Colt

by Duncan Leigh

  “Knock, knock,” Royce said when it was his turn.

  “Who’s there?” Bree squirmed forward on her chair, her eyes bright.

  “Amos,” chimed Randy.

  “Amos, who?” Bree followed the lines that bounced between the twins.

  “A mosquito bit me.” Royce laughed.

  “And it was this big.” Randy spread his arms so wide he jostled Hank’s elbow.

  Meat and vegetables clung perilously to Hank’s fork before they plunged into his lap.

  “Randy, you clumsy oaf!” Hank swore and sprang to his feet. “Now look what you’ve done.” Brushing at gravy smeared on his jeans, he strode from the room.

  Emma’s fork clattered into her bowl. Colt’s stomach tightened at the stricken look that crossed her face. Her movements brusque, she pushed away from the table.

  “Excuse us. Bree and I will take our plates to the kitchen.” She gave her daughter’s hand a tug. “Come on, honey. It’s time for bed.”

  “But, Mommy, I’m not tired.” The laughter that had danced in Bree’s eyes dimmed.

  Colt frowned. The guys had only been teasing one another, the same way they usually did. So they got a little carried away. So what? It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Propping his elbows on the edge of the table, he pinned Emma with a pointed look. “Might get a bit too noisy for sleeping. The bunch of us—” he pointed a finger at his brothers “—we’re gonna jam after supper. You’re welcome to sit in. Bree, too.”

  “We are?” Hank emerged from the kitchen, a dish towel pressed against his pants leg.

  Having announced it to the group, Colt felt certain he’d hit on just what the family needed. They all missed Dad. His absence filled the room. But it was time to make some new memories, ones that would carry them into the future and draw them back home when the time came.

  As if she’d read his mind, Doris chimed in. “Your father wouldn’t want us to sit around moping. He’d tell us to laugh, sing, enjoy life.”

  That sounded exactly like something his dad would say, and Colt nodded to his mom. “You’ll join in?” He’d never mastered an instrument, but she’d taught him to sing harmony when he wasn’t much older than Bree.

  “It’ll be like old times.” Doris lowered her fork. She pushed her plate away.

  Not exactly, Colt thought, but he turned to Garrett. “You haven’t forgotten how to play, have you?”

  “I didn’t bring my guitar.” The eldest of the brothers nodded toward one that hung from pegs in the great room. “Think Luke would mind if I borrowed his?”

  “Of course not.” Colt turned to the twins. “Royce, Randy—you in?”

  Randy scooched his chair back. “I’ll get my harmonica,” he said, rising.

  Royce lifted two spoons from the table. He clapped them against the flat of his hand. “These’ll do,” he said.

  Colt caught the furtive looks his brothers sent toward the fireplace and the stand that held their dad’s banjo. An awkward moment passed when Hank crossed to the instrument. He plucked the strings.

  “I’m not nearly as good as Dad.” He toed one boot against the floor. “But I guess I can pick a little.”

  “You’ve been holding out on us?” Warmth spread from Colt’s lips to his eyes. He was onto Hank’s ways. Only an accomplished player claimed to pick a little.

  “Sounds like we’re all set, then. Emma, how ’bout you and Bree?” He aimed a wide, teasing grin toward the little girl whose fingers were too tiny to stretch across the guitar frets.

  Firmly, Emma shook her head. “I’m afraid not.” She stacked Bree’s bowl atop hers. Her shoulders stiff and unyielding, she marched out of the room.

  Around the table, the brothers held their collective breaths when Doris’s expression crumpled into dismayed lines. “Well, maybe we shouldn’t…” she began.

  “Hold that thought.” Colt swiped his napkin across his mouth. “I’ll talk to her. The rest of you get tuned up. Royce—” he nodded toward the younger twin “—maybe you can show Bree how you tap those spoons.”

  In an instant, Bree scooted to the twin’s side. “Let me see!” Her eyes widening, she followed his every move.

