Sweet Mountain Rancher

by Loree Lough

  “Except for the time one of Zach’s July Fourth rockets landed in the front seat of your convertible. I don’t recall much laughing that day.”

  “Oh, my. I’d nearly forgotten about that.” She giggled. “Duke bought seat covers and went right back to the banquet table.” A wistful sigh punctuated the memory. “I hated missing last year’s shindig. With any luck, I’ll be at this one.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Her attendance at the annual barbecue had been sketchy since Duke’s passing, and it was Nate’s guess that Cora didn’t know what to talk about once her always-a-candidate husband was gone. At the conclusion of last year’s event, Nate had overheard his mother and aunts gossiping about Cora. They didn’t know whether to blame depression or loneliness for the fact that she’d traded her shoulder-length blond bob for a sleek gray boy cut. The only hairdo Nate could name was the ponytail, worn by Hank and her barrel-racing friends.

  “So how was your world cruise?” Eden opened two boxes of spaghetti noodles. “You took lots of great pictures, I hope, especially of those sunny Mediterranean islands.”

  She answered with a dismissive wave before peeking into the sauce pot. “I do declare, Eden Quinn, I know a restaurant chef or two who’d pay handsomely for this recipe.”

  Dumping the pasta into boiling water, Eden harrumphed. “Unless it’s enough to pay off this house, I might as well hold on to it.”

  “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry. I heard what Brett is planning. Believe me, if I thought for a minute that hard-hearted son of mine would listen, I’d talk him out of selling the place. Although, the way I understand it, the buyer approached him. Not that the information does you much good.”

  Nate had never been impressed by the one-liners that accompanied Brett’s boisterous glad-handing.

  Eden stirred the pasta. “Cora is one of our best supporters,” Eden told Nate. “More than once, her contributions have kept the proverbial wolves from the door.”

  All except the wolf who called Cora Mom, Nate thought.

  Travis, Latimer’s oldest resident, sauntered into the room. “Aw, man,” he said to Nate, “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

  “Good to see you, too… I think.”

  “No, what I mean is, thanks to you I’ll probably get stuck with dishes tonight.” He groaned. “Or worse, I’ll have to empty all the trash cans and drag the big one to the curb.”

  “Sorry, buddy. If I’d known…” Nate didn’t finish. No matter what time he’d arrived, one of the boys would have gotten stuck with what they saw as obnoxious chores.

  “Hey. What happened to your hand? Horse bite?”

  The question reminded Nate of the boys’ visit to the Double M, when Ben asked permission to feed “his” horse a sugar cube. Before Nate could tell him to balance it on a flat, open palm, Ben held it out…between his thumb and forefinger. Embarrassed, Ben had hidden the swollen, bruised digits until Cody pointed them out.

  “Same one that bit Ben?”

  “Wasn’t a horse bite,” he said. “And that only happened because—”

  “I know, I know,” Cody said. “It wouldn’t have happened if Ben used his head for something other than to hold up his eyeglasses.”

  “Now, now,” Eden inserted. “If Ben is guilty of anything, it’s impatience. He should have waited for Nate to show him the proper way to feed sugar cubes to horses.”

  Travis snorted. “Everybody knows you don’t go sticking your fingers into an animal’s mouth. Dogs, cats, hamsters…heck, even a canary will peck ya if you’re not careful.”

  “Well, Ben knows better now,” Nate said. “And so do the rest of you.”

  “So what did happen to your hand?” Travis wanted to know.

  Nate flexed his fingers. “Got into a brawl with some pigheaded barbed wire, and the wire won.”

  “Oh, Eden,” Cora cooed, bracelets jangling as she clasped many-ringed hands under her chin. “Isn’t he just adorable! You really ought to snap him up before…” She faced Nate and narrowed her eyes. “Say. Just exactly why isn’t a good-lookin’, successful fella like you hitched?”

  A moment of prickly silence ticked by, and then Kirk joined them in the kitchen.

  “Man,” he said, rubbing his palms together, “this place smells like an Italian restaurant. When do we eat?” His gaze traveled the room, from Eden’s wide-eyed face to Cora’s amused grin.

