“If I minded, I wouldn’t have invited you.” She paused uncertainly. “Why? Are you having second thoughts about staying?”
Cole looked at her for a long moment. The trouble with life was that people overanalyzed everything, insisting on holding each speck up to the light and trying to examine it from all sides. Hell, he was guilty of that himself, but only when he thought about Ronnie and what had gone so damn wrong with something that had seemed so very right at the outset.
“Nope,” he answered. “Not me.”
Which was a lie. Having dinner with her and the boy—and most likely Amos—would just drive home what he didn’t have. What he could have had if she’d stayed in Redemption with him instead of running off to that college. And then staying away after she’d graduated. If she’d stayed here, they would have been married by now.
And maybe even had a son like the one she had.
The thought twisted in his gut like a double-edged serrated knife.
Ronnie realized that her lips were almost stuck together, they were that dry.
This was absurd. She had to get a grip on herself. She’d known if she came back, there was a very good chance that she’d be running into Cole. And once she had, she also knew that she had to act relatively friendly—not spooked, not nervous, but friendly. Otherwise, he’d see right through her in a minute and come to the one conclusion she wanted to avoid.
“All right then, you’re having dinner here.” She started walking toward the house again. He trailed after her. “Unless Juanita doesn’t have enough pork chops to go around,” she quipped, mentally crossing her fingers, hoping against hope.
JUANITA HAD ENOUGH. WHEN THE question was put to her regarding the number of pork chops available for dinner, the housekeeper appeared affronted for a moment, then regarded Amos McCloud’s daughter as if she’d lost her mind.
“Of course I have enough pork chops. I have enough to feed everybody. Why would I not? Mr. Amos and Mr. Wayne, they have always had good appetites.” For a moment, sadness streaked across her face as she referred to the person who was not there with them. And then the short, powerful-looking housekeeper rallied. She beamed at Cole. “Good to have you here, Mr. Cole.”
Christopher, who had come running in announcing the dinner guest to anyone with ears, looked a little confused. “Is that your name?” he asked, then repeated, “Cole?”
Ronnie could see where this was headed. “You have to call him Sheriff or Mr. James,” she instructed. She definitely didn’t want her son calling Cole by his first name. Other than the fact that she had taught Christopher to address people respectfully by their surname, calling Cole by his first name was just all wrong on several levels.
Christopher’s head bobbed up and down, his flaxen-colored hair swaying. He was eager to do whatever it took to get the sheriff to like him. Just meeting a real live sheriff had sparked his very fertile imagination.
Amos McCloud, his gait temporarily impeded as a result of the accident, came slowly shuffling into the living room, leaning heavily on the cane Midge had brought over for him. It had belonged to her late husband, Cole’s father.
It was obvious that moving at this snail’s pace annoyed Amos despite the fact that his daughter had pointed out to him that it could have been a great deal worse. The accident could have landed him in a wheel-chair. Permanently.
He didn’t want to hear about how lucky he was. Not until his son woke up from his coma. Until then, life had been put on hold. For his grandson’s sake, though, he tried to put on a happier face than the grieving one that had become second nature to him.
Amos looked at the man who had saved his life—and his son’s life, as well. He forced a smile to his thin lips. Life these days consisted of various related events, all of which encompassed some form of forced action. He struggled to hold bitterness and guilt at bay. So far, he was winning, but he had no idea how much longer he would be able to succeed.
“Hello, Cole, glad you could join us,” he said, nodding at the sheriff. “Looks like it took Ronnie to succeed where an old man couldn’t.” He glanced toward his daughter and explained, “Been trying to get him to come over for one of Juanita’s dinners so I could say thanks for saving my boy.”
“And you,” Ronnie tactfully reminded her father. She knew exactly what was going on in his head. At the same time, she hoped to God he didn’t know what was going on in hers.
Amos snorted at her addition. “Lot of good I am to anyone like this.”
“Not true,” Ronnie contradicted. Very gently, she slipped her arm through one of his. She gave him a light squeeze. “Who else could spin those bedtime stories?” she asked.
Despite the fact that his visits to Seattle were few and always far too short, there was a strong bond between her father and her son.
For a while, in the beginning, she’d been afraid that her father would turn his back on her. A man of simple, old-fashioned values, Amos had been surprised by her pregnancy. And even more so when she’d told him that the father was someone she’d met in passing. Someone who was now absent from her life and would remain that way. She was determined not to let him—or anyone else—know that the baby was Cole’s.
Her father had been annoyed that she hadn’t even given him a name to help with identifying the boy’s father, but by the time Christopher was born, all had been forgiven. Her father had shocked her by coming up to the hospital in Seattle to see her the day after she delivered. A call from her best friend in college had alerted him that Ronnie had gone into labor. Wild horses couldn’t have kept him away, he’d told her.
He’d asked after his grandson’s father only once, then let the matter drop. What mattered most, he’d said, was that she and the baby were all right. He didn’t want to risk losing her. Her mother’s loss had been bad enough, he’d added sadly, recalling the woman who had died so long ago. He concluded that pushing away a daughter was not on his agenda.
