"If I didn't take them in, they'd all have ended up as dog food." She handed him the empty bucket and took the full one from him.
"At least the cow gives milk, right?" he ventured as she poured the grain from his bucket along the bottom of the trough.
She shook her head and faced him, an impish tilt to her lips. "Too old to freshen."
"But—" He glanced at the pony, horse, and cow snuffling up the grain from the trough. He eyed the llama who imperiously eyed him back. What was he going to say, that these animals were useless and feeding them a waste of good money? Stuart had often enough implied the same thing about him. By contrast, Dixie had welcomed him into her fold.
"But what?" Dixie prompted.
"But nothing," he said and looked her deep in her eyes. "You have a big heart, Red; and I, for one, am grateful."
"Grateful?" Her lovely arched eyebrows lifted. "For what?"
"For that big heart of yours." And hopeful that you'll find it in that heart to forgive me after I tell you what I need so desperately to say— that Stuart sent me to spy on you.
"Grateful for my big heart, huh?" she purred in her smoky voice, then set about finishing her chores.
Much more of this and he'd lose what backbone he had left and never confess. He glanced toward the chicken coop beyond the pasture fence to make sure Ben was still out of earshot.
"Dixie. About my being here," Sam started.
The cornflower-blue eyes lifted at him, narrowed ever so slightly. They'd show him worse before he was done. Could he bear it?
He lowered his head. He stared at the muddy ground between their feet. Then he drew a deep breath, bolstering himself for what he must say.
He'd barely opened his mouth when something rammed him from behind with enough force to slam him into Dixie. The next thing Sam knew, he was sprawled face-down on top of Dixie.
She began to laugh, her sugared-coffee breath sweet and warm against his mouth, her stomach and all surrounding anatomy quaking against his correlating parts. In that heavenly instant, his body reacted, tightening in all the wrong places.
Trouble with a capital T. Even the animals knew it. The cow blew, the llama spit, and the horse and pony stomped.
Sam scrambled to his feet, clutching a feed bucket low in front of himself. "I'm…sorry."
Dixie levered herself up onto her elbows, still chuckling. "My goat rams you, and you're sorry?"
"Goat?"
She nodded toward the feed trough. There, balanced on its tiny hooves on the trough's narrow lip, stood a diminutive Billy Goat.
"I should have warned you about Rocky."
The goat raised his bearded chin at Sam as if to say, "That'll teach you to get in my way at feeding time."
"Guess which bad habit Rocky's former owners were unable to break him of?" Dixie said.
"I'd say it's the same one you haven't been able to correct," Sam remarked dryly, rubbing his behind.
Dixie held out a mud-caked palm to Sam. Bucket firmly gripped against his groin by one hand, he helped her to her feet with the other. She circled in front of him, brushing at her backside…her deliciously inviting backside.
"I'm all muddy," she said.
Sam thumped the bucket against his thigh in an attempt to divert the blood flow to a less improper place.
"You, too," she said, brushing at his knees.
He stutter-stepped back from Dixie. Behind him, Rocky bleated, giving new meaning to the phrase between a rock and a hard place.
Swell. If he confessed why he was here now, she'd think he was a total degenerate.
#
Twenty minutes later, Sam stood in Dixie's bedroom doorway. She'd shed her muddy clothes, washed, and donned a blue, silk robe that clung to her curves like sin. He wanted her all over again. All the more reason to say his piece and hit the road, which he would do as soon as she was off the phone.
"But, Carl—"
Good. It was the chef who'd called. Confirming he'd be back on the job tomorrow morning, right?
"Is it the money?" Dixie asked, pacing the narrow path between her bed and desk. "Do you need more money?"
Sounded like Chef Carl was holding out—working Dixie for a raise. Sam was liking Carl less and less by the second. He could throw a monkey wrench in the greedy chef's strategy. All he had to do is step forward and tell Dixie he would stay and cook for her.