  Colt grabbed his dinner dishes and headed for the kitchen. A night of music and songs would do them all so much good he couldn’t let Emma squelch the idea. He no sooner stepped across the threshold than the young cook swung away from the trash can. His stomach clenched when she leaned against the counter as if bracing for an angry torrent.

  “I know you hate waste but—”

  “—but sometimes it can’t be helped,” Colt finished. Crossing the room, he emptied food he’d barely touched into the garbage can. He squinted into Emma’s doubt-filled eyes. “What’s got you all riled up?”

  She waved a spoon as if trying to ward him off. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “C’mon now, gal.” Colt pointed out the obvious. “You gotta realize you jump quicker than a cottontail in a rattlesnake den whenever someone raises their voice. You want to tell me what’s going on?” He stepped close enough to catch a whiff of spicy floral scent far more tantalizing than their meal.

  “I do not,” Emma protested, though her fingers shook so badly the dishes rattled as she placed them on the counter.

  Cupping his hands over hers, he softened his tone to a near whisper. “Yeah, you kinda do. When you work on a ranch with a bunch of men, that’s gonna be a problem. We yell. We holler. We might even cuss from time to time. If you run off every time someone shouts, pretty soon you’re gonna hit the ocean.” Hoping to put her at ease, he threw in his best aw-shucks grin. “This is Florida, you know.”

  Instead of smiling in return, Emma slipped her fingers from his grasp. She folded her arms across her chest and gave him a long, appraising look. “My dad was a drill sergeant. He ran our house the same way he ran his platoon. To escape, I got married, but my husband turned into a carbon copy of my father. I gave up any hope of ever making a name for myself when I found out most head chefs turn screaming at their assistants into an art form.”

  She sighed. “I’m done with all that. A calm, quiet atmosphere—that’s what your folks promised when I came here. They made the Circle P sound like something just this side of heaven.”

  Colt drummed his fingers on the counter. “It can be. We still have our moments.” He nudged a stack of plates back from the edge. “You and I have had a few already,” he acknowledged. “We met under awful circumstances. Bree’s near miss with Three—that probably cost me a few gray hairs. As for what happened this afternoon—” he gestured toward the sink “—I’m normally not the type to ride roughshod over the hired help. So far, you haven’t exactly seen me at my best, but things’ll get better.”

  The firm set of Emma’s mouth relaxed the tiniest bit. “You’re turning into someone I didn’t expect, Colt.”

  “Well, now. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” His smile broadened. For a second or two, he thought he’d gotten through to her, convinced her he wasn’t the bad guy she’d made him out to be. At the last moment, her face shuttered.

  “I have work to do,” she announced.

  Colt followed her gaze around the kitchen. Though the ranch hands had done a passable job of cleaning up after themselves, serving dishes remained on the table. A few pots cluttered the stove. A pan on the counter snagged his attention. Bits of apple and crust clung to the sides. From the looks of things, the men hadn’t saved even a bite of dessert for the family. He rubbed a hand over his empty stomach.

  “This evening is more for Mom than anyone. It’d be really nice if you sat with us for a while.”

  Emma canted her head. “If I finish in here in time,” she conceded.

  He didn’t quite understand why it was so important that Emma see him in a better light. He just knew that it was. But one look at her face told him not to waste his breath trying for anything more. He shrugged. The next few months would give him plenty of opportunity to
prove he wasn’t like the other men in her life.

  As he turned and walked away, determined to make the best of the last night with his family, the smile that flirted at the corners of his mouth had little to do with music and everything to do with what lay ahead.

  As much as Emma told herself watching the big rancher disappear into the living room was a bad idea, she couldn’t help it. She had to look. Had to see those wide shoulders and lean, muscular legs head in the opposite direction when what she really wanted was to have Colt take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.

  Get a grip, she told herself.

  The promise of a good job, a stable home and a great work environment had drawn her to the Circle P. Her recipe for future happiness didn’t include anything more. Certainly not a flirtation with someone as arrogant and bossy as Colt.