“Is that all I’m good for?” Amos asked now, feigning indignation as he looked from his grandson to her. “Bedtime stories?”
Rising on tiptoe, Ronnie kissed the sunken cheek with its grizzled white stubble.
“You’re good for so much more and you know it, old man,” she teased. “Now stop fishing for compliments. You know how special you are to me.” And then Ronnie turned her attention to the housekeeper. “Dinner almost ready?” she asked.
“Just waiting on you,” Juanita replied with a toss of her head. Hair that was still incredibly blue-black and encased in a thick, long single braid, sailed over her shoulder. “Wash, sit, I bring the food,” she announced, shooing them all out of the kitchen she considered her personal domain.
Doing her best to appear completely at ease, Ronnie turned toward Cole. “You heard the lady. Juanita’s word is law around here.”
“And don’t you forget this,” the feisty housekeeper underscored with feeling, still waving them all out of the room.
Cole heard himself laugh. The sound surprised him as much as it apparently did Ronnie.
Time seemed to freeze as he looked at her.
For one long, shimmering split second, it was almost as if no time at all had actually passed. Almost as if they were back in the years where he and she were constantly over at each other’s houses for meals, studying or just hanging out.
Coming to, Cole inclined his head and said to the older woman, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Please.” The woman pointed to something definitely offstage. “You know where the bathroom is, Mr. Cole. Go wash your hands,” she instructed for a second time.
“I’ll show him where the bathroom is!” Christopher volunteered eagerly.
But Cole had no intentions of setting the boy straight. Instead, as Ronnie looked on, utterly stunned, he allowed himself to be navigated.
Grabbing his newfound idol’s hand, Christopher began to pull Cole toward the bathroom.
Amos looked on, amused. “I’d say your boy’s in awe of the town sheriff,” her father specu
lated.
She nodded. “It certainly looks that way,” Ronnie agreed.
The problem was, she added silently, she didn’t know, in the bigger scheme of things, if her son’s awe was a good thing or a bad thing. She definitely didn’t want Cole finding out that the boy was his son. Not after so much time had gone by. She was more than mildly convinced that the man would never forgive her if he knew. And she felt isolated enough without adding Cole to the tally.
Rousing herself, she looked at the housekeeper. “Anything I can do to help, Juanita?”
“You can wash your hands and sit down at the table,” the woman informed her in that deep, no-nonsense voice of hers that said she would not brook rebellion, or even, at the very least, independent action.
Amos and his family members could behave as independently as they wanted to, as long as, in the end, they all obeyed her. Juanita demanded and accepted nothing less.
Ronnie smiled to herself. In an ever-changing world, at least she could rely on the family housekeeper remain ing a constant in her life. That was a very big “something” as far as she was concerned. Bless the woman.
Smiling at her father, Ronnie said, “You heard Juanita. Let’s go wash our hands.” And with that, she threaded her arm through his and very tactfully guided her father toward the downstairs bathroom.
Chapter Seven
If she had any concerns about uncomfortable silences over dinner, Ronnie needn’t have worried.
Given the slightest opening, Christopher filled the air with chatter. The boy seemed to have an endless supply of topics available to him and he conducted narratives like someone at least twice his age, if not more.
To begin with, Christopher recited the events of his day, citing them chronologically from start to finish. He then proceeded to bombard Cole with question after question, demonstrating his unending curiosity about what it was like being a “real live sheriff.”
Cole, who had never been all that talkative as far as Ronnie could remember—and when it came to Cole, she remembered everything—patiently answered each and every one of the boy’s seemingly endless font of questions. It got to the point where Ronnie felt she had to come to Cole’s rescue.
Reaching over to place her hand on top of Christopher’s to snag her son’s attention, she admonished, “Christopher, the sheriff didn’t come here to be interrogated.”
Along with an ever growing rhetoric, Christopher had an unending thirst for knowledge and was ready and willing to absorb whatever came his way. “What’s in-terror-gated?” he asked to know.
“It means having to answer lots and lots of questions,” she answered.
“Oh.” Christopher slanted a thoughtful look at his newly appointed hero. His expression became contrite. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Cole responded amiably. “Asking questions is how you learn things. And for the record, I don’t mind answering,” he added for Ronnie’s benefit.
The answer made Christopher brighten immediately and he launched into a second, even more extensive volley of words.
This time, all Ronnie could do was grin at Cole. She didn’t bother attempting to hide her amusement. “You asked for it,” she murmured to him under her breath as Christopher’s questions continued to pour out and multiply.
Her grin caught him right where he lived. He’d forgotten just how much he liked her smile. Liked watching that pretty mouth curve over something they were sharing. Some inside joke, or—
Damn but he wished…
He wished…
What was it his father used to say? Something about if wishes were horses, beggars would be kings. In any event, wishing wouldn’t change anything. The situation—as well as his life—was what it was and there was no point in letting his imagination drift, bogged down with “what ifs” that would only result in further frustration.
Juanita bustled in from the kitchen, carrying a sponge cake adorned with strawberries embedded in cream. After setting it down with a touch of pride, she stole a look in Cole’s direction.
“This was your favorite, yes?”