But to stay, to sleep nights in the room next to hers and work daily elbow to elbow with Dixie would be more temptation than a weak-willed degenerate could resist. Then again, out there in the paddock, he'd come face to face with one of major causes. She took in the broken and the castoff. And wasn't he broken and castoff? Not likely she'd welcome a damaged man any closer that she already had.
"What if I banned Miss Weston from the kitchen? What if I did all the cooking for her?" He pleading made Sam want to take the phone receiver from her fingers and tell Carl to go to hell. But, could he bear living and working with a goddess who'd never reciprocate his feelings?
"What if—"
There was a loud click in Dixie's ear, then dead air. She spotted Sam in the doorway in time to stifle the curse welling up in her throat. The last thing she wanted was to embroil him further in her crisis.
She hung up the receiver without slamming it down, pasted on a smile, and bobbed her chin at Sam's crisp, new jeans. "If you throw the muddy ones in the laundry, I'll wash them for you."
He frowned. She wagered that surly expression had nothing to do with her doing his laundry. More likely, he'd heard enough of her conversation with her ex-chef to be worried what she'd next impose upon him. If she didn't want him avoiding them in the future like the proverbial plague, she'd better do something quick to show him that she and Ben came without strings attached.
"Out in the barnyard before Rocky laid us out," she said, "you were about to say your good-byes, weren't you?"
He dropped his chin, breaking eye contact with her. "Not exactly."
She planted her hands on her hips. "Don't lie to me, Sam. I'd far rather hear bad news straight up than be blindsided."
His chin came up, the eyes meeting hers wide and beseeching. "I wasn't trying to say good-bye out there, not exactly."
She softened her voice. "It's okay for you to leave, Sam. We've had a nice visit. You saved Ben from Miss Weston's wrath and me from a disastrous Sunday brunch. What more could anyone ask of a houseguest?"
He huffed. "I thought we established yesterday that I'm not a houseguest, I'm family."
"So we did," she said.
He jammed his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans, hunched his shoulders, and peered at her through his thick, dark lashes. "You could ask me to stay and help."
She started to shake her head.
He cut her off with, "Carl isn't coming back to work for you, is he?"
Now what was she going to do, lie when the one thing she asked of him was his honesty?
"I'm right, aren't I, Red?"
She sighed and nodded. "He got another job."
"Then you still need my help."
She wanted to tell him she didn't need him, but the truth was, "I could use your help. But, I'm not about to impose further on you."
His shoulders came down and his chin went up. "You're not imposing on me."
"You stopped by for a meal and a passing howdy-do and the next thing you know, I've got you cooking in my kitchen. Not the most hospitable thing I could have done."
"You had an emergency."
"Through which you helped me out. I'm eternally grateful." She glanced at her watch. "And right now you can help me by excusing me. I still have time to email the local newspaper and get a want ad in tomorrow's edition."
"And until the want ad produces results, until you wade through resumes and check out references, what are you going to do for a chef?"
"Handle it," she said, sitting down at her computer desk and pulling up the Internet.
"How?" he asked.
"We'll rely on specials," she said
as she logged onto the newspaper's web site. "I can cook, you know. Remember that beef roast sandwich you had night before last? It didn't kill you, did it?"
A crooked smile bent Sam's lips. "Are we having our first fight, Red?"
"Looks that way," she said as she began typing up her ad.
He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and folded his arms across his chest. "I'm just saying you don't have to manage or get by. I could stay and cook until you find a suitable replacement cook."
"And I'm saying that that's imposing a lot on you, Sam."
"Family helps family," he retorted. "Isn't that how your family works?"
She swiveled her chair toward him. "Yes, but…"
"Let me help you out, Red. I have nothing better to do. I don't even have a job waiting for me anywhere."
She wanted to jump at Sam's offer. She wanted to jump at him, throw her arms around his neck, and kiss and hug him and thank him. But, for all his good intentions, Sam Ryan was a man with a history of running out on responsibility. Michael had said enough for her to get that message, and she'd rather be prepared for no help than get left in the lurch on the brink of the dinner rush by a chef who impulsively hit the road because the whim struck him. She could not abide one more man abandoning her.
