“Jess, you’re from New York, is that right?” Garrett sat directly across from her. “You’ll find it a lot less crowded out here.”
She nodded. “Wyoming has the smallest population per square mile of any state, doesn’t it? I’m not used to walking around without dodging other people.”
“When the teenagers congregate, you can find yourself doing some dodging.” Ford winked at her. His dark gold hair glinted under the light of the chandelier. “They take up a lot more room than you might expect. Especially now that they’re more comfortable with the place.”
“How long has your program been operating?” Surely that would be a safe topic, after the disaster she’d created with Susannah.
“This is the first year,” he said. “And we’re in week three. The first days were pretty rough—”
“Try ‘impossible,’” Dylan said in a low voice.
Garrett glared at him. “We got through them. And things get better every day.”
“Till the next disaster,” Dylan nodded, as if he agreed. “You can bet there will be one.”
Garrett started to respond, but Wyatt spoke first. “What about this cattle drive you’re planning to take the kids on?” His deep voice broke up the tension. “Where do you intend to go?”
Jess couldn’t follow the references to different fields and pastures and fence lines and gates, but the brothers evidently reached a consensus about the route they’d be following with kids and cows. Susannah and Amber would be driving to meet them on the way with lunch.
“Wyatt can ride with you to give you directions,” Ford said. “Think that’ll work, Boss?”
“Sure.” His glance across the table seemed almost shy. “If Susannah doesn’t mind.”
She gave him a soft smile. “Of course not.”
Jess raised her hand. “Can I ride in the truck, too? I’d hate to miss the excitement.”
Dylan frowned at her. “Now, I was planning to teach you to ride directly after dinner. You should be ready to join us on horseback by Friday.”
Ford grinned. “In case that doesn’t work out, you’re certainly welcome to a seat in the truck.”
“Thank goodness,” Jess said with relief, and earned a general laugh.
Susannah stirred in her chair. “I’m amazed at how well you all understand the land and its character. What a privilege, to take care of your own piece of the earth.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’ll clear the dishes. Garrett, the ingredients for ice cream are ready.”
Jess started to rise. “Let me help.”
But Dylan put his fingers over hers on the table. “Not a chance. You relax.” The skin-to-skin contact shocked them both, and they jerked their hands apart again. He cleared his throat and reached for her plate. “We’ve got minions to spare.”
“Everybody should have minions,” she said, and he smiled without meeting her eyes. Jess realized she was holding the hand he’d touched in her other palm, and quickly laced her fingers together, setting both hands on the table.
Caroline appeared in the doorway of the dining room. “The kids are ready for ice cream,” she said. “More than ready.” To Jess, she said, “Come outside and meet everybody. They’re pretty mellow after dinner.”
Outside, a group of boys was playing catch in the open space in front of the ranch house. Three girls sat on the floor of the front porch staring at their phones. “Lizzie Hanson, Becky Rush and Lena Smith,” Caroline said, indicating which name belonged to whom. “Girls, this is Jess Granger. She’s a journalist who’s come to write an article about Mr. Dylan.”
Lizzie, a slender blonde wearing far more makeup than necessary, looked up from her phone. “A journalist? You mean, a writer?”
Jess nodded. “Yes. I write articles for a magazine.”
“Did you have to go to school for a long time to do that?”
“Four years of college.”
The girl heaved a sigh. “That’s a lot.”
Redheaded Becky nudged Lizzie with an elbow. “You could do it. You like to write.”
“Do you?” Jess sat in the nearby rocking chair. “What do you write?”
Lizzie shrugged one shoulder. “Just stuff. Things I make up.”
“Well, that’s the way to start. The more you write, the better you get at it.” She caught Lena’s gaze. “You were riding the bucking barrel this afternoon, weren’t you? That’s pretty impressive.”
The girl shrugged. “It’s fun. Women can do the same things men do.”
“Absolutely.” Jess grinned at Caroline when Lena’s attention returned to her typing. “Are the teenagers churning the ice cream?”
