by Stacy Finz
Clay wondered if Justin was behaving himself on the Yosemite trip and sent up silent thanks that it was an all-boys camp. When he got home, Clay would try to do something special with him. Just the two of them.
Maybe he could get the kid to like him again.
He tried to persuade Maddy to go to bed. “I’ll man the phone. You get some shut-eye.”
But she wouldn’t hear of it and for the next half hour they sat, watching the clock. When the phone finally rang, it was Rhys. He had news.
The next time Emily saw Clay he was outside the Ponderosa. She had come into town to stock up on ingredients, decided to stop off at the restaurant for a bite, and had nearly collided with him on the street, where she now stood feeling incredibly awkward.
Ever since he’d asked her to take a ride in his airplane, she’d been doing her best to avoid him. Not easy, given that he lived a mere stone’s throw away and routinely rode Big Red past the barn on his way to the stable.
Maybe he hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care, because he still greeted her warmly. Unfortunately, she wasn’t looking her best, having left the house in a sundress that resembled a floral tent. Not until she’d caught her reflection in one of the shop windows had she realized how hideous she looked. She really needed to get some new clothes that fit her.
Clay, on the other hand, had shed his usual uniform of jeans and a Western shirt in favor of a dark suit. It fit him extremely well—the jacket hugging a pair of broad shoulders and tapering beautifully at his trim waist. She suspected the suit was custom-made.
“What has you all dressed up?” she asked brightly.
“A funeral,” he answered, and she blanched.
“Oh jeez,” she stuttered. “That was incredibly tactless of me. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t know.” He waved off her embarrassment. “The police chief’s dad died. You hear the sirens coming down our road several nights ago?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. At the time I didn’t give it a lot of thought. I guess living in the city desensitizes you to police cars and ambulances. Oh, how awful. I’m so sorry.”
“He had Alzheimer’s and had been suffering for a while,” he said. “Still, the loss has been rough.”
“Of course it has. So they live up the road from us?”
“Yup,” he said.
“Well, please send the chief my condolences.”
“Tell him yourself. After the funeral they’re having people over to the house.” Clay looked at his watch. “It’s a short service, so in about two hours or so.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t feel right. I don’t even know them.”
“It’s a small town, Emily. Something bad happens we all come calling. That’s the way it works here.”
It was a nice sentiment, but Emily bristled at Clay’s naïveté. Neighbors came “calling” for one reason—to sate their morbid curiosity so they could go home and pass judgment.
Or go on television.
When Hope went missing, people Emily had never met lined up to speak with the press. Suddenly a woman who went to the same salon or a man who served on the same library committee knew everything about her.
“What’s the address?” she asked, planning to at least drop off a dish. The one and only time she’d met the police chief, he’d been very kind to her.
Clay gave her directions to Rhys’s house and called to Justin and Cody that it was time to go. They’d been playing catch in the square’s greenbelt. She headed to her van and in the side-view mirror caught him checking out her legs as she climbed into the driver’s seat. She tried to delude herself that she’d only imagined it, but she hadn’t gotten so out of practice that she didn’t know when a man was ogling her.
It didn’t surprise her that Clay had an eye for women. What did surprise her was that she had an eye for Clay.
She tried not to think about it on the drive home, but certain female parts—ones she thought long dead—wouldn’t let her forget the way those blue eyes slid over her calves and up her thighs.
The minute she got back to the barn, Emily started on a lasagna for the chief and his wife. Who didn’t love lasagna? And it certainly was a nice reprieve from French food. She figured the dish would be done baking by the time people began arriving at the chief’s house from the funeral.
But before she brought the lasagna over, she wanted to change into something more subdued than Laura-Ashley-threw-up. Clearly, she’d been drunk when she bought the sundress. And a few sizes larger.