  “What?” he said, glancing over one shoulder. “Do I have toilet paper stuck to my shoe or something?”

  Travis snickered behind one hand. “No. Wasn’t you who made everybody clam up. That happened ’cause Miss Cora wanted to know why Nate isn’t marr—”

  “Things are just about ready for the table,” Eden interrupted. “Why don’t we eat early tonight, and I’ll throw a pizza in the oven later.”

  Nate sent Eden a grateful smile.

  “Sounds good to me,” Travis said. “I’m starved! I’ll round up the others.” He started for the hall, but paused in the doorway. “Unless you need me to set the table.”

  Nate stood. “Since I didn’t get to help you with the salad, how about if I take care of that?” he asked Eden.

  She blinked up at him for a second or two, and when she turned her attention back to Travis, he was reminded of the slight chill he always felt when the sun slid behind a cloud.

  “Thanks, Nate.” And to Travis, “Give me a few minutes to slide the garlic bread under the broiler. And make sure the boys wash their hands, okay?”

  “Gotcha.” He pointed at himself, then at Nate. “You and me,” he mouthed. “Later.”

  Nate wondered what the teen wanted to talk with him about.

  “The dishes don’t match,” Eden said, pulling open a drawer. “And neither does the silverware, but the boys don’t seem to mind.”

  If she hadn’t mentioned it, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. Nate stood at the sink to scrub his hands, wondering why she thought stuff like that mattered to him. He smiled to himself. Maybe because she cared what he thought? He considered asking her out, then quickly dismissed it. Even if she could find the time, could he find the patience to cope with the razzing his family would give him?

  Cora waited until Travis was out of earshot to sidle up to him. “So what’s this I hear about a bunch of your horses being attacked by a pack of cougars?”

  “Two horses, one cougar.” The only person he’d told about the latest attack had been an agent with Colorado Parks and Wildlife. “How did you hear about that?”

  “My Duke spent the last fifteen years of his life knee-deep in politics.” She winked again. “I know people, sweetie. Lots of people in high places.”

  Interesting, Nate thought, but her reply hadn’t answered his question. He had a feeling that pressing her for details would be a waste of breath. Still, the fact that word had gotten around unsettled him. Humans tended to panic and do stupid, dangerous things when threatened. Things that could get innocent animals—or people—shot.

  From the corner of his eye, Nate saw Eden grab two pot holders from a hook near the stove, no doubt to strain the pasta. “Let me do that,” he said. Nate poured the pasta into the colander, then dumped the noodles into the sauce.

  “There must be a little Italian in your DNA,” Eden said, setting a trivet on the table. “We’re the only ones I know who mix it all up instead of ladling sauce onto the noodles.”

  Nate opened the fridge and peered inside. “My mom is half-Italian.”

  “No kidding? So’s mine.”

  “You’d have gorgeous kids,” Cora said, wiggling her eyebrows.

  Eden’s eyes widened as he opened and closed cabinet doors.

  “Can I help you find something?”

  “Parmesan.”

  That’s when he noticed that everything in the fridge was alphabetized. Stepping back and fighting a grin, Nate glanced at her spice rack. Sure enough, every tiny jar had been stored in alphabetical order.

  She caught him inspecting the shelves. “My brother say
s this is proof that I’m way too fussy, but the truth is, I’m in a perpetual hurry. Order and organization helps me find things quickly.”

  Nate got that. What he didn’t get was how she’d secured the cooperation of the boys.

  He carried the big pot to the table. “How long did it take you to teach the kids to put things back where they found them?”

  “I didn’t, unless you call learning by example a lesson.” Opening another cabinet, Eden removed drinking glasses. “When each boy first arrived here, he displayed typical teenage attitude, but even the toughest of them softens after a week or two. By that time, the new kid considers everybody else family, and he’s happy to go along with a few simple rules. Even the unwritten ones.”

  “Eden has a list,” Cora explained, pointing at the bulletin board near the door. “There’s another one just like it on the back of every bedroom and bathroom door.” She began to read aloud. “‘One—up at seven, lights out by eleven except on weekends. Two—homework must be completed before electronics are turned on. Three—boys who are late for classes or meals can expect extra homework and chores. Four—you are part of a caring family now. Show your respect by picking up after yourself.’”

