by Cara Colter
“It’s going to be whatever we make it,” he told her.
And then he looked at the sky. There was no sign of the snow letting up. None. If anything, it seemed to be snowing harder than when they had first come out.
And so there was no sign of their forced togetherness coming to an end.
And that, too, would be whatever they made it.
* * *
Ty’s house still smelled of fresh-baked bread, even though it had been more than twenty-four hours since they had made it.
The smell alone made his mouth water.
“Do you want some toast,” he said, “and jam?”
The baby was bathed and in bed. Ty sprawled out on the couch, his arm thrown up over his forehead, his eyes closed.
Amy turned from the window. “You have not stopped eating since I got here!”
“You have not stopped cooking since you got here.”
“We,” she reminded him.
“No man who has been cooking for himself as long as I have could resist that bread. Amy, it is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
That was not exactly true. The best thing he had ever tasted had been her lips, and after the best part of three days in each other’s company, he was fighting himself constantly.
“It’s all in the kneading,” she said, glanced again at him, something hot flashing through her eyes when he deliberately flexed his kneading muscles for her.
“How do you do this all by yourself?” he asked a few minutes later, coming back into the living room with a plate heaped with toast. “It’s utterly exhausting. Who knew a baby was so much work?”
He took a bite, closed his eyes and sighed. Then he reopened them.
“You can’t make it stop snowing by standing there.”
“I stopped wishing it would stop after you beat me at Scrabble last night. It has to last at least until the rematch. Do you want to set it up for tonight?”
He was happy to see the consistently worried look was gone, even though the continuation of the snowfall meant she wasn’t going anywhere tomorrow, either.
He had turned on the radio with supper. What was going on outside his window was a part of what was being called the Storm of the Century. Some of the secondary roads were closed, including The Cowboy Trail, 22, which his driveway joined.
“Honestly, Amy? I’m too tired to pit my wits against you. How do you do it by yourself?”
They were moving back and forth between their two worlds seamlessly. She and the baby had come with him today to do chores. They had all squeezed into the cab of his tractor as he moved large bales into the pasture for his cows. Then they had played with the horse again. Despite not being able to use her one hand, she had executed a pretty passable trot.
Inside, it was her world. She loved to cook. She had shown him how to make bread and cookies, a simple cream soup. The baby was an unbelievable amount of work: diaper and clothing changes, baths and feedings. How did she manage all this by herself?
“It never seems like work to me,” she said and came and sat down in the chair opposite him. “It’s what I always wanted. Babies. A cozy kitchen. Bread baking.”
This was getting easier all the time, too, conversation flowing between them with the ease of old friends.
“What made you want that?” he asked.
She turned and smiled at him. “I know. I know. It’s a hopelessly traditional, old-fashioned vision in a modern world. It’s not what my parents hoped for me at all.”
“Really?” He sensed she was going to trust him with some parts of herself that she did not reveal often.
He needed to be worthy of that trust. He closed his eyes, so he wouldn’t look at her lips, and pulled his plate of toast close so that the scent would override hers.
“My parents were both business analysts. Their skills were sought after all over the world. I grew up in Germany, Japan, California, France.
“We always lived in the best houses in the best neighborhoods, but it never felt like home. I don’t ever remember having a home-cooked meal, unless our current house came with staff, which they sometimes did. And then it was hardly roast beef and potatoes. Baked Sockeye salmon with a lemongrass sauce.
“I was always in private schools with loads of activities, depending which country we were in. I’m something of a reluctant expert at figure skating, gymnastics, badminton, swimming and soccer. But really, from the youngest age, I remember craving home.
“I craved a sense of family. I was an only child who wanted six brothers and sisters. It was probably unrealistic, my vision based on watching TV families, reading magazines. But unrealistic or not, I started cooking and baking when I was about thirteen. And I had my own ideas about what I wanted my room to look like, wherever we were, and it did not mesh with the designer’s idea of teenage girl. I wanted homemade crafts on the walls, a crocheted blanket.
“It was my mother’s worst nightmare.”
Ty laughed. “At thirteen you were crocheting blankets and baking cookies, and that was your mother’s worst nightmare? She wouldn’t have wanted to know me at thirteen.”
“Oh! Tell me about that!”
“Stealing sips of whiskey. Smoking behind the barn. Sneaking out of the house. Taking the truck without permission. Terrorizing the neighborhood girls.” He felt the ripple of sympathy for his dad again.
“I’m not saying one more word about my boring childhood!”
“Please?” he wheedled. “I like hearing about you at thirteen.”
“I’m not sure why. I taught myself how to cook and crochet. I got a sewing machine and learned to sew. My mother was appalled by my fascination with all things domestic. I had my own little world.”
“Boys?” he asked.
“Terrified of them, while writing secret love letters to the ones I liked best. Never mailed, of course.”
