guy.”
Travis nodded and shook his hand. “Travis Read. What was their problem?”
“Brothers from different mothers. Every so often they take potshots at each other, but only when they’re drunk. The rest of the time, they’re good buddies.”
Payette righted a chair that had been knocked over, watching Travis with an odd smile.
“Good to meet you, Travis. Welcome to Rodeo. Usually we’re a peaceful town. Thanks for your help.” Cole’s eyes slid off to Travis’s left and then back to him. He grinned and returned to his stool at the bar.
“Um... Travis?”
The voice so close beside him startled him. Travis looked down at Rachel. “Yeah?”
“You can let go of me now.”
Cripes. The whole time he’d held off the guy named Jamie, he’d held Rachel with his other arm, tucked against his body and out of harm’s way.
“Oh...sorry...ah, I—” He didn’t know what to say because he didn’t know what he’d been thinking.
A small handful, a perfect fit, her belly hard and warm against him, she belonged in his arms.
It felt natural and good to hold her.
No! No, no, no. He didn’t need a woman in his life right now, especially not one laden with burdens he didn’t want to bear.
He didn’t want to like her.
A funny smile curled her lips. “I truly can take care of myself, Travis. I deal with stuff like this most nights.”
At least she wasn’t mad at him.
“I really didn’t know I was doing that.”
“I know. I could tell.”
The feeling of well-being, and the sense of rightness she engendered in him, shook him so badly he rushed to let her go.
Before he could, the softest of touches flitted across his ribs. Wonder filled him. The touch had come from Rachel’s big belly.
“What was that?”
Despite her obvious fatigue, this morning’s mischievous grin made an appearance.
“That was the baby,” she said. “Beth.”
“No fooling?”
“No fooling, Travis. Guess she was saying hello.”
It happened again. Wild. Amazing. That little creature inside that big bump was real and moving. “What was it? A hand or a foot?”
“Could have been. Or an elbow. Maybe a knee.” She ran her hand over her belly. “It’s pretty awesome, isn’t it?”
The baby moved again, some incredibly tiny part of her body brushing across him, like maybe the little thing was communicating with him. Saying hi. Touching. Reaching out. Whoo.
“It’s...it’s incredible.” He didn’t have words to describe the feeling. Whoo-hoo. It was about the most magical experience imaginable.
He released Rachel by increments, because he was also letting go o
f another creature, her baby. He’d never much thought about how real babies were before birth.
He’d only met Rachel a mere twelve or so hours ago, but she’d now bestowed on him two wondrous gifts—a child’s dream ride on a carousel, and an unborn baby’s touch.
“I’d better get back to work,” she said.
He bent to pick up the tray she’d dropped, handing it to her with his mouth open and searching for words. There were none.
Had Cole’s funny smile been about Travis holding Rachel as if she belonged to him? She didn’t. No woman did. Uh-uh. No way, no how. He had one priority—to take care of his sister and nephews and then hightail it away from here.
While he might be filled with awe, he would never think to take on the encumbrance of parenthood for himself. More power to her, but he was hunky-dory on his own.
He returned to Cindy. It was time to head home.
It took them a while to leave the bar because everyone and his uncle wanted an introduction. Friendly people. Considering the night a success, he left knowing that Sammy and her boys would find a community in Rodeo where they could belong.
He caught a last glimpse of Rachel, who was too busy to notice him leaving.
Cindy dropped him off at the garage to pick up his truck. He scooted out of her pickup the second it stopped. He wasn’t about to give Cindy ideas about kissing good-night.
Once he’d driven himself to the house, he wandered the too-quiet rooms. The echo of his boots in the stillness set up an emptiness in him that rankled.
Boots. On a wood floor.
He needed to become more refined. No carting of muck and God knew what else into his new home. This wasn’t a bunkhouse. It was Sammy’s new home.
He returned to the front door and took them off.
Tired, he entered his bedroom and made up his new bed with the sheets he’d had delivered. He unpacked his saddlebags, his belongings paltry enough, his lifestyle so simple it took him all of ten minutes to put away his clothes. He stared at the freshly made bed. He might be bone weary, but his mind wouldn’t quit. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, so there was no point trying.
He unloaded a bunch of new kid’s books onto the new bookshelves.
The house was too quiet. He hated the hollowness of the place. He’d have to get a TV soon, or a radio—anything to fill the emptiness until the boys arrived.
Christmas and his nephews couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter Five
At seven on Saturday morning, Travis walked down Rodeo’s Main Street, humming with energy and feeling so darn lucky that he’d found this town for his family.
Despite Cindy’s subterfuge, last night had been good. He’d met a few people and had fun.
Passing one small shop after another, with names like Jorgenson’s Hardware and Hiram’s Pharmacy and Nelly’s ‘Dos ’n’ Don’ts, unpretentious and without a trace of neon lights or razzle-dazzle, he knew he’d made the right choice in buying a house for Samantha here.
He had simple needs. He’d had nothing much to spend his paychecks on once he’d put Samantha through school. The money was just sitting in the bank. He’d put it down on a house for Sammy and the boys.
They were his only family.
Funny that he’d never thought to discuss repayment with Sammy. If she did, she did. If she didn’t, well, hell, so what? What did he need a house for?
When he felt a trace of yearning on his own behalf, he ignored it.
He returned his attention to the town.
Cowboy hats and worn-in denim were everywhere, on both men and women. Not a single pair of designer jeans could be found.
