by Vivian Arend
There was no sign of her sister, or her family. “Where’s Leslie?”
“Amanda has the flu, and Leslie’s worried it’s going to go through the whole family, so they sent their regrets.”
Too bad. Her nieces would have made a great buffer tonight for the testosterone at the dinner table. Laurel pushed aside her concerns. “Getting sick could make it tough for her to sing on Sunday. I hope she avoids whatever bug it is.”
“Your sister has the constitution of a bull elephant. She’ll be fine.” Her mom bustled around, popping vegetables into bowls and adding seasonings. “Or at least that’s what I keep telling her. She’s not allowed to miss choir. She has a solo.”
“It’s just choir, Mom. The congregation will sing louder.” She couldn’t resist. “Or, I bet Mrs. Pfeiffer would jump at the chance to fill in.”
Her mother didn’t swear, but she certainly made a rude noise under her breath. “We’ll have to send up lots of prayers so that doesn’t happen.” She swung instantly toward Laurel and shook a finger. “Don’t you repeat that in public.”
Laurel snickered.
Her mom gave her a mock dirty look before pointing at the pot. “Aren’t you supposed to stir when you’re making gravy?”
She bit down her amusement and turned back to the stove. “Yes, ma’am.”
Masculine voices floated in the background, too low to be clearly heard, but so far everything seemed to be going okay. Laurel eyed the clock and estimated how long it would be before she and Rafe could escape.
Her mom was in full kitchen-commando mode. “David,” she called. “I need you. Come carve the roast.”
“On my way.” Her father’s answer came instantly, the familiar rumbling tone rolling through the house like an echo, comforting and right.
“Jeff.” Her mother waited until he rounded the corner. “I need your help as well. Will you mash the potatoes for me, please?”
That request wasn’t nearly as comforting and welcoming.
“Love to.”
The room was about to get a whole lot more crowded. With her hands occupied, Laurel was stuck standing over the stove and whisking rapidly as she poured hot drippings into the pot.
Jeff brushed past her as he entered the small kitchen. His reflection was mirrored in the kitchen window as he rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal strong forearms. His dark hair perfectly in place except for that one spot that always stuck up a little, making him look more human.
The man was attractive, she’d admit it, but it was the sight of Rafe beyond Jeff that set her body tingling and her heart pounding.
He leaned on the doorframe as he took in the domestic activity. From top to bottom he was one fine sight, long legs covered by crisp new jeans, his thigh muscles challenging the fabric. His dark-blond hair was long enough to curl at his neckline, and she was tempted to reach over to slip her fingers through it. He’d put on a dressy shirt, no tie, and the material stretched over broad shoulders, firm muscles pressing the fabric as he folded his arms over his broad chest.
Yup, she was staring, but the view was too good to ignore.
His eyes sparkled at her, and he winked before easing to vertical and approaching her mom.
“You’d better put me to work too, or I’ll feel left out. What can I do?” he asked.
“There’s silverware to be laid on the table,” her mom suggested, pressing the utensils into his hands then turning and pushing him into the dining room. “Napkins are in the top left drawer—”
“—beside the placemats. I remember.” He was nothing but polite, but Laurel knew he was holding back from making a comment about how often he’d had dinner at this very table.
Jeff had moved to her immediate left, smiling down as she swirled the whisk through the gravy.
“That smells great,” he offered, applying the potato masher to the pot without looking at what he was doing. He was examining her instead, eyes tracing over her in admiration, the way she’d imagined before Rafe had picked her up.
Only it didn’t seem to be the expression of a man who was counting his losses. It was someone strategizing to make a move.
Which— No. Way.
“My mom did everything. I’m just the unpaid labour,” she offered.
“Me too,” he whispered conspiratorially, leaning closer. “Am I supposed to add anything? I’m only the manpower, literally.”
Laurel got busy as if something vital was happening in the pot in front of her. How was it possible to take this long for gravy to set? “Oh, you’ll have to ask my mom. I’m not sure what she’s got planned.”
“Laurel. You know we love your mashed potatoes. What is it that you always add?” Suddenly her mom stood behind her, reaching around to steal the whisk from her unwilling fingers. “Here, let me take over. You work with Jeff to get those potatoes ready.”
Good grief, if Laurel didn’t know better she’d suspect that—
No, it was too obvious to deny. Her mom was pushing her toward Jeff even though Rafe was wandering around the table right now, not even ten feet away. She glanced at Jeff who smiled apologetically, but with far too much interest considering she’d shown up with another man.
Nope. Her mom’s weird behaviour wasn’t Jeff’s fault, but he didn’t mind them being shoved together one bit.
The only solution was to get out of there as quick as possible. “Let me grab a couple things, but you get to do the heavy labour.”
“I’m all yours,” he answered quickly.
Which was exactly what she didn’t want.
It was like walking through a china shop blindfolded. It seemed there was nothing she could do or say that wasn’t going to backfire. As soon as she got everything in the bowl for Jeff, she excused herself, slipping back into the dining room to catch up with Rafe.
He’d been watching the entire thing with amusement.
“Stop it,” she muttered.
“I didn’t say a word,” he whispered back, blinking innocently. “You do make good mashed potatoes.”
His expression was completely serious, and she resisted poking him in the ribs. Instead she stepped on his foot as she walked past him, his chuckle rumbling in her ears.
Her mom rushed in and took over, seating everyone with rapid-fire precision—the three of them in their usual family positions with her mom and dad at the head and foot of the table. Rafe sat across her, and Jeff at her side, which was perfect. She’d far prefer to accidentally bump elbows with the man every now and then instead of futilely avoiding eye contact all meal.