"If not for you, for Ben," he said.
"For Ben, huh?" And Sam and yourself, whispered a voice inside her head, a voice she hadn't heard aloud in over two years—a voice she never would hear aloud again. The voice of a man who'd abandoned her via his death.
She turned back to the computer, frowning. It was silly of her to still think of Michael's death as abandonment. He hadn't chosen to leave them.
She typed.
But Sam was another matter.
She proofread her ad one last time and hit send.
"Okay," she said, turning her full attention back to Sam. "I accept your offer…under one condition."
"Shoot."
"When you've had enough, tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"Even if I haven't found a new chef, when you've had enough, don't just leave."
He shoved his hands in his pockets, his lips curling a sheepish grin. "Aaah."
"Tell me."
"In other words, don't take flight in the middle of the night." he said. "Don't skip out, take off, run away."
"Just be honest with me. That's all I ask."
#
Just be honest.
Sam stood just inside Ben's open bedroom door so he could watch for anyone approaching, the cell phone pressed to his ear. He hadn't kept time how long he'd been standing there like that, but his uncle must have been haranguing him for a full five minutes about not responding to his numerous voice messages.
"I'm at The Farmhouse now," Sam said when the old man finally took a breath.
"I know you are!"
How could he know that? Before he could explore the possibilities, Stuart was harping at him again.
"Have you found out anything?"
"I just got here last night," Sam said. "What do you expect me to have learned in less than forty-eight hours?"
"It was enough time to bed the woman, prove her immoral."
Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. "Stuart, you must know that me bedding Mickey's widow would hardly be reason enough for any court to take her son away from her…unless you already have a string of lovers to testify against her. In which case, I don't know what you need me for."
Silence filled the receiver and, for a moment, Sam thought the connection had been broken. Then… "Just stay there. Find something I can use against her. Does she drink to excess? Smoke pot? Do drugs? Does she leave the boy alone? Does she hit him? Take pictures of the bruises."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah. Running around with a camera won't look too obvious."
"You have a damn cell phone. Use the camera feature on it!"
"Yeah. Sure," he said and the connection went dead.
Just be honest with me. Dixie hadn't made him promise to be honest with anyone else. And what better place to hide-out than The Farmhouse, especially since staying was at Stuart's command.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pushing the lawnmower across the yard, Sam inhaled. There was something about the scent of freshly cut grass that made him feel alive. Maybe because it didn't take him back to the Carrington estate where grass clippings were shot into a collection bag to be emptied onto some compost pile far from the manicured lawns. Maybe it was the fact that he, good-for-nothing Sam, was the guy pushing the lawn mower that he tingled from his fingers to his shoulders. Stuart had once fired a gardener for allowing Sam to take a few passes with the riding mower.
Or maybe the reason Sam smiled even in the trail of exhaust fumes off the aged gas mower was because it was Dixie's lawn he cut. He liked doing things for her, loved how everything he did made her happy. He'd even made it through a full week working at her side and sleeping in the bedroom next to hers without breaking the promise he'd made himself, to keep his hands off her.
Of course he didn't manage that without a lot of distraction…like playing general handyman. Dixie had argued with him over every little task, insisting his being her chef was more than enough help. Granted, his handyman skills required reading a lot of self-help books. But at least she didn't have to wait until her contractor brother Roman visited to get her leaky kitchen faucet repaired, the loose floorboard in the front hall tightened down, or the bathroom drain snaked out.
But here it was Monday again, the one day of the week the restaurant was closed. He'd started today's distractions by helping Dixie tend her castoff critters and mending a broken fence. When he'd hauled out the lawnmower, she'd shook her head.
"One of these days, Sam," she'd said, "the newness of all this will wear off. Then you won't find the endless maintenance that comes with an old house and a family so much fun anymore."
