Love Somebody Like You

by Susan Fox

  He stepped back, letting her precede him out the door. There, she saw a couple of paper bags resting on the ground. She slipped her fingers through the string handle of one, and left him to take the other as she led the way toward the house.

  It was built on a bit of a hill, the front on the high side. Sally never used the front door. At the back of the house, steps led up to a deck and the mudroom. The deck had a barbecue, a cheap patio table, and four chairs—four, because occasionally Dave, Cassidy, and Dave’s daughter Robin shared a bite to eat with her. The view across rolling grassland to distant hills couldn’t be beat, in her opinion. When the weather permitted, she ate her quick meals here, surrounded by the wide open serenity of nature, rather than in the closed-in kitchen with its bad memories.

  Leading the way up the stairs, she said, “Let’s eat on the deck. Why don’t you unwrap the food and I’ll get plates and cutlery.” Hopefully, he wouldn’t think twice about her not inviting him inside.

  She went into the mudroom, closing the screen door against mosquitoes and flies. Her hat went on a peg. She sat to pull off her boots and socks, stepped into battered flip-flops, and continued on to the kitchen. The young Sally would have rushed into the bathroom to brush her hair, slick on lip gloss, add a touch of mascara, and rub lotion into her skin. This one washed her hands at the kitchen sink and splashed water on her dusty face.

  When she stepped out onto the deck again, Ben had removed the takeout containers from the bags, but he had disappeared. Setting the table, she decided to give him her usual seat with the best view. Not wanting to block that view—or have him look too closely at her—she didn’t set her own place directly across from him, but across and to the side. Back into the kitchen she went, to run tap water into glasses and add ice.

  When she took the water to the deck, Ben had returned, hatless now, to plunk a six-pack of beer on the table. He removed two bottles and said, “Want me to put the rest in the fridge?”

  She grabbed the handle of the cardboard carton, which had a stylized caribou on it and the label CARIBOU CROSSING PALE ALE.“I will.” Reaching for one of the two other bottles, she said, “This one, too. I don’t drink.”

  “Seriously?”

  His disbelieving tone almost made her smile. Beer had been an intrinsic part of the scene she’d once enjoyed: Western bars, shooting pool, country songs, two-stepping with a cute cowboy. “Seriously.”

  “How come?”

  “Alcohol makes people do foolish things,” she said stiffly.

  One corner of his mouth turned up. “What foolish things did it make you do, Sally?”

  Laugh too loud, flaunt her body, flirt with men. At least according to Pete. The last time she’d had a drink was the champagne at her wedding reception. Later that night, her new husband had said she’d made a fool of herself and of him, and she was asking for trouble, coming on to men like that. She hadn’t had a clue; she’d only been having fun, so excited about starting her life with the man she loved passionately. Pete had said that, for the sake of their marriage, they would ban alcohol from their house.

  “Sally?” Ben, head cocked, was watching her.

  The brown bottle’s shape felt so familiar, as did the coolness, the damp condensation. Her taste buds sprang to life and saliva pooled as she remembered the taste of beer.

  “Are you an alcoholic?” Ben gently asked.

  “What? No! No, I just don’t drink.” Because Pete had said so.

  Had her husband been right about the way she acted when she drank? Even when she hadn’t had a drink in years, he had still got on her case for coming on to guys although she’d had no intention of doing it. Dads of students, male owners of boarding horses, the large animal vet whom Pete had fired when he caught the man and Sally hunkered down in the straw examining a horse’s cracked hoof. Even three years after Pete’s death, she still couldn’t figure out whether she’d been a seriously flawed wife and he’d been the doting husband everyone took him for, or whether he’d turned into an abuser once they were married, and she’d been too weak, too stupid to leave him. Neither was good; both reflected badly on her.

  “I promise you,” Ben said, “a beer or two won’t make me do anything foolish.” There was a teasing gleam in his chestnut eyes, eyes the same color as the bottle in her hand. “And one’s not going to hurt you. Or half a one. A couple swallows. Come on,” he said in an exaggerated wheedling tone, “you know you wanna.”