If she had to make a brief appearance at this shindig, she wanted to at least look suitable. She stood at the entrance of her closet, scanning the contents for what seemed like forever. Her everyday wardrobe consisted mostly of shapeless khakis, baggy jeans, and loose blouses. Eventually, she landed on a black sheath dress. Emily pulled it off the hanger, snugged it against her body, and looked inside for a label. Size two. She’d always been a six and wondered where the dress had come from. Perhaps it had been a gift from her mother, who had a penchant for buying clothes a size or more too small.
She pulled off the one she had on, opened the back of the sheath and walked into it. With the zipper pulled up, the dress fit like a glove. To make sure, Emily checked in the full-length mirror. Not bad. She didn’t even need Spanx.
In a cosmetic bag, Emily rooted around for eye makeup and blush. With her hair swept up and a little color, she’d look presentable enough to deliver the food, pay her respects, and leave. She pulled the lasagna out of the oven, put it in an insulated carrier, slipped her feet into a pair of strappy sandals, and headed to her van. According to Clay, Emily could walk the short distance to the chief’s house, but she wanted to be able to make a quick getaway once she got there.
She found the address on a birdhouse mailbox at the bottom of a brick driveway near the end of McCreedy Road. Cars and trucks already cluttered both sides of the narrow lane. So Emily pulled to the end of the road, parking the van near a fire trail, and hiked to the house. She let out a little sigh when she saw the white Victorian with its wide wraparound porch and pretty English garden. It was straight out of a storybook and reminded Emily a little of the Lumber Baron.
The chief’s wife stood at the front door, talking to a burly fellow who held a bouquet of Stargazer lilies in his fist.
“Just come in, Colin, and have something to eat,” the chief’s wife coaxed.
“Not my thing.” Colin rocked on his feet, shoving his free hand inside the pocket of his jeans. “But tell Rhys I’m real sorry about Shep. I’m going to miss the old coot.” He handed her the flowers and started down the stairs.
“This was very thoughtful of you,” she called after him, holding up the bouquet.
Colin just shrugged, put on a helmet, straddled a motorcycle on the edge of the driveway, and rode away. The chief’s wife was just about to go back inside the house when she spotted Emily.
They’d been introduced at the police station, but the meeting had been so brief that Emily couldn’t remember her name. “I’m Em—”
“Emily, of course. I’m Maddy. We met a few weeks ago, when you came into the police station.” She waited for Emily to come up onto the porch and invited her to come inside the house.
“I don’t want to intrude. I just came to wish you and your husband my deepest condolences and bring you a lasagna.” She handed Maddy the dish.
“Oh,” Maddy said, sniffing the lasagna. “It smells wonderful. But you have to at least come in and fix yourself a plate. There is so much food. And everyone’s anxious to meet you.”
Although Colin had gotten away with not going in, Emily didn’t think it would be polite to dash off. So she let Maddy usher her into the foyer and lead her to an impressive dining room, where a few tables had been laid out with enough food to feed the entire town. People gathered, holding drinks and plates in their hands, talking in small clusters, the overflow spilling into the great room.
A woman Emily recognized as one of the owners of the Ponderosa took the li
lies from Maddy and returned them a short time later arranged in a vase, which she placed in the center of one of the tables.
Maddy called to her husband, “Rhys, come say hi to our new neighbor.”
Heads turned and Emily felt the gazes of everyone in the room on her, including Clay’s. He leaned against a corner wall, a drink in one hand, talking with a gorgeous brunette.
“Thanks for coming.” Rhys extended his hand, and Emily saw his handsome face wreathed in exhaustion. And sadness.
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” she said.
“I appreciate it.”
“Emily brought a lasagna,” Maddy said. “Wasn’t that nice of her?”
“Very. Thank you, Emily. You didn’t have to do that.” Before he could say more, a young woman who looked a lot like the chief, tugged him away.
“That’s Lina, Rhys’s sister,” Maddy said, her expression filled with tenderness. “She and her little brother, Sam, just lost their mother. And now Shep.”
“Cody’s friend, Sam?” Emily asked, remembering about the roadside memorial.
“Yes.” Maddy brightened. “You’ve met him?”
