by Jodi Thomas
"Think it will snow?" She opened her coffee and poured in both the creams he had brought, then looked around for something to stir with.
It occurred to him that he might be the only one trying to get over anything. She did not even look like she remembered their night together. Maybe she had forgotten it. Maybe she thought it was a dream. Who knew about women? He'd been seeing one of his Sunday ladies off and on for two years, and she still got mixed up and called him George now and then.
"I doubt we'll see snow. Might get rain later tonight." He tried to sound as casual as she did. Leaning back, he took a drink and frowned.
"Something wrong?"
"I can never get the coffee back here while it's still hot," he mumbled.
She pointed with the fork she had found in her desk drawer and had been using as a stir stick. "There's a microwave next to the sink over there." She pointed with her head toward the corner.
While he waited for his coffee to warm he said, "The only thing that seems to work around this place is you. The janitor told me the other day that if Cora Lee Wilson didn't move a little faster, he was going to have to start dusting her."
"I like to keep busy."
The microwave dinged and he reached for the thin cup. As he lifted his drink, the bottom of the cup caught the lip of the tray and splashed coffee across his hand.
Granger swore, tossed his cup in the sink, turned on the water, and plunged his right hand into the cold stream.
Meredith rushed to his side, pulling at his arm, trying to see if he was hurt. "Let me see where you're burned!"
"It's nothing," he said between clenched teeth. "Only a scald."
He rolled his sleeve up with one hand as water splashed over the cuff of his uniform.
She moved closer.
He jumped away, as if her touch burned deeper than the coffee.
Before she could react, he put the length of the desk between them. "It's not important." Granger fought to keep his voice calm. "There's no need for you to worry over it."
"Let me…" She reached toward him.
"No. Don't touch me."
Meredith stopped in midstride. She didn't say a word, but stood perfectly still, staring at him as though she had no idea what kind of creature he was.
Granger left the office in a hurry, no longer aware of his throbbing hand. He had told her it was nothing. Why did she have such a problem listening? What was wrong with the woman? Couldn't she understand that some people do not like to be fretted over, smothered with patting and pampering?
He rushed out the side door and walked to his car. Without a backward glance, he drove off the parking lot and headed toward the campus. There would be no one there today. He would cross through the streets of town until he calmed down and forgot about the way Meredith's face looked, all hurt and disappointed.
She was not his type. Not tall, not long-legged. Cluttery. Not what he liked. She was mothering. The kind who would tie strings around a man until he could not move.
After an hour he turned into the truck stop and told them the burrito was so good, he'd come back for a full meal. He took his time eating and visiting with the manager. When he returned to the courthouse, Meredith's blue Mustang was gone. He made himself finish his paperwork and, about nine, finally figured he was tired enough to get to sleep without thinking about her.
But despite his plans, he circled by her house on his way home. A fog had moved in, and he needed to see that she got home safely. With that piece of junk she drove it was always a question.
Every light in her place was on. The air, thick with rain, made her windows fuzzy against the dark wood of her house.
He pulled up and waited for ten minutes before he finally turned off the engine and climbed out of his car.
He knocked twice before she answered.
She opened the door and stepped back, letting him in without a word.
As always, her place was warm. He took a deep breath, wondering what he would say.
She walked to the center of the living room and crossed her arms over her funny-looking bedspread robe. "How's your hand?" she said calmly. He saw slippers with bunny rabbit heads peeking out from beneath her robe.
"Fine." He held up his left hand. "I drove around with it hanging out the window for a while." That was not what lie had come to say. He had no idea why he had come, but talking about his hand was definitely not it. He should have just circled Frankie's Bar and headed home as usual.
"I have some lotion that might help." She did not move to get it.
He didn't want to talk about his hand or lotion. She was not one of his Sunday girls; she deserved better. "Look, I'm sorry.
"So am I," she answered.
He smiled. "What the hell have you got to be sorry about, Meredith? I'm the one who swore and bolted out of your office." It made him mad that she was slicing off a piece of his "I'm sorry."
Walking to the bar, he deposited his hat and noticed the counter was as cluttered as ever. "I'm not some kind of pervert or anything." He shifted, not wanting to discuss the subject but knowing he had to. "I just don't like people touching me. I hate it when someone slaps me on the back or shakes hands longer than necessary." This was not a topic up for debate; it was just the way he had always been.
He faced her. She hadn't moved. The woman stood so still she must have grown roots.
"If you're waiting for some sad story of me being slapped around by my old man or something, you're out of luck. No deep-seated short circuit, just a preference. My parents are normal people. My dad's an accountant who might bore someone to death one day with his love of numbers, my mother keeps a spotless house and plays bridge."
"What about you touching others?" She tilted her head slightly.
He saw where she was headed. "I never offer a handshake first, but in my line of work there are times I have to handle folks." He thought of the night at the hospital when she had crumbled and he held her to keep her from falling.