  She’d have been annoyed—if his tone wasn’t so funny, and if he hadn’t been right. Slowly, she put the bottle down on the table beside her place mat. A swallow or two wasn’t going to make her lose her mind. It wouldn’t make her flirt with Ben. As for him, she remembered him as a guy who didn’t drink to excess, or get out of control when he drank.

  By the time she’d stored the beer carton in the fridge, Ben had opened both bottles and taken the lids off the takeout containers. “I’m starving,” he said. “Driving back smelling the meat loaf made me crazy.” He handed her a serving spoon and took one himself.

  She put a napkin on her lap and then dished out coleslaw as Ben served himself some meat loaf. “It’s nice of you to do this,” she told him. Pete had never bought takeout. He’d had groceries delivered once a week and had expected her to cook. That was a wife’s job, he’d said. He had, however, typically brought home a bouquet on the rare occasions when he went into town. To show her how much he loved his pretty wife, he’d said. Carnations, usually, but red roses after he’d hit her. Red roses to accompany an apology, even though the tearful expression of regret was framed as “but you shouldn’t have made me do it.”

  She shivered, then shoved those thoughts away. She refused to let memories of Pete ruin this dinner with an old friend. Deliberately, she picked up her beer bottle and took a sip.

  “You’re smiling,” Ben said. “You like it.”

  “I do,” she admitted, taking a larger sip. Hoppy, slightly bitter, it hit her tongue like . . . like an old friend, she thought, this time keeping her smile to herself. Relaxed and hungry, she served herself some mashed potatoes and meat loaf, and dug in.

  Oh my, this was good. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to taste food that had taken more than five minutes to prepare—much less to have someone else do the preparing. Her idea of luxury was having Dave toss burgers on the barbecue when he, Cassidy, and Robin came to help out and stayed to eat. “This is delicious. Thank you so much for bringing it.”

  “My pleasure.”

  They both ate enthusiastically, in silence, for a few minutes, though Ben made occasional mmm-mmm noises. Simple sounds of appreciation, but they struck her as sensual, and somehow increased her own enjoyment of the food. When she and Ben had taken the edge off their appetites, she said, “Please tell me about Penny. And did she say anything about our parents?”

  He put his fork down and took a long pull from his beer bottle. “You’re curious about your family, yet Penny says you’ve been out of touch with them for years.”

  Sally lowered her gaze. “Mom and Dad didn’t like me marrying Pete and moving away.”

  “That’s no excuse for cutting their daughter out of their lives,” he said firmly.

  Her parents had let her know they disapproved. They’d given advice or, as Pete put it, poked and pried into her and Pete’s business. Sally’d felt caught in the middle, although she did agree with Pete that her first loyalty lay with him. In the end, her family had solved her dilemma; they’d simply stopped communicating.

  “These things happen,” she said neutrally. “And yes, I’m curious. What did Penny say?”

  “To start with, she’s married and expecting. Far enough along that it’s like she has a watermelon under her shirt.”

  A pang hit Sally’s heart. Her little sister, going to have a baby. She was envious, but mostly regretful that she wouldn’t be there by Penny’s side admiring the sonogram images, teasing her about her food cravings and constant need to pee, throwing her a baby shower. “I�
�m going to be an aunt,” she marveled. One who might never see her niece or nephew.

  Brushing that pain aside, she asked, “Who did she marry? Anyone I’d know?”

  “You knew she was teaching elementary school?”

  “She planned to get her teaching degree.” She’d always believed that her sister, who loved kids as much as Sally did, would make a great teacher.

  “One of her students had a single-parent mom whose brother helped out a lot. Penny and the brother fell for each other. He’s a lawyer.”

  “Really? Bet our dad wasn’t thrilled about that. He never had much time for lawyers.”

  “I dunno. Penny said your mom and dad are looking forward to being grandparents.”

  “What else did she say about them?” she asked, greedy for information.

  “We only had a minute to chat. She said everyone was well, and that they missed you.”

