“What about barbecue sauce?”
“Even worse.”
Bringing his water with him, he pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “I doubt the guests will care.”
“I care.”
“All right then. What else do you have for the sandwiches?”
“That’s the problem.” Shoulders sagging, she stuck her nose back inside the open refrigerator. “I’m low on food. I’ve been using what’s on hand rather than making an extra trip to the farmers’ market and warehouse store.”
“You’re creative. Surely you’ll come up with something delicious. You always do.”
She grumbled under her breath.
“What’s in there? Start calling out names. I bet inspiration will strike.”
She turned her head and gaped at him as if he’d suggested he make lunch.
“Try it. You have nothing to lose.”
With a this-is-futile shrug, she did as he said, poking through drawers and shelves.
“Portobello mushrooms, fennel, cayenne and serrano peppers, romaine lettuce—”
“What’s wrong with lettuce? It’s a sandwich standard.”
“Lettuce?” Again, that expression of horror.
“Okay. Nix the leafy greens. Keep going.”
She paused momentarily but then continued. “Cabbage, of course, for the slaw, half a honeydew melon, a pear, a pineapple, a slightly puckered zucchini—”
“Wait!” Ryan stopped her once more. “You have a pineapple? A whole one?”
Bridget reached in and withdrew the prickly fruit to show him.
“Fry up some slices and top the pulled pork with them.”
She went from gawking at him to gawking at the pineapple, blinking as if she expected it to explode in her hand.
“My mom used to grill pineapple along with ribs and chicken,” Ryan said. “I’d put the pineapple on top of my meat and eat it that way. Grossed out my brothers and sisters, but it was good. Might not be bad on a pulled-pork sandwich.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Yeah. You’re right. Stupid idea.”
“No. It’s an excellent idea.” Bridget straightened and sighed. “I’m just mad. At myself,” she quickly added. “I should have thought of pineapple. I’m better than that. Much better.”
She set the pineapple on the counter and closed the refrigerator door. Next, she opened a cupboard and selected various bottles and jars. Removing a knife from the impressive rack by the stove, she put the pineapple on the cutting board.
“You were right earlier. I am preoccupied.”
“With anything in particular?”
She severed the top from the pineapple with one swift slice of the knife. “You have to ask?”
“I wondered.”
“Wonder no more.”
Several knife strokes later, six perfectly uniform golden slices lay on the cutting board, fanned out like a deck of cards. She then removed a sauté pan from a lower cupboard and set it on a burner.
“Want to talk about it?” he asked.
“Not particularly.”
Dropping a generous slab of butter into the pan, she poured and shook and sprinkled various seasonings onto the pineapple slices, finishing with brown-sugar crumbles. By then, the butter had melted, and she carefully arranged the pineapple slices in the pan one by one.
While they sautéed, she prepared the rest of the lunches, which included sides and desserts. Wrapping the finished sandwiches tightly in plastic and placing them in a saddlebag-proof container that would protect them from being bounced around, she transferred everything into a paper bag for transport to the stables.
Ryan drained the last of his water. He had only a few minutes to spare before he needed to head out. The horses were saddled and waiting. All that remained was the lunch, which was now ready.
He stood and accepted the bag from Bridget’s outstretched hands, waiting until she met his gaze. “Everything looks delicious.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“My pleasure.”
“I owe you one.”
“Ah! Well, in that case—”
“It’s a figure of speech, Ryan.”
“I beg to differ. A promise is a promise.” He’d been kidding initially. The idea, however, was growing on him.
“I’m not kissing you again,” she stated.
“I was thinking of dinner.”
“Dinner.” She crossed her arms over her middle as if weighing the pros and cons. “Okay.”
“No fooling?” He hadn’t thought she’d agree that easily. “Tomorrow night then. I’ll pick you up at six.”
“Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “You can come by at six to pick up your dinner. And then take it home with you.”
“I’d rather we went out to eat.”
“You said dinner. No other conditions. Either I fix you a to-go dinner, or the deal’s off.” She smiled with satisfaction, obviously convinced she’d won this round.
Ryan wasn’t giving up. Not without a fight.
“All right. Dinner to go. That works for me.”
“Any requests?”
“A picnic. Fried chicken. Potato salad. Rolls. Deviled eggs. Some of your grandmother’s pickled asparagus. I’ll leave dessert up to you.”
She eyes slowly narrowed. “That’s a tall order.”
“And fix enough for two,” he said.
“Ryan.”
He softened his voice. “Have dinner with me, Bridget.”
“I don’t want to encourage you. We’re in different places.”
“Fear not. You won’t break my heart.”
“What if you break mine?”
He’d move heaven and earth to prevent that. “I promise, I’ll behave. We’ll just be two friends sharing a meal together at some nice outdoor location.”
She hesitated. He took that as an indication her defenses were weakening and pressed his advantage.
“It’s just a picnic. Plus, like you said, you owe me.”
“Seems a lot to repay for a simple sandwich-topping suggestion. I would have come up with something on my own.”