“No, but Cody told me about him.” She glanced around for Clay’s youngest.
“They’re in Sam’s room with Justin, playing video games,” Maddy said.
Just then a blond woman in a pair of black capri pants and high heels clicked her way across the hardwood floor and sidled up beside them, stuffing her mouth with a deviled egg. “Mmm, these are good,” she said.
“Aren’t they yours?” Maddy asked, chuckling.
“Of course they’re mine. I’m the deviled-egg queen.” She turned to Emily. “You must be the famous cookbook lady. I’m Donna Thurston. My place is the Bun Boy. Ethel says you might be interested in joining our cooking club, the Baker’s Dozen?”
She didn’t let Emily get a word in, just kept up a steady stream of conversation. “How do you like living with the most eligible bachelor in town?” And by the grace of God, paused, giving Emily a chance to respond.
“Uh, I don’t live with him. I live on the property . . . in an old converted barn. People know that, right?”
“Of course,” Donna said. “But most of the women in town would give their eyeteeth to be in your position . . . especially that one.” She pointedly nudged her chin in the direction of the brunette.
“Donna!” Maddy hushed her.
“Well, it’s true. Look at her; she’s slobbering all over him. At a funeral reception, no less.”
Maddy shook her head and told Emily in a soft voice, “Women in this town are very proprietary about Clay. It’s a little creepy.”
Donna continued to eye the brunette. “What do you think of her?”
“I’ve only met her a few times since she bought that big place up on Freedom Ranch Road.” Maddy turned to Emily. “She owns a huge sportswear company in the Bay Area and only comes up on weekends. But she seems very nice.”
“And on the make,” Donna added.
She was hanging on Clay’s every word, that was for sure. And he seemed to be just as smitten. If they kept it up, Emily imagined they’d have to leave soon to get a room.
“Come on,” Donna said to Emily. “I’ll introduce you to some of the Baker’s Dozen.” She shooed Maddy away. “You go mingle.”
Maddy gave her a warning look. “I swear, Donna, do not scare her.”
Actually, Emily was rather enjoying Donna. In an odd sort of way, she reminded her of Marge, Emily’s agent. When Maddy walked away, Emily whispered, “Don’t worry. I don’t scare that easy.”
“I could tell that about you right away,” Donna said, and pulled her into the kitchen, where they nearly collided with a man balancing a couple of plates piled high with food. “Nate, you meet Emily yet? She’s living over at McCreedy Ranch.”
Nate went to shake her hand, but thought better of it. “Sorry—hands full.”
“Nate is Maddy’s brother. They own the Lumber Baron together.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, and noticed that he was studying her.
“Have we met before?” he asked. “You look awfully familiar.”
She inwardly winced, hoping that Nate wouldn’t remember where he recognized her from.
“She’s a famous cookbook author,” Donna said.
“Yeah?” He smiled but continued to scrutinize her. Emily thought he was an extremely nice-looking man. “I’ve got to find Sophie.” He motioned to the plates. “She’s eating for two now. Welcome to Nugget.”
“I’m sorry for your sister’s loss,” she called as he walked away.
“He’s the baby daddy of the lesbian couple who owns the Ponderosa,” Donna said. “But I’m pretty sure he’s single.”
Emily decided not to touch any part of that.
At the center island, three women worked in perfect unison plating hors d’oeuvres and shuffling cookie sheets and casserole dishes in and out of the oven.
“Ladies, this is Emily Mathews,” Donna announced.
Emily recognized one of the women as Ethel from the Nugget Market. The other two introduced themselves as Grace Miller and Amanda Gaitlin. Amanda was the youngest of the bunch, somewhere close to Emily’s age. She thought Donna must be in her fifties, with the other two hovering near their mid-sixties.
“Clay says you’re a big-time cookbook writer from San Francisco,” Grace said. “We’d love to have you at the next Baker’s Dozen meeting.”
“Yeah.” Emily took in a breath. “Clay might have exaggerated a bit. I’m an editor, not an author.”