“That’s the plan.”
“I’ve seen pictures,” Jess confessed. “But I’ve never actually eaten homemade ice cream.”
“That’s okay,” Becky told her, with a grin. “I never had any till I came here, either. But it’s awesome.”
“Thanks.” Jess grinned back at the friendly girl. She really didn’t seem to be the troublesome type.
Garrett had carried the ice-cream maker out to the area in front of the porch and was adding ice and salt to the bucket. “Okay, guys,” he called. “I need some strong arms over here.”
The boys sauntered toward the porch. “Not exactly a stampede,” Jess commented. “Typical adolescents.”
“They wouldn’t want you to believe they were enthusiastic.” Caroline smiled while shaking her head. “Cooperation is not cool.”
“How well I remember.” Jess caught Caroline’s quick glance in her direction, but she didn’t say anything else. She didn’t want her memories to disrupt the peaceful evening.
Thomas, one of the boys she’d watched this afternoon, took the first shift on the ice-cream crank. Caroline introduced another boy, Justino, who gave her a solemn “Hi,” before sitting down next to Lena. They immediately became completely absorbed in each other, locking gazes and murmuring a conversation for their ears alone.
Jess looked at Caroline with a raised eyebrow.
“They kept it a secret,” Caroline said quietly, “until after they got here. Ford and I have been standing guard duty to be sure they stay where they’re supposed to be after lights-out.” She gave a mischievous grin. “That has its pluses and minuses.”
Ford opened the screen door at that moment and came to stand beside Caroline. Although they didn’t touch, the meeting of their gazes was as warm as a hug.
With an uncomfortable fluttering in her chest, Jess shifted her attention to the ice-cream process.
“It’s getting hard,” Marcos said.
“Let me,” Thomas ordered. “You been doing it forever.”
Marcos shook his head. “You started. I’m still doin’ okay.”
The other boy pushed at his shoulder. “Give somebody else a chance.”
Marcos rounded on him, fists clenched.
Seeming to come from out of nowhere, Dylan stepped between them. “It’s my turn, guys. Stand aside.”
Both boys retreated as Dylan bent over the ice-cream churn. He grabbed the handle but groaned as he cranked it. “This is hard. Can’t be too much longer till it’s done.”
Jess couldn’t decide if he was faking it to make the boys feel better. He did continue to rotate the handle for a while. But he’d averted a fight. She had to admire his presence of mind.
Once the churn was open, he came across the porch to hand her one of the two bowls he carried. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks.” She sampled cautiously, discovering a rich, smooth treat that rivaled any vanilla ice cream she’d ever tasted. “Wow. You must have the magic touch.”
“A great recipe helps.” Dylan settled into the rocker beside hers. “Lots of eggs and sugar and cream. Susannah makes a mean custard.”
“Mmm.” Jess didn’t want to confess she didn’t understand what he meant.
“What’s your favorite flavor?” he asked.
“At home by myself with a movie? Mint chocolate chip. For my birthday, I go to a
shop in Brooklyn and order Earl Grey tea ice cream. How about you?”
“As far as I’m concerned, the more chocolate, the better. Dark chocolate with dark chocolate chunks and dark chocolate syrup. On a dark chocolate brownie.”
Jess found herself watching as he licked his spoon clean. Swallowing hard, she shifted her gaze to the darkness beyond the reach of the porch light. “I believe I get the idea.”
Most of the kids had settled down separately to eat their dessert, except for Justino and Lena, who sat hip to hip. Susannah Bradley had brought Amber outside to sit on the other side of the porch, where they were joined by a boy Jess hadn’t seen this afternoon.
“That’s her son, Nate,” Dylan said, when she asked. “He’s a natural horseman—has taken to riding like he was born in the saddle. Speaking of which...” He grinned at her. “Are you ready for your riding lesson? The moon’s rising.”
She decided to call his bluff. Standing up, she said, “Sure. Let’s go.”