"Look, Meredith, this is more than you probably care to know about me. I just came to say I'm sorry about blowing up like that in your office. I know you were only trying to help." He picked up his hat, absently dusting it off.
"What about me?" She asked directly. "Did you like touching me or was it just one of the things you have to do sometimes `in your line of work'?"
"I enjoyed the other night. Better than I've enjoyed anything in a long time. I felt like you were the first real person I've been around in years." He remembered the softness of her body, the way she was rounded with curves. He liked the feel of her more than he wanted to admit. She was different from other women-she did not act as if she had been handled by many men. With her it was pure feeling, not just some way she had learned to behave.
"So this isn't a two-way street with you? You like touching, but you don't like being touched."
He did not even try to follow her logic, but he nodded. He had never really thought about it. Most women just accepted his terms, without trying to define and analyze them.
"What about kissing?" She took a step toward him. "Where do you stand on that?"
"Kissing's all right, but there are better things to do."
"And holding hands?"
"A waste of time. I'd never bother with such a thing." He thought of adding something like "A lawman needs to keep both hands ready to reach for his gun," but she was far too smart for that corny rookie line. She deserved more.
Problem was, the "more" was more than he wanted to give.
She moved to within a few feet of him. "Thank you for explaining things to me, Sheriff."
He watched her as she played with the belt on her robe.
"I have a plate of food Crystal Howard's cook brought over just after you left." She did not meet his eyes. "I could warm it, if you're hungry."
He set his hat back on the counter, not the least interested in the offered meal. "How do you feel about shaking hands, Meredith?"
She finally looked at him. "It doesn't both
er me."
"And kissing?"
"I could use a little more of that in my life."
"And touching?" He hooked his finger around the belt of her robe and pulled her a step nearer.
"That, too," she answered.
He tugged at the belt and the robe parted slightly. Leaning down, he pressed his mouth against hers. Dear God, she tasted of hot cocoa.
It had been so long since he had just kissed a woman, he was afraid he had forgotten how. He felt her bottom lip tremble.
"I want you." He whispered words that had never failed.
No line, no sweet talk, just honesty. His hand slipped beneath her robe and felt the fullness of her breast.
She stepped away so quickly, he swayed forward a few inches.
"And I want more." She gulped the words as she pulled her robe together.
Granger was more shocked than angry. He straightened as he retrieved his hat. She was turning him down. The little schoolteacher with the too short, too rounded body was turning him down.
"Good evening, Mrs. Allen," he said as if he were just checking on her safety.
He was at the door when he heard her say, "I want a man who'll hold my hand in front of God and everybody."
"Grow up, Meredith," he mumbled as he closed the door behind him.
He barely heard her whisper, "I'm through settling in my life."
In the early days of cattle ranching, cowboys were hired for "forty and found." Forty dollars a month and what they found on the table to eat.
Thanksgiving Night
Montano Ranch
Anna Montano made it through the time called Thanksgiving without feelings, as she had for five years. She cooked for the ranch hands who did not leave for the long weekend. This year, scattered among the men who cared for the horses were rough oil workers who came to clean up and restart the drilling on Montano land.
Anna seldom talked with the ranch hands, except to ask about a particular horse that was having trouble. Most mornings her mount would be saddled and waiting for her when she reached the barn. When she finished her ride, she would brush the horse down and put up the saddle herself. If she chanced to pass one of the men, he would be polite, but never friendly.
The oil workers were different. They were louder. More sure of themselves. More full of themselves.
Davis had an old fellow who cooked for the men in the bunkhouse. He made pies and breads before he flew home every holiday, leaving Anna to prepare the rest of the meal. She then loaded dinner in the back of her car and drove to the bunkhouse on the other side of the barn fifty feet farther away from the house than Carlo's quarters. Thanksgiving was the only day she wished the buildings were closer. Anna enjoyed the walk to the barn each morning for her ride, but she could have never carried the dozen dishes there and baclk without the use of her car today.
The first year she tried Thanksgiving dinner, it had been a disaster. Davis had not complained though, he just called the hotel in town that boasted of the best buffet on Thanksgiving and ordered twenty deluxe dinners. By the time he drove to town, twenty take-out boxes were waiting for him.
He gave her a cookbook for Christmas, and the next year she did everything right. She remembered how proud she had been of herself and how disappointed that he had not said a word about her efforts.
This year the usual twenty men had grown to thirty-two with the addition of the oilmen. The hired men lived in a long building they called "the bunkhouse." But the oilmen did not stay in the quarters provided. They moved ugly little trailers onto Montano land and parked near the site of the burned rig. They all drove huge pickups with wheels that looked twice the size needed. The grassland around their trailers was now chewed up by the tires.
The newcomers tried to talk with her as she served the dinner, but Carlo quickly told them not to bother because her English was "not so good." He knew she was nervous and would not prove him wrong. One of the young hands who had helped her deliver a colt last spring glanced up at her. She smiled, knowing he knew the truth. The young man opened his mouth to argue with Carlo, then thought better of it and became totally interested in his food.