“Of course.” He laughed. He could see her as just that kind of girl: sweet and shy, the kind guys, dumb prisoners to raging hormones that they were, overlooked again and again.
“We were back in Canada when I finished high school—still no boyfriend—and by then, I was dreaming of babies to fill up my little fantasy cottage. But I did what my parents wanted. I went to university in Calgary, as per my mother’s plans, but in my second year a boy had finally shown interest in me.
“Poor guy. Before he knew what had happened, I had him cast in the starring role of my secret fantasy. I dropped out to get married. My parents, surprisingly, approved of Edwin, possibly because his family owned a company that traded on the New York Stock Exchange.
“Edwin was still going to university, so we lived with his parents.”
“You were newlyweds and you lived with his parents?”
“Actually, at first it seemed as if I was in heaven. His mother was like Martha Stewart on steroids.”
“Martha who?”
“Stewart. She has a television show. And a magazine. She’s the world’s leading expert on all things domestic, from removing wine stains from white linen to making Halloween punch with the illusion of a dismembered hand floating in it.”
“Terrifying,” he said drily.
“The Halloween punch or Martha?”
“Both. You were telling me about your in-laws.”
“They had lived in the same house for twenty-five years.”
“That’s not long. There have been Hallidays on this place for over a hundred.”
Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. Amy got a distinctly dreamy look on her face.
“For somebody like me who never had a home, a family in the same place for so long was like a fairy tale coming true. And then it was all about cooking, and stunning crafts, and décor, and creating an environment that whispered sweet welcome.
“But somewher
e along the line, I realized it was all about how everything looked, and not about how it felt. Cynthia’s perfect home, her perfectly cooked meals, her crystal collections and towels folded in precise thirds—everything looked so perfect and felt so plastic.
“And, I’m afraid that describes my marriage, too. I thought it was the house, so as soon as Edwin finished university, I wanted to move out. But he said it was too much pressure. He’d been appointed CEO of one of the family companies, and that was his life.
“Honestly, I felt as if I was back with my parents. He worked. I was invisible. I thought the baby would help.”
“Ah.”
“It helped me. I didn’t feel so alone. I finally had something to live for.” She said softly, reluctantly, “It was not what I had hoped my marriage would be.”
“My first clue—living with his parents. My second clue—he wanted to live with his parents. Pretty hard to chase each other around the house shrieking with amour when Mommy and Daddy are looking on.”
“We managed to make a baby,” she said primly.
“Miracle of miracles.”
“I’ve never said this to another living soul.”
He said nothing, waiting.
“The baby was wonderful. Other than that, I’ve never felt so lonely. My own parents had decided to retire. You know how the type A personality retires? Mountain trekking in Nepal.”
“Not there for you.”
“You want to hear something ironic? They built an orphanage in Africa.”
“And you were practically an orphan.”
“I didn’t mean to sound like I wanted pity. I had absolutely everything growing up.”
“You didn’t sound like you wanted pity,” he assured her.
“So, almost by accident, after Jamey was born, I started this little website on the internet called Baby Bytes. I never even told Edwin, my parents, his parents. It was so precious to me, and I knew I couldn’t handle the put-downs or the patronizing or the criticism or the input.
“Edwin was killed in an accident very shortly after that. He was coming home from work late. He’d had a few drinks and hit a telephone pole.
“I feel like my little company kept me going, gave me back an identity when I was suffocating in everyone’s expectations. Their expectations actually felt even more stifling after he died.
“I was supposed to behave like the grieving widow for the rest of my life. Live with his parents. Gratefully accept their help and their gifts.
“When the house-sitting opportunity came up, I knew I had to take it. To make the break. Baby Bytes has started to make money, and I know I can take it to the next level.”
“Tell me about it.”
She gave him a wary look, as if she was deciding whether or not to tell him the color of her underwear.
“It’s just a website. It’s free for people to use, mostly young moms. It’s got recipes on it for everything from making bread to making your own baby food. And I put up patterns for clothes and homemade toys. Photography tips. I have little contests for cute baby pictures and best names. Nobody is more surprised than me by the number of people using the site.”
She ducked her head, as if waiting for him to mock her success.
“I think that’s great,” he said, and he meant it.
“It’s kind of like the Martha Stewart of the baby world,” she said, her tone self-disparaging.
He hated that. When no one else put her down, she did it herself.
“I like how you are blending different worlds,” he told her. “Using high tech to showcase things you value.”
He was aware that was what they had been doing for the past few days, too. Blending worlds. Moving back and forth between each other’s worlds with a growing amount of comfort.
“I started putting out feelers,” she confided shyly, “and a couple of the big baby companies, like Baby Nap, have committed to taking out ads on it. It’s going to give me a very comfortable living within a year.”
“So you have your parents’ business acumen, too. That’s amazing. You must be very proud.”
“I’m scared.”