“Yes,” Cole answered, surprised not only that she remembered but that the venerable housekeeper just happened to have that for tonight’s meal.
“Everything was excellent,” Ronnie told the woman. Reaching over, she picked up the plates around her and stacked them to her left.
“Thank you,” the housekeeper replied, beaming. She said nothing about being well aware of her abilities in the kitchen, which she usually did when given a compliment. Ronnie knew the woman was behaving modestly only because she was playing a role, possibly because there was a guest at the table. Juanita did not lack any self-esteem or pride. She always knew exactly how good she was.
“I will miss doing this for you,” the older woman added.
The quietly voiced declaration took Ronnie utterly by surprise. “You mean when I go back to Seattle?” That was, she decided, the logical assumption. What else could the woman mean? She couldn’t be saying that she was leaving. Juanita had been with her father for as long as she could remember.
“No, now,” the housekeeper corrected, looking none too happy about the situation.
“I don’t understand,” Ronnie confessed, lost. Had she missed something? “You’re not going to cook anymore?”
“Juanita’s going to Texas for a while,” Amos told his daughter. It was obvious that while he was resigned to the fact, Ronnie’s father wasn’t happy about the state of affairs.
Before Ronnie had a chance to ask for someone to fill in the blanks, the housekeeper provided the missing information. “My youngest sister has to have an operation. I will be taking care of her four children until she gets better.”
Oh God, when it rains, it really pours, doesn’t it? Ronnie couldn’t help thinking. Until a few minutes ago, she’d been trying to figure out how she would manage all the things that were necessary on the ranch. Replacing Wayne, even temporarily, was no easy feat. He ran the ranch, took care of the books and worked alongside the men when it came to caring for and training the horses. In addition to that, she would also be taking care of her father and looking in on her brother whenever she could find a few free hours to make the trip down to Helena.
Now she had to add household chores to that. She knew that her father was vaguely acquainted with cooking, but not to the point that anyone—including him—would want to eat what he produced. No, cooking would be up to her.
She suppressed a desperate sigh. She was just going to have to take it in stride, she told herself. She had no other choice.
“How long will you be gone?” she asked the woman.
“Not long,” Juanita assured her. The next words brought a crushing depression in their wake. “Two months or so.”
“Oh.”
Right now, from where she was standing, two months looked to be just a little bit shorter than eternity. You can do this, she told herself. If she could raise a son single-handedly and still attend classes to get her degree, she could do this, she silently insisted.
“Well, we’ll miss you,” Ronnie finally said, doing her best not to allow her desperation to show on her face or in her voice.
She caught Cole looking at her. Was that amusement in his eyes or just a trick played by the lighting? He was probably enjoying this. Watching her struggling as she tried to pick up the reins of the life she’d abandoned.
Juanita smiled in response to Ronnie’s comment. “I do not feel so bad about leaving,” she told her. “Now that you are here.”
“Ronnie to the rescue, that’s me,” Ronnie murmured, forcing a smile to her lips.
Cole’s amusement increased, filtering down to his face. “Never knew anything you weren’t equal to,” he commented.
She knew a challenge when she heard one. Ronnie raised her chin. “And you won’t,” she informed him. She would do this if it killed her.
The healthy slice of cake on his plate had occupied his attention. But it was gone now and, h
is mouth empty—he knew he wasn’t allowed to speak with it full—Christopher launched into yet another volley of questions in Cole’s direction.
With Cole’s attention diverted, it freed Ronnie to try to figure out what in God’s name she was going to do with this extra set of bouncing balls she’d just been given to juggle.
COLE FOUND HIMSELF STAYING A lot later at the McCloud ranch than he’d intended.
Hell, he hadn’t intended on staying at all, Cole thought hours later as he took his leave of Amos. The latter remained sitting in the worn armchair that had seen him through the first years of his marriage and all the years that followed. Cole was fairly certain that Christopher would have accompanied him to his truck if the small boy hadn’t—finally—run out of steam. Ronnie’s son was presently curled up, sleeping on the sofa.
“I can carry him up to his room if you like,” Cole heard someone with his voice volunteering. Since when did he do things like that? he silently demanded, stunned.
“That’s okay,” Ronnie said. “He might wake up if you do and then you’ll be subjected to another round of eager questions.” It amazed her the number of questions Christopher could come up with. His mind never rested for a second. “I think you should make your retreat while you can,” she advised.
Cole nodded, then picked up his hat where he’d dropped it on the coffee table. Practice had him confidently putting it on without benefit of a mirror. “You know best.”
He was mocking her, Ronnie thought, even though nothing in his expression indicated this. But she knew how his mind worked. And, most likely, he hadn’t forgiven her for the way she’d ducked out on him six years ago.
I did it for your own good, Cole. For both our own good. I wouldn’t have been happy here back then. And I would have taken it out on you eventually—and you would have hated me for the way I behaved.
“Some of the time,” she allowed, responding to his offhand comment.
His eyes washed over her, as if he was doing a reassessment. And, in a manner of speaking, maybe he was. “You’ve gotten more humble.” With that, he started walking toward the door.
Montana Sheriff Page 7