  She bit her lip. Was that true? The only time she’d heard from them in years was months after Pete died, when she got a sympathy card. She hadn’t notified them of his death, not seeing the point, but obviously word had reached them. The card had a printed message reading, “Our thoughts and prayers are with you.” Below it, her mother had written: “They really are, Sally. Love, Mom, Dad, and Penny.”

  She’d felt a tug at her heart, and a crazy wish to be enfolded in the arms of her family, to have her sister sympathize and her parents make everything better. But she’d known it couldn’t happen. They were being polite. They didn’t want to see her, much less deal with her problems. Besides, how could she face them when she was such a mess of shame and guilt? She hadn’t responded to the card, and they hadn’t contacted her again.

  “Sally?”

  “Hmm?” She realized she’d been peeling away the label on her beer bottle. “What did Penny say when she asked you to look me up?”

  “Something about maybe enough time has gone by.” He studied her. “Time for what? She didn’t say.”

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly. Enough time for her parents to forgive her for marrying Pete and moving away? Or enough time for her to admit that she’d made a mistake and they’d been right all along? Could she do that without spilling the whole nasty story and making herself look like a total loser? “When you see her again, maybe you could ask.”

  “If I do see her, what’ll I tell her about you?”

  Considering, she took another sip of beer. “That I’m well. That I love working with horses and teaching children. That the business is doing fine.” Would Penny tell their parents?

  He frowned slightly but said only, “Okay,” then began to eat again.

  She did the same. The meat loaf wasn’t quite as good as her mom’s, or maybe that was her memory playing tricks on her.

  “Do you handle this place all on your own?” Ben asked. “One of the owners who came to ride this afternoon asked me if I was your new assistant.”

  “Sorry about that.” To mistake a rodeo cowboy for a barn assistant was an insult.

  “It’s okay. I just wondered if you’d had an assistant, and he’d quit.”

  She gazed at his striking brown-skinned face, noted the way the fading sun gleamed off the hints of chestnut in his hair, and saw concern in those beautiful brown eyes. “I did have one. She had to leave because of a personal issue.”

  “So you’re hiring?”

  Embarrassment and the habit of privacy kept her from sharing her financial woes. “I haven’t found anyone suitable yet. It has to be the right person, because they need to live here.”

  “Here? You mean they share the house?”

  She shook her head. It was tough to let anyone, even Corrie or Dave’s family, cross the doorstep of her house. No way could she have someone else living in it. “There’s a little apartment in the loft of the barn. My assistant gets a free room and utilities.” Because Sally couldn’t afford to pay more than minimum wage, she needed someone who was willing to accept a free room as part of the compensation package. Now, though, unless she got some new business soon, she couldn’t even manage minimum wage.

  “Sounds like a decent arrangement. For the right person.”

  “Corrie liked it. And she was perfect. She loved horses and riding. She’s a hard worker, quick to learn, strong, and never complains. Her previous job was at a plant nursery, and this spring she put in the vegetable garden.” Which, sadly, Sally wouldn’t have the time to keep up.

  “She does sound ideal.”

  “Hard to replace.” Perhaps best of all, Corrie had been private and self-sufficient, like Sally. So much so that Sally didn’t even know the nature of the personal matter that had called the younger woman away. It wasn’t that Sally didn’t care, but you couldn’t start a personal conversation without being expected to reciprocate. And talking about herself was something she didn’t—couldn’t—do.

  “You been dating?” Ben asked. “Have some guy to help you out sometimes?”

  “Dating? No, not at all.” Nor would she. Ever. “I do have a couple of friends who come by from time to time, but they’re away right now.”

  “Makes it tough.”

  “I manage.”

  “Feel like managing some pie?”

  “Most definitely.” In her weekly orders from the grocery store, Sally bought whichever fruit was cheapest. Apples, bananas, oranges, typically. One or two a day, that was her dessert allotment. “Want some coffee with it?” He’d only drunk the one beer, and she hoped he didn’t move on to a second. As for her, she’d had a third of her bottle and, though she’d have loved to drain it, she would pour the rest down the sink.