“No, you’re not. You were scared, but today and yesterday you played with a horse. And now you don’t have to be scared anymore. Not of anything.”
“Anything?” she whispered. She took a deep breath, and turned, and looked at him with those amazing, beautiful eyes. “How about the fact it’s still snowing?”
“I think we’ll survive.”
“It’s the twenty-first of December today. How about the fact I may be spending Christmas with you?”
“It’s just another day. You can celebrate it however you want when you leave.”
She looked at him long and hard, as if he was clearly missing the point. She drew in another deep breath.
He had to have known this was coming. He had to have sensed it in their growing comfort with one another, the effortless way he had become her extra hand, the enthusiastic way she was embracing his world.
But somehow her next words shocked him completely. Completely.
“How about the way I’m starting to feel about you, Ty Halliday? How about that?”
CHAPTER SIX
TY leaped up off the couch as if he’d accidentally sat on a hot ember. He nearly dumped his plate.
“Like I said, I’m exhausted. Done in. I have to go to bed.”
Amy squinted at him narrowly. This was a repeat of when she had kissed him! He was letting her know, in no uncertain terms, he was not interested in her in that way.
“I’m going to have to figure out a way to get to my dad tomorrow,” he said as if he had to rush off to bed and think hard about that.
“Your dad?” she asked, astounded.
“He and his lady friend live on the old Halliday homestead place. It’s a few miles from here. I’d better make sure they’re stocked up.”
Amy felt shocked. She’d assumed Ty was alone in life. Really alone. As alone as any person she had ever met. But his dad lived a few miles away, and he’d never even mentioned it?
She suddenly felt embarrassed that she had blurted out her whole life story to him. In fact, over the past three days, she had revealed quite a bit about herself.
But he hadn’t! She had just assumed they were getting to know each other, but in actual fact he’d been getting to know her.
Enough to know he wasn’t interested in that way. She watched him take off down the hall to his room, heard the finality in the way the door snapped closed.
Ty Halliday was telling her to back off and that was his right.
It was the situation here that had made her feel so instantly enamored with him. It was seeing him laughing with Jamey, frowning over the Scrabble board, kneading bread until his arm muscles rippled, looking after her hand with such tenderness, stepping up to the plate to uncomplainingly shoulder every single thing she couldn’t do because of her injury.
But the kicker had been to see Ty Halliday on a horse. It went beyond horsemanship.
It went straight to spirit.
She had witnessed the grace and the power of man and horse melt into one seamless entity.
Watching Ty ride was going to that place she had been to so rarely: a place of being fully engaged, fully connected, fully alive.
And she thought she might as well just die now if she did not learn how to get there, too.
But it was precisely the same mistake she had made before. She was looking for a hero, someone to rescue her from her life.
And Ty would certainly fit anyone’s definition of a hero. Seeing him in his element and watching the ease with which he had slipped into hers, given the forced closeness of their circumstances, her total reliance on him, it was natural that she would be feeling things with a
strange and sizzling intensity.
It was not unlike a hostage bonding with their captor.
And if there was one thing she was done with, it was being taken hostage. She had to take responsibility for her own life. No more waiting to be rescued.
Knowing exactly what she had to do, she marched into the kitchen.
The phone was still unplugged from the wall.
So, despite the physical closeness of his father, Ty really was more alone than most people. She doubted he had even given a thought to his phone being unplugged—him being unable to be reached—since he had pulled that thing from the wall. If he was concerned about his father, why didn’t he phone him?
None of her business, she told herself firmly. She was in no position to advise Ty on family matters when she had allowed her own to become such a mess.
Now, taking a deep breath, Amy plugged the telephone back in and dialed the familiar number. She was aware her heart was beating too fast. She was aware that all her life she had been telling people how to treat her.
Now she had ridden a horse. Now she had breathed his essence deep inside her. Now she had to step up and claim her own space.
“Hello, Cynthia, it’s Amy.”
“I have been so worried! I was within a hairbreadth of calling the police.”
Cynthia’s tone was wounded, and of course she would not have called the police. It was just her way of letting Amy know she felt her negligence was nearly criminal. She bit back the impulse to apologize.
Instead, she pictured walking up to that horse and not giving an inch.
“Cynthia,” she said firmly, “while I appreciate your concern, I’m fine. Jamey is fine. I just wanted to let you know we won’t be there for Christmas dinner. You’ve probably seen on the news that the roads are closed out this way. I’m at the end of a long driveway. It’s going to take a while to dig out.”
“But where are you? The call display still says Halliday, not McFinley. You said you were house-sitting for people called McFinley. I’ve called the number listed for them in the phone book. And there is no answer. And there is no answer at the house you called from with the so-called washer repairman. So where are you? And who was that man who answered the phone? Please don’t play me for the fool. I know it wasn’t a washer repairman. Have you met someone on the internet? It’s not safe!”