“Great.” If he was surprised, it didn’t show. “I’ll take our dishes inside.”
In a moment, he reappeared. “Right this way, ma’am.”
As they walked away from the house, she frowned at him. “Do I remind you of your mother?”
“I don’t remember much about my mother. She died when I was six.” His solemn expression revealed more than he probably realized. “Why?”
“You called me ‘ma’am.’” Now she felt foolish. “I’m not that old.”
“Sorry. It’s just a habit—we tend to say it to women of any age out here.” He sent her a smile. “I’ll try to remember you’re sensitive about that.”
“I’m not sensitive.”
Dylan gave a snort.
“Just accurate,” she insisted. “I’m only thirty-five.” Eight years older than he was, in fact, which was another reason to keep their relationship strictly platonic. Except her reactions to him weren’t following that rule.
Jess decided to change the subject. This was supposed to be an interview, after all. “I understand both your parents passed away when you were all quite young.”
He nodded without turning his head. “Wyatt was sixteen and I was eight when our dad died.”
“You didn’t have family to take you in?”
“Not that we knew of.” He shrugged one shoulder. “We did okay by ourselves.”
“Have you always lived on the Circle M?”
“Not in the beginning. Wyatt got a job with the owner, Henry MacPherson. We all eventually came here to live and work.”
They reached the top of the hill and headed toward the barn. Dylan strode ahead to reach inside the big, open door, and light poured out into the evening.
Jess stepped through and then stopped in surprise. “I’ve never been in a working barn before. In fact, this is only the second barn I’ve ever entered in my life.” A high-ceilinged aisle stretched along the side of the building, its beams and paneling aged to a rich, deep brown. She took a deep breath. “What is that sweet smell? Kind of grassy, only...more, somehow.”
“Hay.” Dylan pointed up to a loft filled with stacks of rectangular bundles. “About five hundred bales of grass hay.”
“Ah. Bales. No wonder horses enjoy eating it. Must be delicious.” Walking forward, she started down a cross-aisle with partially enclosed rooms on each side. The lower halves of the walls were built of boards, but the upper halves consisted of iron bars. The entrance to each room was a sliding door. “These are stalls where the horses stay?”
Dylan had followed her. “Yes, they’re stalls, though we don’t usually keep the horses in here unless they’re hurt or sick. They prefer being out to roam around.”
Along the rear of the barn were compartments with full walls and regular doors. “Feed room,” her guide explained, showing her a space that resembled a kitchen, minus the oven and dishwasher. He opened another door. “Tack room—for saddles and bridles, horse equipment in general.”
“Oh, wow.” Rows of saddles lined one wall, with racks for bridles on another. Jess took a deep breath. “I love the scent of leather. Mixed with hay, it’s a very evocative aroma.” Sensuous, even. But she kept that impression to herself.
“The essence of a barn, as far as I’m concerned.”
When they walked around the corner, they arrived at the other end of the aisle from where they’d started. A double half door looked out into a large dirt area ringed by a wooden fence. “That’s the corral,” Dylan said. “The site of your riding lesson.”
Jess leaned her arms on the top of the door, relaxing into the warm, breezy night. “Where’s my horse?”
He joined her to gaze out into the darkness. “On the other side of the fence, in the pasture.”
“And this full moon you talked about?” The indigo sky was dotted with more stars than she’d ever witnessed. “I’m not finding it.”
Leaning over the top of the door, he pretended to search. “Yeah. That’s a problem.”
“I guess I’ll settle for a barn tour instead of a riding lesson by moonlight.” Facing into the barn again, she leaned against the door and surveyed the interior of the building. “It’s beautiful. And so neat. No dust or dirt anywhere.”
“Old Henry MacPherson was a bear about keeping the place tidy. Now it’s second nature to all of us.”
“He didn’t have a family?”
“No kids, and his wife died in her fifties. We’re lucky he took us on after our dad died.”
“That must have been especially tough, since you’d already lost your mom.”