Pickup trucks lined the road—not urban warriors, but real honest-to-God working vehicles covered with rust, dust and dirt. This was a working town.
He nodded to an old man passing by with the bowlegged gait of a retired cowhand.
Travis stepped into the Summertime Diner for breakfast. He’d picked up a few groceries yesterday, but he wanted to be out among people. Eating breakfast alone in the house didn’t appeal to him. He was used to eating in farmhouse kitchens surrounded by ranch hands or cooking up bacon and eggs in a bunkhouse with a bunch of other men. Udall vouched for the diner, so here he was.
Busy place, even this early on a Saturday.
Looking to his left, he spotted wooden hooks lined with cowboy hats. He added his to the mix. It was a funny tradition this town had, but seeing his hat hanging with so many others made him feel like he was part of something.
If that also struck a chord of loneliness in him—the awareness that he really had no community—so be it. Part of his life.
All of the stools at the counter were already occupied. Too bad. That was usually a good place to strike up a conversation and get to know people.
Spotting an empty booth near the back, he headed for it, catching a waitress’s eye and pantomiming that he wanted coffee. He fell into the booth facing the street. Might as well get a look at the local color.
A small voice in the booth behind him said, “Mommy, I want pamcakes.”
“Okay, sweetie-pie. Pancakes it is. Blueberry?”
He recognized Rachel’s upbeat voice. She must be here with her daughter. Awfully early for her to be out, considering she closed the bar last night.
“Yeah. Booberry,” the pip-squeak said.
“Blueberry.”
The child giggled. “I said booberry.” That childish voice, that high-pitched laugh made him ache to see his nephews. Soon.
A family entered the diner and searched for an empty table. There were none left, and here he sat hogging an entire booth to himself.
He didn’t want to sit with Rachel. He didn’t like that he found her attractive. He didn’t like that he’d thought about her as soon as he woke up in the house she’d been angry with him for buying.
The family’s kids looked antsy, as though maybe they were hungry.
He couldn’t invite them to join him. There were too many of them.
He gave in as graciously as he could, unsure whether Rachel would even agree, and peeked around the backrest.
“Good morning,” he said.
Rachel didn’t look surprised to see him. She must have seen him enter the restaurant.
“Hi,” she said.
“Place is filling up.” He gestured over his shoulder. “There’s a family looking for a booth. You mind if I give them mine and share yours?”
She didn’t bat an eye, as though this kind of thing happened regularly. “Sure thing,” she said. “Tori, scoot on over along the bench. Travis is going to join us.”
Travis gestured to the family standing by the front door that they could have the booth. They dazzled him with their gratitude.
In Rachel’s booth, the little one moved over and Travis joined them.
“I’m Tori!” the pip-squeak said. “I’m having pamcakes.”
“Me, too.”
“What kind are you having?”
“Booberry!” he said, feeling foolish, but gratified when she giggled.
“Mommy,” she squealed. “Travis calls them booberry, too.”
Rachel caught his eye and smiled. It did wonders for her face, softening that strong jaw and warming the whiskey highlights in her eyes.
The child picked up a raggedy plush animal. A platypus?
“This is Puss. You can kiss him.” She held the thing up to his face. He kissed it on the nose while his cheeks heated like hot tar on an August afternoon.
Watching his discomfort, Rachel grinned, some of yesterday morning’s sass returning after a night’s sleep. Travis settled back against the bench and steeled his heart, or libido, or whatever it was causing this strong unwanted appeal.
She looked younger this morning with her
hair pulled up in a high ponytail.
The waitress arrived with a coffeepot and orange juice in a plastic cup for Tori.
Rachel put her hand over her cup. “Vy, when you have a minute, can you bring decaf?”
“Sure thing, Rachel. I forgot. What’ll you folks have to eat?”
After the waitress left to place their orders, Travis asked, “Does the owner make her dress up like someone out of the forties because it’s a diner or something?”
Vy wore a kerchief on her head, black eyeliner that curved up at the corners and bright red lipstick to match a red-checked shirt. Her black skirt flared out like a bell, swishing around legs accentuated by a pair of wedged heels. Or he thought that was what they were called.
“Vy is the owner, and that’s just her style. She likes to dress retro.”
“Seems out of place in a boots and denim town.”
“Yeah. She likes the surprise value. Tourists think it’s fun.”
Travis drank half of his coffee and started to feel human again. “You worked late last night. What brings you out so early today?”
“Gramma doesn’t like noise in the morning,” Tori answered. “Mommy brings me here for brekfest.”
The child rose up onto her knees, picked up her OJ and took a sip. “Only sometimes, though.” She set the juice down with exaggerated care, without spilling a drop.
“Only Saturday,” Rachel confirmed. “It’s too expensive to eat out every day.”
So, Cindy was sleeping in while the woman who’d worked until 1:00 a.m. was up at six with her child. He had to hand it to Rachel. She took her job as a mother seriously. She didn’t seem resentful or angry, just took quiet responsibility for her daughter.
What did she do for herself? Besides give strangers rides on a carousel she’d fixed up?
Or was she like Sammy, a single mother so fixated on doing the best for her kids that she put her own needs last?
Rachel wiped a dribble of juice from Tori’s chin. “Don’t let Cindy hear you call her Grandma. She doesn’t like it.”
“But she is my gramma.”
“She is. She just doesn’t want to be called that.”
“But Carol-Sue can call her gramma Gramma. Why can’t I?”
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