By six o'clock, Anna was exhausted. She finished washing the serving plates and pots. Now it was time to make sandwiches from the leftovers and deliver them to the bunkhouse door. Then, her job would be over. Tomorrow the men would make do with cold breakfasts and delivered pizza for lunch. Friday night dinner always started the weekend where each man was on his own. Most ate in town. A few rummaged for food in one of the bunkhouse refrigerators. By Monday morning they were always glad to eat the cook's meals no matter what he prepared.
Anna made sure the small kitchen in the bunkhouse was stocked with snacks and beer, plus all the basics should one of the hands get the urge to cook. She doubted it. When she delivered the sandwiches, the men were playing poker in the long main room, while a football game blared on TV. Beer cans already littered the floor and no one except Carlo seemed to notice she brought supper.
"Good night, Anna," Carlo said without bothering to add a thank-you. He did not wait for her to answer before he turned back to his card game. The stress on running the ranch was starting to show on him. Though they were making money nothing seemed good enough.
He had had his hair cut short like most of the hands and, for the first time, Carlo had switched to American clothes. He was becoming Americanized, she thought, though he probably would not know the word.
As she walked the hundred yards back to her house, she noticed the light came on at Zack Larson's place. She had not repeated her journey to his porch. Told herself she never would. But the sight of the light made her smile and remember.
She wondered if he had spent the day alone. Maybe as alone as she had been surrounded with people. She could still feel the warmth of his arms around her.
The music of Chopin greeted her when she stepped back into her house. Nothing in the place was hers except the music. The thick leather furniture, heavy wooden tables and iron lamps were only necessities in her prison.
Anna lifted an afghan from the footstool by the fireplace and curled up in the huge chair Davis had always called his. He had been cold and distant, but she missed him. Or more accurately, she missed being able to hope that life might get better, that someday he would come out from behind all the papers and work and see her. Now, there was no more hope for that day.
She drifted in sleep until Carlo opened the door wide, letting in the cold damp air. He was halfway across the room before she was awake enough to take flight.
He caught her in two steps.
"I saw you flirting with one of the men." He did not bother to even try English.
Anna choked on the smell of beer as he pulled her close and glared down at her.
"You are Davis's widow. You should have more pride."
He tightened his grip on each arm. "You will not shame the family." He shook her so hard she felt sure he would break the bones in both her arms. "I will see that you do not!"
Anna sobbed trying to get a word out, wanting to tell him that she did not even know what he was talking about. But he never stopped swearing and calling her names.
He released one arm and she swayed trying to keep her footing. Her hands flew to her face to shield herself from the blow she knew would come.
Carlo hesitated, swearing at her cowardice, then he threw her against the brick of the fireplace as though he could not stand to look at her any longer.
A moment later he was gone, leaving the door open.
Anna leaned against the rough brick and slowly lowered her hands from her face. Tears came in gulps of fear. As a girl, she had lived in dread that one day her father might find her when he raged. Carlo was a childhood nightmare come to life.
She staggered to the door and pushed it closed, locking it for the first time since she had lived at the ranch. Watching through the thin glass slit in the door, Anna saw Carlo disappear behind the barn. It must be almost midnight, but there were always
men who would be willing to drink with Carlo, just as they used to drink all night with Davis when he was in one of his melancholy moods.
Anna rushed to the kitchen, fighting tears. She glanced out the back windows. There it was. Zack's light. A tiny dot in the fog.
Determined to control one moment of her life, Anna slipped on her raincoat over her silk blouse and walked out the back door.
Tonight, she did not hurry. Her blood pounded doubletime through her veins, fired by anger and hurt, thick with fear. For she knew Carlo was getting worse, and the next time he might put her in the hospital-if he did not kill her first.
With slow steady steps she crossed the muddy distance between her house and Zack's. She had no idea what she would say. She hoped she did not have to say anything. She needed to feel safe, if only for an hour. She needed to think.
The fog cloaked any view until she was within twenty feet of his place. He was not outside on his porch tonight, but sitting at a table by one of the huge windows that ran along the front of his place. He leaned over a stack of papers, frowning.
She moved closer.
He ran his hand through hair the same color as the mud around his place. When he reached for his coffee mug, he glanced up and spotted her standing a few feet from his porch.
Zack was out the door before she had time to react.
"What happened, Anna?"
She saw his worried eyes and realized she must look a fright. Her hair was wild and wet. Warm tears blended with the rain.
"M-my-" How could she tell him? Her mother's voice echoed in her mind. Only the family's business…a family secret… no one else needs to know.
Once her father had blackened her mother's eye during an argument. When he thought she had gone to the police, he'd beaten her so badly it had taken a week before she regained enough strength to climb out of bed. The first night she had been able to dress and come down to dinner, Anna's father had invited the police chief to join them. Anna watched as her mother slowly ate her meal in silence and she never forgot the lesson. Some problems in the family must remain in the family.