“Wyatt kept us together. He’s one determined cowboy.” Dylan leaned sideways against the door, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze intent on her face. “But it sounds as if you were on your own. No brothers or sisters?”
Her whole body tensed. “Is this my interrogation?”
He frowned at her. “I was thinking of it as getting to know you.”
Jess blew out a short breath. “No siblings by birth. Some of the families I stayed with had more than one kid.”
“I guess it would be hard to get close to anyone if you weren’t sure how long you’d be staying.”
This was not something she ever talked about. “Yes.”
“Was this in New York?”
“I grew up in Connecticut. Different towns, depending on who I was living with.”
“Do you still enjoy snow?”
She couldn’t help laughing at the question. “I do, as a matter of fact. It makes the world all fresh and clean, at least for a little while.”
“Me, too.” He was quiet for a moment. “So you went to college, got your degree and now you’re a staff reporter for a glossy, upscale magazine.”
Jess let herself relax again. “Pretty much, I suppose. If you skip all the unsuccessful rags I wrote for during the first eight years or so.”
Dylan’s brown gaze focused intently on her face. “Where did you get your drive to succeed? We had Wyatt—he was just born responsible, I guess, and he made sure the rest of us grew up that way. Now we’re trying to give these camp kids a chance to understand how they can succeed in life. Who did that for you?”
“Nobody did that for me.” The confession broke some kind of dam inside her. She gripped her hands together, trying for control. “Sometimes they made the effort, but I wasn’t ready. Or I’d get kicked back to my mother, have to start taking care of her again. One couple didn’t have time—six kids in a two-bedroom house make for a lot of work. One couple was only in it for the check. And I was never in the same school long enough to get a teacher on my side.”
When Dylan started to speak, she held up a hand. “I raised myself, reading stories that showed me how kids are supposed to grow up. Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary, Ann Martin and Madeleine L’Engle—I guess you could say they raised me. I grew up to be a writer because they showed me how to live. Libraries were my true home.”
Pushing away from the door, she stalked down the aisle toward the front of the barn.
/> “Jess, wait.”
She stopped halfway but didn’t turn around. “I never saw ice cream made at home. Till tonight.” Shaking her head, she waved him away and stepped out into the night.
Chapter Three
Dylan let her get about halfway down the hill before he went after her. “Jess, hold up.”
She didn’t stop until he grasped her upper arm. By then they’d reached the front porch. Fortunately, the crowd had dispersed and there was no one to watch.
“Haven’t you heard enough?” Her hoarse voice held tears. “What else do you want?”
“Just to make sure you’re okay.”
Her shoulders lifted on a deep breath. “Of course. More courtly manners from the Marshall brothers. ‘Chivalry ’R Us.’”
“That’s right.” Under his palm, her arm was slender, but the muscle was strong. “Why don’t we sit down for a few minutes?”
Without answering, she stepped up onto the porch. Dylan let her go, though he wasn’t sure she would sit down until she actually did so. He dropped into the chair next to her and set his elbows on the arms. “You owe me one.”
She sent him a sideways glance. “One what?”
“One probing question requiring a self-immolating answer.”
That got a ghost of a laugh. “Oh, good. I’ll give it some serious consideration.”
“It’s a golden opportunity.”
“I’m sure. You were never very open with interviewers back then. Always the same flip answers.”
“They didn’t want to hear the truth.”
“I would have.”
“Maybe. And then you could have torpedoed my brilliant career.”
“Instead, you did it yourself.” The ensuing silence was filled with expectation.
Dylan understood he had only himself to blame for the direction the conversation had taken. But no matter how beautiful Jess Granger might be—and she was damn beautiful, with light from the house windows glinting on her hair and shining in her eyes—he wasn’t about to tell her everything.
“Artists change direction all the time. I’d said all I wanted to with that approach.”
She raised one eyebrow. “After five years? When you were only twenty-five?”
A Husband in Wyoming Page 4