“Never a doubt.”
He flashed a smile. She turned away from him and began clearing the counter.
Ryan accepted defeat. It had been a long shot after all and probably for the best. He hadn’t been truthful about her not breaking his heart. He could feel one small crack starting to form even now.
But then she surprised him.
“Tomorrow evening doesn’t work for me. Are you free Thursday?”
“As it happens, I am.” He’d gladly break his prior date with the master-bathroom light fixture.
“I choose the place.”
He nodded. “Wherever you want.”
“The park near the center of town. There’s an area on the south side with tables beneath gazebos.”
The park. Made sense for a picnic, Ryan supposed, though he’d have preferred someplace more secluded and romantic. Then again, anywhere with Bridget could be romantic if he set his mind to it.
“I’ll pick you up.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Fair enough.” He’d compromise if it meant getting her away from the ranch and alone with him.
Tugging on the brim of his cowboy hat with his free hand, he headed out, taking the bag containing lunches for the trail ride with him.
He had a spring to his step the entire walk to the stables. One of the guests waiting on him commented about him being in a good mood.
He was. And if all went well on his picnic with Bridget, his good mood would last indefinitely.
CHAPTER TEN
BRIDGET ARRIVED EARLY at the park on Thursday. Thirty minutes, to be precise, because preparedness was a part of her natu
re that she seemed to have no control over. Also, because she’d been eager to avoid her grandmother and sister’s prying questions.
Both had commented on her frying chicken that afternoon and asked why. Bridget had concocted what she considered a plausible excuse—Owen’s children were arriving early for their weekend visit with their dad, and they loved fried chicken. Grandma Em and Molly’s skeptical responses let Bridget know they weren’t convinced. The timely arrival of a client had saved her from further interrogation and allowed her to finish preparing the picnic dinner undisturbed.
She wasn’t hiding anything, she told herself while unpacking food containers and arranging condiments. She was merely avoiding an awkward situation where her grandmother and sister jumped to the wrong conclusion and started needling her about why she was going on a picnic dinner with Ryan. Which they would have most certainly done, leaving her hard-pressed for an answer.
Actually, Bridget did have an answer. She just wasn’t willing to admit her reasons to anyone, much less herself. If she did, her defenses against him would crumble and leave her vulnerable.
Mostly Bridget had arrived at the park early because she wanted to have everything ready before he appeared. That way, there’d be less time for them to spend together. They could get right down to the business of eating, and eating meant less talking. Less talking meant fewer probing questions about their recent kiss.
Food often served as her shield in uncomfortable situations or a crutch when her confidence lagged. Tonight was no exception. Being self-aware enough to realize this fact about herself didn’t change her behavior. When it came to Ryan and her susceptibility to him, she needed every available means of protection.
Hearing high-pitched laughter, she glanced up from emptying the soft-sided cooler, her eyes searching until she found the source. Not far away was the playground area, where young children happily swung from bars, whooshed down slides and frolicked in the sand. Their parents supervised from conveniently placed benches or, like Bridget, the picnic tables.
Assured all was well, she returned her attention to the dinner. The menu was very traditional, as Ryan had requested. She’d controlled her desire to fancy up the food, other than the chicken. There, she used her own version of secret herbs and spices. The end result was good, if she said so herself.
Checking the lid on the last covered dish, she again scanned the playground area. Seeing her friend Frankie, who was there with her twin daughters, she waved. Frankie gave her the A-OK sign, and Bridget relaxed.
Not for long, however. There was no mistaking the tall male figure strolling toward her along the paved walkway. Broad shoulders, long, casual strides, trademark cowboy hat and self-assured air. Ryan was here.
He drew the attention of every female in the immediate vicinity, Bridget’s included. Darn it. Why couldn’t she exercise more restraint?
As he neared, she realized he was holding something at his side. A moment later, the object became clear, and she sighed. Partly from frustration and partly from the small thrill coursing through her. When was the last time a man had brought her flowers?
“These are for you,” he said and held out the colorful bouquet.
“Thank you.” She noted he’d wrapped the cut ends in a damp paper towel to keep them fresh.
“I had a little free time this afternoon,” he said, “so I trimmed the rosebushes on the side of the house. These are some of the prettiest blooms.”
Indeed, they were lovely. Bridget remembered the rosebushes from when they’d stopped at his house after the clinic to check on the vandals, and he’d given her a tour.
“How’s your hand?” she asked. “Should you be doing yard work yet?”
“I wore gloves.”
She placed the roses in a paper cup filled with water from one of the bottles she’d brought. They tilted heavily to one side, and she had to lean them against the cooler.
Without thinking, she lowered her head and inhaled. The heady scent was made more so by the fact that these weren’t just any roses. Ryan had chosen the blooms especially for her.
She straightened, her glance automatically going to Frankie at the playground. Apparently her friend had spotted Ryan giving Bridget the bouquet, because her broad smile was unmistakable.
Great. Yet another person to make excuses to about Ryan.