  Nate put a glass next to each plate. “I’m impressed, but not surprised.”

  Cora returned to her place at the end of the bench. “Because of their backgrounds, you mean?”

  Plastic ice bin in hand, Eden proceeded to drop cubes into each tumbler. “How about if you two table this discussion—pun intended—for a time when there’s no chance one of the boys might overhear you.”

  “Okay by me,” Nate said.

  Cora rolled her eyes. “Oh, stop trying to butter her up. And don’t encourage her, either. Eden is the fuddy-duddiest young woman I’ve ever met. Why, I can’t remember the last time she did anything for herself, or just for fun.”

  “Emphasis on time,” Eden said. “The one thing there’s always too little of around here.”

  “Still.” The older woman pointed at Nate. “Don’t you agree that it isn’t fair for someone her age to work and worry so much?”

  She’d have a whole lot less to worry about if not for your son, Nate thought.

  “You know what they say,” Cora continued. “‘All work and no play makes Eden old before her time.’”

  Laughing, Eden said, “You remind me of Shamus.”

  “How so?”

  “He loves mixing metaphors, too.”

  “What do you mean, too? I never mix…” She squinted. “Wait a minute. You don’t mean to say you’re comparing me to that old geezer who lived next door to your grandparents?”

  “He still lives there. And Shamus is anything but a geezer. I wish I had half his energy.”

  Cora waved her close and gave her another hug. “Oh, now, I didn’t mean anything by that.” Winking over Eden’s shoulder, she mouthed to Nate: “Miss Sensitive.”

  Eden straightened and put a hand on Cora’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re home, you world traveler, you. Looks to me like you could use some R & R. And a little TLC. And about a week’s worth of sleep and hearty meals.”

  A knock at the back door silenced any retort Cora might have made, but Nate was pretty sure he saw a tear glistening in the corner of the older woman’s eye. He didn’t see how sensitivity like Eden’s could be a bad thing, and he’d take it over Miranda’s “You’re a grown-up. Suck it up!” any day.

  “Oh, my,” Cora said when Eden opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

  Brett Michaels frowned. “You said—”

  Her frown matched her son’s. “Well, as long as you’re here, you might as well come give your ol’ mama a hug.”

  Brett Michaels closed the space between them in three long strides, bent at the waist and wrapped his arms around her. “You’re not old.”

  Cora pushed him away. “Aren’t you the master of subtlety?”

  Eden filled the sudden silence with, “What brings you here this evening, Brett?”

  “She… I…” He faced Cora, then looked back at Eden. “When Mom said you invited me to dinner, I thought maybe it was to tell me you’d figured out a way to buy the place.”

  “Brett Lee Michaels, I said nothing of the kind, and you know it as well as I do!” Cora faced Eden, too. “I simply told him that I planned to stop by.” She sniffed, chin high and shoulders squared. “And that if you asked me to eat with you and the boys, I would.” Aiming a bony forefinger in her son’s direction, she added, “See what happens when you only half listen to what people say?”

  Michaels held up both hands and shrugged. If Eden saw the gesture as a plea for help, it went unanswered, for she’d put her back to him to slide the garlic bread into a napkin-lined wicker basket. “Nate, would you mind checking on the boys? I’d hate for their spaghetti to get cold.”

  “Be happy to.” Her request made Nate feel like part of the household. Better watch it, Marshall, he thought, following the sound of boyish laughter down the hall. Because what if her only intent had been to put Michaels in his place? With any luck, the guy would be gone by the time Nate returned to the kitchen.

  The kids were huddled around some sort of video game when he walked into the family room. Cody was the first to notice him.

  “Hey, Nate!”

  “Hey yourself, kiddo. Eden says dinner is served. Better get in there before everything’s cold.” He glanced around the room. “Where’s Thomas?”

  “With his dad. And he ain’t none too happy about it, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Maybe ’cause the loser tried to sell him a couple of times,” Cody said.