Was newness all there was to his enjoyment of doing such simple tasks as cleaning gutters, emptying trash, and mowing the lawn? Would he eventually tire of this place like she said—like he had every other adventure?
Not as long as Ben trailed him, calling him Tin Man and asking for horsey-back rides. Not as long as Nana kept pinching his cheeks and calling him "a keeper" or Dixie's cousin Annie regaled him with tales of her twelve-year-old twins's antics and her truck driving husband Lou's bewildered parenting skills as though he were part of the family.
Not as long as Dixie treated him like family.
Family. No wonder he was glad no one had responded to Dixie's ads for a chef. As long as she needed him to cook for her, he could pretend to be part of this family—Mickey's family.
The lawnmower sputtered, coughed a couple times, and died. The sweet aroma of cut grass was lost to a puff of exhaust; and that life-affirming tingle the puttering mower had vibrated up his arms turned into a prickling premonition.
All good things must come to an end.
"Some too soon," he murmured, thinking of Mickey—leaning on the handle of the stilled mower and surveying what his cousin had left behind.
At the back of the yard in an orange-plastic sandbox, Ben built sandcastles. Bear dozed nearby in the shade of a mature oak. Along the side of the house, Dixie with trowel in hand tended the flowerbeds that added to the charm of the Victorian era house. The quiet life. The simple life.
The kind of life Stuart would take away from Ben.
Sam shivered and glanced skyward as though seeking reassurance the sun hadn't disappeared. A single white cloud floated across a sky as blue as Mickey's eyes. For an instant, Sam swore he felt the weight of Mickey's arm on his shoulder.
Acceptance or warning?
From Mickey, acceptance. Always acceptance.
But he, Sam, had come to The Farmhouse to dig up dirt on Dixie for Stuart. Even Mickey would never have endorsed that.
But Mickey would know there was no dirt to be found that Stuart could use to gain custody of Ben. Just as Mickey, from his celestial perspective would have
known Dixie would need a chef.
But, wouldn't Mickey also have known Sam came to The Farmhouse for his own selfish motives? Mickey would never have put his family's well-being at risk for the needs of a goof-off cousin…Mickey who'd always looked out for him.
Sam winced and gripped the handle of the mower, muttering, "All good things do not have to come to an end." Not if I can help it, Mickey.
Sam rolled the mower to the garage. Everything would be fine as long as he did nothing to give Stuart ammunition to take custody of Ben—as long as kept his hands off Dixie. He unscrewed the cap from the mower's gas tank and picked up the gas can. A soft hand covered his.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you never to gas-up a hot lawnmower," Dixie said in her smoky voice. "The gas fumes could ignite."
Sam sucked a quick breath, amazed the spark that had jumped between their flesh upon contact hadn't ignited the fumes. And therein lay his biggest problem. He still wanted to touch her every bit as much as he knew he shouldn't.
Dixie fought the impulse to pull her hand away from Sam's. Touching him made her tingle—made her want to be touched back him back. He brought a lightness to her heart that made her want more…Michael's cousin.
And Sam too needed touching—yearned for it. She'd seen it in the way he held onto Ben's hugs and in the way he leaned into Nana's pats on his cheeks. Felt it every time he jerked away when they bumped into each other as they rushed to fill orders in the restaurant kitchen.
"How about some lemonade?" she asked, lifting her hand from his.
He shook his head. "I'm fine."
"Water?"
He stepped back—stepped beyond her reach. "I'll just sit in the shade until the mower cools down."
In spite of the common sense screaming for her to leave him to himself, she followed him to the oasis of grass in the middle of the circular drive. He plopped down, his back to the apple tree. She settled Indian style facing him.
"Thanks for keeping me from blowing myself up," he said, folding his arms across his chest as though he needed to block her presence. "Guess I'm not too practiced at manual labor."
"Could have fooled me," she countered, pressing—pushing him. "I no longer have to contend with iron stains in my sink from a drippy faucet or worry about a customer tripping in my entry hall."
Finding Home (St. John Sibling Series Book 2) Page 10