  And yet…

  There was another side to him. A side that didn’t mesh with her first impression of the man who’d ordered her off the front porch and around to the servants’ entrance. Yes, he’d been angry when she doused the family cookbook but, under the circumstances, who could blame him? He sure hadn’t reacted like her father or her late husband. Both of them would have blurted out the truth without giving Doris’s feelings a second thought. Besides, it was hard to find fault with the man who’d literally saved her daughter’s life.

  Stacking the dirty dishes beside the sink, she shook her head. No. She might be a great cook, but Colt’s plan to re-create four generations of recipes through trial and error simply wouldn’t work. No matter how many nights they spent in the kitchen, some of those recipes were lost forever.

  She stifled a groan while, in the other room, Randy ran the scale on his harmonica. Garrett and Hank brushed the strings on instruments that, even to her untrained ears, sounded seriously out of tune. If that was the best they could do, it was going to be a long night. The cacophony of a dozen cats outside her bedroom window would sound better. To drown out the noise, she grabbed the first empty pot, plunged it beneath the soap suds and began scrubbing.

  Minutes later, Bree burst into the kitchen. “Mommy! We’re makin’ music! Not music from the radio or the iPod. Real music. Come see!”

  “Really?” Emma swiped at the gleaming counter. Seeing the delight in her daughter’s eyes, she realized the group in the living room had gotten their act together. For the past few minutes, she’d been tapping her toe in time to the beat.

  She took a moment to steady her voice. Before Jack died, they’d barely squeaked by on his military pay. Afterward, between rent and babysitters and culinary school, she hadn’t had two nickels to spare on such niceties as music lessons for a four-year-old. Wasn’t this one of the reasons she’d come to the Circle P? To give Bree new experiences, ones she couldn’t have elsewhere?

  She pulled out a pan of apple cobbler she’d kept hidden in the warming oven. “Well, let’s go see. Will you carry the ice cream?”

  In the dining room, Bree paused only long enough to dump the container on the table before she scrambled straight into Colt’s lap. The sight of her daughter wrapped in the rancher’s tanned, muscular arms ignited a warm spot in Emma’s heart. One that expanded when he guided the child’s little hands in counting out the beat for the next number.

  “That’s right. Just like you did before.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Ready? Now…” In a clear tenor, he sang a funny song about crawdads.

  Colt really was full of surprises, she decided, listening to him lead the group in another verse. When Bree’s voice joined the others in singing the chorus, she felt her heart melt.

  “Did you like it, Mommy?” Bree asked when the last notes faded. “Mr. Colt teached me.”

  Emma met the rancher’s gaze and instantly got lost in his blue eyes. “He taught me,” she corrected.

  “Did he teach you, too, Mommy?” Bree tilted her head. “Will you sing your song?”

  While the snippet of conversation drew laughter from the rest of Colt’s family, it sent a flush of heat straight up the back of Emma’s neck. In an effort to hide her rapidly warming face, she bent over the dessert plates while Garrett segued into the next number.

  Another song followed before they broke for apple cobbler and ice cream. By then, it seemed as if everyone was having such a good time no one wanted to call it quits. But, even excited four-year-olds had their limits, and shortly after dessert, Bree hit hers. She leaned her head back against Colt’s wide chest. Before the group finished their next song, she’d gone out like the proverbial light.

  Emma stood. Colt rose at the same time.

  “I’ll carry her up for you.”

  “No.” Simple, straightforward. The refusal flew from her mouth before she gave it a second thought. Colt’s dark eyebrows buckled together as she practically wrenched her daughter from his grasp. But she couldn’t let him come to her room.

  As much as she appreciated his offer to carry her child up the stairs, seeing him in this new light was seriously undermining her impression of the rancher. A new rush of emotions unsettled her, made her feel vulnerable.

  “I’ve got her,” she insisted.

  Aware that Colt’s brothers were staring at her, Emma wished she hadn’t been so abrupt. But some things weren’t meant to happen, and falling for a big, hunky cowboy wasn’t any more likely than making a permanent home on the Circle P. As much as she wanted one and resisted the other, she’d have to keep her guard up or losing both would break her heart.