“I have my follow-up appointment at the clinic tomorrow,” he said matter-of-factly.
“That’s good.” She returned her attention to him. “Did you finish taking your antibiotics?”
“I did.” One corner of his very attractive mouth curved up in a teasing smile. “Any message you’d like me to give the doctor if I see him?”
“Very funny.”
“Not that I’m afraid of a little competition—”
“Can we not talk about him anymore or ever again?” She clamped a hand to her forehead.
“You’re right. That was a cheap shot.” He surveyed the spread laid out on the table, his face lighting up. “This looks incredible. You outdid yourself, as usual.”
“The chicken’s cold. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? It’s my favorite.” He lifted the lid and peeked underneath. “You made enough for a small army.”
“That’s because I’m feeding a small army.”
“I admit to having a healthy appetite. Not sure I can eat that much.”
Bridget cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered, “Cody. Marisa. Willa. Get a move on. Dinner’s ready.”
In the playground area, three small heads popped up.
“We’re digging a ditch,” Cody answered, a pail and shovel in his hand.
“You can go back to playing after we eat. And bring Popeye with you,” she added.
Frankie walked to where the children were digging their ditch alongside her twin daughters. She’d been keeping an eye on Bridget’s charges as a favor while she readied the picnic dinner.
Cody ran ahead to fetch the pony standing outside the playground area. He’d been tied but at some point his lead rope came undone. He’d wandered all of four feet, to a slightly grassier spot, where he’d stayed, grazing happily.
Even in this section of the equine-friendly town park, horses could be found carrying their young charges from one place to another or standing idly by and munching on the grass. Most riders, however, were using the designated bridle path circling the park. The gorgeous spring evening was ideal for just such an activity. In the riding arena on the other side of the large green belt, hunter-jumpers horses sailed over fences arranged in intricate patterns.
At the boy’s approach, the pony raised his head and pricked his ears. A minute later, he was following obediently behind Cody at a slow trot. The girls brought up the rear, holding hands and running on their short legs.
“Let me guess,” Ryan said. “Owen’s kids?”
“Yes.” Bridget indicated for him to sit. “They’re off school tomorrow—something about a teacher conference—so Owen has them an extra day this weekend. He and Molly are at the town council meeting. They asked me to babysit, and I said yes. It was their idea to bring Popeye along.”
Ryan eyed Bridget suspiciously as he hoisted one long leg over the table’s bench seat and sat. “You knew you were babysitting the other day when you agreed to this.”
She lifted a shoulder.
“I should be mad,” he said.
“Aren’t you?”
By then, the children were upon them, red-cheeked from exertion and brimming with curiosity about Ryan. Cody had dropped Popeye’s reins a few feet away from the table. The pony didn’t appear inclined to wander. The grass here was as tasty as the patch by the playground.
“Hi, kids!” Ryan flashed a friendly grin. “What’s going on?”
“Who are you?” Cody demanded.
The girls were considerably shier and remained w
here they were at the end of the table. Willa had recently turned two and Marisa would be four this summer. At almost six, and the oldest, Cody was the self-appointed spokesman for the trio.
“I’m Ryan. I work at Sweetheart Ranch.”
“With Molly and me,” Bridget added.
Cody was inspecting the food and, like Ryan, lifting lids and covers. Marisa and Willa still hadn’t moved and peered at Ryan with avid interest.
“Come over here, pal.” Ryan hitched his chin at Cody and patted the empty spot beside him. “Park yourself next to me. Your sisters can sit with Bridget.”
“Yeah!” The boy hopped onto the bench seat beside Ryan. “Girls on that side, boys on this side.”
“For now.” Ryan grinned down at him. “Trust me, one of these days when you’re older, you’ll change your mind.” When Bridget snorted, he chuckled. “I’m not wrong.”
His easy, likeable manner eventually won over the girls, too, as easily as it had Bridget. Who’d have guessed he was good with kids? Then again, he did have a lot of nieces and nephews.
She considered herself lucky not to be sitting next to him. Otherwise, she’d surely fall further under his spell.
But the instant she sat, she realized her mistake. Sitting across from him, staring at his face throughout the entire meal, was just as difficult as having his heart-fluttering presence beside her.
Who was she kidding? Staring at Ryan wasn’t a hardship. Not at all.
* * *
RYAN FOUND A like mind in young Cody. Or, should he say a like stomach? As Bridget distributed the plates, both Ryan and Cody filled theirs to overflowing.
The girls were fussy eaters and needed a bit of encouragement. Willa, it turned out, detested baked beans. Her older sister, Marisa, didn’t want any potato salad because of the “red stuff” in it, which was actually diced red peppers.
“That’s the best part,” Ryan exclaimed.
Nobody’s fool, she narrowed her gaze at him.
“Haven’t you ever heard that peppers make your hair curly? Just look at Bridget’s. She got her curly hair from peppers.”
He’d heard his sister use this fabrication with her daughters, only the food they didn’t want to eat was bread crust.
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