“So you haven’t written any cookbooks?” Amanda asked, clearly disappointed.
“Uh,” Emily hedged, “I’m more like a ghostwriter.”
“What’s that?” Amanda asked.
“It means she writes the book and someone else sticks his or her name on it,” Donna said, and nailed it in one. “Anyone famous, like from the Food Network?”
“Yep,” Emily said. “But I’ve signed confidentiality agreements.”
“Come on, just give us hint,” Amanda said.
“Can’t. Sorry.”
“You girls quit harassing Emily.” Ethel came to her rescue. “Honey, if you signed a contract, you stick to your guns. No one’s getting sued in our town.”
The women continued to work, artfully arranging trays and platters and sending them out with flawless timing. Seriously, they could run their own catering business, they were that good.
“Did the Baker’s Dozen make the food?” Emily asked, positioning herself in front of the oven to help with heating duties. Out of habit, she tasted a little bit of everything to make sure it was hot, shuffling trays back and forth, helping to expedite the process.
“I’d say everyone in town brought something,” Ethel said. “But we organized it. The Baker’s Dozen is Nugget’s unofficial chuck wagon.”
“So many old folks in Nugget that our specialty is funerals,” Donna joked.
“Were you close to the deceased?” Emily asked.
“Hell no,” Donna blurted. “None of us could stand the asshole.”
“For goodness’ sake, Donna,” Ethel scolded. “Do you always have to say the first thought that pops into your head?”
“Shep wasn’t the nicest man,” Grace quietly explained to Emily. “But he left three wonderful children. Rhys is the best police chief we’ve ever had and those two half siblings of his are good as gold.”
“Justin McCreedy sure could take a page from those two,” Ethel said. “Last week Stu caught the boy shoplifting in the store.”
“Uh-oh.” Amanda straightened from refilling a vegetable platter. “Did you tell Clay?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t have the heart. It was just a pack of Hostess powdered doughnuts. I gave him a talking-to and let him go.”
“You need to tell him,” Amanda said. “That boy is getting out of control. My daughter says she sees him smoking all over town. Clay is either clueless, or is in—”
“Or what?” Of course Clay chose that very moment to walk into the kitchen. He gave Emily a quick head-to-toe perusal before turning his attention back to Amanda. “We’ve known each other our whole lives, so if you’ve got something to say about me and my son, spill it.”
Emily wanted to get out of the kitchen. It had gotten a little too hot for comfort.
Amanda stepped around the island, grabbed Clay by the collar, and pulled him down for a kiss. “I love you like a brother, but Justin needs a strong hand. I’m worried about him, Clay.”
Clay tipped his head back against the refrigerator and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “He’s mourning his mother, Mandy. He’s mourning the fact that for the last fifteen years I was a piece-of-shit father.”
Emily sucked in a breath. It seemed she had much more in common with her cowboy landlord than she knew.
The whole ride home from the funeral reception Clay was pissed. He was pissed that he still didn’t have a handle on his troubled son.
He was pissed that Shep was dead. The old man might’ve been a selfish bastard, but Rhys still needed time to patch up the past with him. He needed closure.
Clay was particularly pissed that he was using words like “closure.”
But he was mostly pissed that Emily had looked so damned good in that dress. How on earth had he called that one so wrong?
Okay, she was far from built. But the woman was a curvy little package. Pretty legs, which he’d noticed earlier in the day. Small breasts, but they looked firm and high. Tiny waist.
She was definitely not his type, too plain and too aloof. But he had to admit that when he’d first seen her walk into the room, his pants had grown tight and he’d suddenly wanted to get his hands up that black dress. He wondered why she’d been hiding herself like that.
Lauren, on the other hand, didn’t hide anything. The woman knew how to play up her figure. Stacked and stunning, she could stop traffic. Now there was a woman who deserved his focus. And she’d definitely made known her interest in him.
Maybe if he asked nice enough, he could get Emily to sit with the boys and take Lauren to Reno.