  Chapter Six

  Skirting shapes that loomed out of the darkness, Emma quietly padded through the house. She made her way to the kitchen, where she flipped the switch on the coffeepot she’d readied the night before. A yawn rippled through her, and she made a mental note to ask Colt about putting the brewer on a timer. Surely his demand for preserving tradition would bend that much, wouldn’t it?

  Wondering what he’d say if he discovered that his mom had already abandoned at least one of the customs he deemed so important, she pulled several cans from the refrigerator’s bottom drawer and quickly arranged biscuits on baking trays. They were ready for the oven by the time water boiled on the mammoth stove for her own cup of tea.

  As a familiar warm scent gurgled from the battered percolator, Emma checked her watch and wiped sleep from her eyes. Her mug in her hand, she backtracked through the silent house, stepping onto the front porch without making a sound.

  A cathedral-like hush filled air that had cooled overnight. Mist drifted across land that was flatter than the thinnest pancake. Pinks and grays streaked the horizon as she settled into one of the rocking chairs to watch the sun rise.

  She’d hardly taken her seat before a car engine broke the stillness. She followed the sound toward the long driveway, where twin beams of lights flickered through a copse of trees. Ranch hands, she decided, sipping her tea. She wondered whether they were getting an early start on the day, or bringing a late night to an end.

  But more cars followed the first until a train of headlights snaked from the main road toward the house. One by one, vehicles pulled into the parking area. Hinges protested. Dome lights winked on and off. Emma caught the murmur of hushed greetings and one hearty “Hey, man.”

  From nearby trees, birds twittered their displeasure at being disturbed. Someone lit a match. The acrid scent of cigarette smoke tickled her nose. Unable to make out details, she counted silhouettes until she reached a dozen.

  She abandoned her tea. Intent on telling someone—anyone—they had company, she slipped into the house. She paused at the door only long enough to wish she’d turned on a light to dispel some of the darkness. Heading in the general direction of the stairs, she took two steps before she collided with a solid body.

  “Ooph,” she gasped, inhaling a soapy fragrance accompanied by a uniquely masculine scent. Strong fingers grasped her upper arms.

  “Steady there.”

  Colt’s strong fingers, she corrected. His low timbre reverberated through her. A sharp awareness plunged into her midsection. H
er hands rose. Traitors, they sought purchase on his muscular chest. For one long, delicious second, she clung to him before she reeled back.

  “Sorry, sorry.” Branded by his touch, she wrenched out of his grasp. “I, uh, I…”

  “You all right? I didn’t step on your toes or anything, did I?”

  “I’m fine.” Emma forced a sternness she didn’t feel into her voice. Tugging, straightening, she ran a hand down her front. “Why were you lurking in the dark like that?”

  “Heard a door slam. Thought I’d better check it out. What are you doing up so early?”

  She registered the accusation in his tone and bristled. “We need a timer for the coffeepot. I had to set my alarm so it’d be ready.” She struggled to remember why she was standing so close to Colt. In the dark. Alone. “There’s quite a crowd outside.”

  “Probably the neighbors,” he answered, as if the gathering was perfectly normal. “They’ve come to see Mom off. She and the rest of ’em are stirring. They’ll be ready to leave soon. You say there’s coffee? How ’bout rustling up a cup while I pay my respects. Two sugars. No cream.”

  The idea that half the town had turned out to usher Doris into the next stage of her life was so foreign, Emma ignored the fact that she’d just been ordered to fetch the man a drink.

  Though everyone said the military was a close-knit community, she couldn’t recall a single time when friends of her parents had shown up to wish them well on their next post. It certainly hadn’t happened during her short-lived marriage. As for building relationships in New York, forget about it. Between raising a baby on her own and an impossible workload, she doubted her neighbors there even knew her name, much less where she was headed when she moved out.

  She shifted her weight from one leg to the other while she considered what it’d be like to have the kind of roots Colt and his family had on the Circle P. In a community where people cared so much about one another they rolled out of bed before daybreak to see them off. It was the life she’d dreamed of when she accepted the job on the ranch. The one she wanted for her daughter and, to be honest, for herself. Could she still have it? Staring at the spot Colt had vacated, she vowed to try.