  “Coffee sounds great.”

  When she rose and took their plates and forks, he stacked the now-empty takeout containers and got up, too. “I’ll give you a hand.”

  “No!” Realizing how abrupt that had sounded, she added, “Sit and enjoy the view.”

  A high-pitched whine and a sting on his right forearm had Ben slapping at a mosquito, an unthinking response that sent pain radiating to his broken shoulder. Wincing, he sank back into his chair and watched Sally pile the stacked containers on top of the dirty plates. As she’d instructed, he turned his gaze toward the view where a doe and an adolescent fawn grazed, illuminated by rosy light as the sun dropped toward the hills.

  Was he imagining things, or did Sally not want him going into her house? Maybe she’d been too busy to do housework and was embarrassed. Women got like that.

  Or maybe she just wanted a few moments’ privacy. Talking about her family had clearly upset her. Ben sure wished he knew what was going on there. Sally’d always been such a friendly, outgoing person and he’d assumed she came from a loving, supportive family.

  She returned with several metal cans, which she stacked around the railing of the deck. Then she took a match to each, and he realized they were candles. Well, how about that. Had she decided on a little romance?

  A pungent, lemony scent hit his nostrils. “Citronella candles? Mosquito repellant?”

  “I make them myself,” she confirmed.

  So much for romance.

  When she went inside again, he stretched as far back as he could, trying to ease the ache in his injured shoulder. It probably wouldn’t have hurt so much if he could support his arm, but he didn’t want the broken bones shifting into the wrong position. Following the doctor’s instructions, he flexed his fingers and wrist. Two or three weeks to heal enough that he could at least get back to roping, if not bronc riding. The doc had said more, but he wasn’t a sports medicine doctor and Ben would prove him wrong.

  When he’d learned he had to be out of action for a while, Ben had planned to drive back to Alberta. Now, gazing out at scrubby grassland rolling in a sweet curve like a woman’s hip, the sun sinking toward the hills in soothing shades of purple and pink, another idea took root. It’d sure be no hardship staying here awhile, making himself useful.

  Sally came outside again, this time placing plates, small forks, and two mugs of c
offee on the table. “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Black.”

  “So do I.” She sat down, then dished out the two slices of pie. “Sorry, I don’t have ice cream. But this looks wonderful just as it is. Thanks again, Ben.”

  When she gazed at him, he realized that it was one of the few times she’d looked him directly in the eyes and held the gaze when he looked back at her. Did he make her nervous for some reason?

  Her eyes sure were pretty, despite the signs of tiredness and strain around them. They’d always been special, the greens and grays changing with her mood. He’d seen them with green sparkles like sunlight on gemstones, but tonight they were a sultry gray tinged with moss green. Deep and unreadable. Drawing him in. Making him want to understand what was going on behind them. Yeah, he could see hanging around here for a while.

  She glanced away, picked up her fork, and ate a bite of pie. An expression of pleasure brightened her face. That was how Sally should look. Relaxed, happy, in the moment.

  “How did you end up doing team roping?” she asked. “You used to only compete in saddle bronc.”

  “I grew up on a ranch and I’ve always roped, but not competitively. Then this trainer I work for had such a great roping horse—Chauncey’s Pride—I couldn’t resist buying him. Dusty and I’d always got along; his heeler had quit; we tried it out together and it stuck.” He dug into his own pie.

  “And now you have to travel by road, hauling a trailer with a horse.”

  “Yeah. Takes longer to get to events, and gas can cost near as much as flying. Dusty and his old heeler had the Ram dually and the rig, so I bought a half share. Saves on motels. And on meals. We don’t eat out as much, and it’s easier to stick to a decent diet.” He chuckled. “And I don’t run the risk of a baggage handler deciding he doesn’t like dealing with saddles and leaving mine on the tarmac.” It was a liability of riding saddle bronc rather than bareback bronc, needing to tote your saddle along with you. Still, he’d found out early in his rodeo days that he competed more successfully in saddle bronc, so he’d stuck with it.