  “And left him alone in all sorts of weird places, like bars and pool halls,” Carlos added.

  Travis nodded. “Every time Thomas sees the dude, he totally freaks out. He’ll get home after dark, all mean and mad.”

  Ben agreed. “And he’ll be impossible to live with for days.”

  “Yeah, well, like Eden says, ain’t nothin’ we can do but deal with it. Same as last time,” Travis said.

  Eden loved these kids as if they were her own. The only way she’d allow Thomas to leave Latimer House with a man like that was if the law required it.

  “Better get washed up,” Nate advised.

  “Yeah,” Carlos said to the others. “You know how Eden feels about dirty hands at the table.”

  The boys pushed and shoved all the way down the hall. All but Cody, that is, who hung back with Nate.

  “Just so you know, we call it supper around here. Eden says dinner is for Sundays and big holidays, like Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

  “Y’know, I don’t know why I called it dinner. My family has always called it supper, too, for the same reasons.”

  “Must be nice, having lots of relatives around all the time.”

  “Yeah, but like any bunch of people who share a house, there were times when it seemed the only thing we did was tussle.”

  “Tussle?” the boy asked.

  “Pushing, shoving, poking, wrestling. Good-natured stuff, mostly, but once in a while, somebody came out of the huddle with a black eye or a swollen lip.” Nate grinned, remembering plenty of brotherly camaraderie, too. The mail-order missile they’d built and launched—right into the roof of Aunt Ellen’s potting shed. The chemistry experiment that stunk up Zach’s house so badly, the whole family had to move in with their grandparents for a week. The misfired baseball that shattered the windshield of his dad’s vintage muscle car, and put him on the road to a major-league career. Their pranks and mischief often inspired friends and relatives to say things such as “What’s to become of those Marshall boys?” and “Hide the good china…here come those Marshall boys!”

  “Only one around here who tussles anymore is Thomas.” The boy shook his head. “It’s like he has no clue how small he is.”

  During the Memorial Day weekend at the ranch, Eden had told him that she nearly lost her job for refusing to fill the doctor’s prescription for gr
owth hormones. Lucky for her, she’d sought a second opinion, and a third, both of whom listed serious side effects, such as recurring ear infections or changes in vision, joint pain, depression, even damage to major organs. “Thomas and I had a heart-to-heart,” she’d told Nate, “and he assured me he’s okay being a little lighter and smaller than the other boys. So why risk his health for a few inches and a couple of pounds!”

  “Thomas doesn’t mess with me, though,” Cody said. “I don’t know why, but I’m glad.”

  “Maybe it’s because he trusts you more than the others.”

  Cody nodded, a slight smile lighting his face as he considered the possibility.

  “Yo, Codes. What you grinnin’ about?” DeShawn asked when they entered the kitchen.

  “Oh, I’m just wondering how many meatballs you’ll pound down tonight.”

  The boys made room for Cody on the bench, and as he sat, Travis said, “Yeah. Last time, you ate four.”

  “Ain’t my fault Eden makes the best meatballs ever.”

  “Isn’t,” she corrected. “And thank you.”

  “Yeah, you moron,” DeShawn teased. “It’s isn’t, not ain’t.” And before Eden had a chance to chastise him for the slur, he added, “The best biggest meatballs ever.”

  Carlos sprinkled cheese into his palm and licked it clean. “Bet you’ve never had a meatball the size of a tennis ball, have you, Nate?”

  “Carlos, aren’t you a little old to eat cheese that way?”

  “Sorry, Eden.”

  Nate saw that the kids had left an opening for him at the far end of the table, right beside Eden. She met his eyes long enough to correct his assumption: The boys hadn’t left the seat beside her empty. She had.

  “I set an extra place for you right here beside me, son,” Cora told Brett.

  All heads turned to see how Michaels would react to the obvious shun. The man seemed none too pleased as he slid onto the last space on the bench, between his mom and Chuckie.

  The eye contact between Eden and Michaels lasted a blink. Two, at most. Yet the intensity reminded Nate of every boxing match he’d ever watched, where the challenger hoped to cow the champ with a fierce, determined glare.