Her mom placed the final bowl on the table and whipped right into conversation. “Rafe. I understand you’ve been gone.” She offered the basket of bread down the table to Jeff. “We haven’t seen you around lately.”
“I was on the road, plus it’s been pretty busy out on the ranch,” he said. “Gabe and I have been doing a lot of improvements over the past couple of years.”
“I’ve heard good things,” she said. “How are Allison and the baby?”
“Doing well. You should come out sometime,” he offered “I picked up some new stock, and there should be lambs within the next couple of weeks.”
“What else are you working on?” Laurel asked, honestly curious. A flush of guilt swept in for not having asked sooner about that part of his life. The Angel Coleman ranch had been going through some tough times before she left. “I remember you wanted to raise more chickens. I always got a kick out of that. Rafe Coleman, chicken rancher.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled in response. “Yes, we have more chickens. Turkeys and geese as well—Allison started us growing poultry, and that part of the ranch is doing great.
“How do you ranch birds?” Jeff asked. “Do you use really small horses to round them up?”
“Tiny little lariats,” Rafe joked. He turned back to Laurel and shook a finger at her snicker. “I’ll have you know it takes a lot of skill to lasso only one at a time.”
“Have you ever been on
the wrong side of a chicken stampede?” she asked.
“Crushed by chickens. Not a good thing for on a headstone,” her father offered.
Suddenly the whole evening felt…different. Some of her tension faded as she looked into Rafe’s smiling eyes. He was there for her, his lighthearted, familiar manner making a difference.
When their plates were filled with food they paused for a moment for her father to say grace. She’d never been more grateful their family didn’t have the tradition of holding hands while they prayed.
The rest of their dinner conversation stayed generic and light, and other than Jeff squirming oddly in his chair off and on, nothing out of the ordinary happened. No outbursts or troublesome reveals, and she figured she’d dodged a bullet.
She and Rafe were saying their goodbyes far sooner than expected.
“Good to meet you,” Jeff told Rafe as they stood at the door about to leave.
“Safe travels back to Toronto,” Rafe said, nodding a final farewell to her father. “Pastor Dave.”
“I’d love to stop by sometime,” her father mentioned. “If that offer to see the lambs wasn’t just for Corinne.”
“You and Mrs. Sitko are more than welcome. Give me a call to make sure I’m around.” Rafe accepted a hug from Laurel’s mom, then they escaped to his truck.
They were a few blocks away before he chuckled. An evil sound that was far too familiar.
“What?” Laurel demanded. “I know that laugh. You did something terrible.”
“Did not.”
“Rafe…”
He shook his head. “Nope. Not me. Just thinking that the Coleman land’s got my back.”
He wasn’t making any sense. She made a face at him then looked out the front window at the passing countryside. He’d left Rocky Mountain House, headed north. “Fine, keep your secrets for now. I’ll tease them out of you later.”
They sat in silence for a minute, and she closed her eyes. It was fortunate the evening had turned out the way it had. She could easily avoid Jeff during the week, and after next Sunday he’d be gone—hopefully never to return. That part of her history would be gone and forgotten.
The truck slowed, and she popped open her eyes as Rafe took the corner into his brother’s place.
While she liked Gabe and Allison, a visit with them wasn’t exactly what she’d been thinking of for a date. Still, she put on a good face.
“How are Gabe and Allison?”
“Fine.”
He drove right past the house to the opposite side of the new barn.
Okaaaay. “Are you sure I’m dressed for the occasion?”
Rafe caught her by the hand and tugged her out the door after him, the smooth glide of her body against his sending a lovely shot of heat through her system.
“Trust me.” He opened the main door and gestured her in.
Light faded to nothing inside the barn. Rafe grabbed a flashlight from the side of the door and offered it to her.
“One for you, and one for me.” He clicked his on. “This way.”
Chapter Eight
Dinner had turned out surprisingly well, considering Rafe had spent most of the evening trying not to say something inflammatory to get under Jeff’s skin. Instead he took what pleasure he could from realizing the other man hadn’t gone unscathed from their encounter that morning.
It wasn’t as good as planting a fist in Jeff’s gut, but knowing the stinging nettles on the thistles had gotten to him enough to make Jeff squirm was worth a few laughs.
Coming out to Angel property—far more comfortable. He and Laurel had a lot to discuss, but he didn’t want what was their first real date to just be about getting things out in the open.
He’d hurried after getting the invite to dinner and made a few arrangements before going to pick Laurel up. Now he guided her across the floor, her fingers linked in his. The barn smelled like a barn, but a clean, fresh one. Low contented sounds echoed on the air occasionally as she stepped beside him, the boards underfoot clean and white-yellow, not yet aged or stained by years of use.
Laurel swept her arm forward, the light from her flashlight a broad oval ahead of their feet. “Are we spies tonight?” she whispered. “We haven’t done that for ages.”
He chuckled as he led her to a steep staircase against the sidewall. “We do have lights in here,” he said. “But I like how the flashlights feel.”
She squeezed his fingers before reaching for the railing. “I don’t mind. Let’s pretend we’re going on a treasure hunt.”
“Pretend away.”
The staircase was longer than in a regular house, leading up to the second level far above the animals below. The back half of the hayloft was already full, but there was room for a whole lot more bales to be stacked.
He dropped his phone into a speaker set at the top of the stairs and clicked on the playlist he’d made before leading her toward the open area where he’d set a cloth-covered table and two chairs, flickering lights glowing in welcome.
“Rafe Coleman, are those candles you left burning in a hayloft?” She sounded panicked and outraged, ready to rush forward and put them out.
“Worrywart.” He snagged her by the hand to keep her close until he could pick one up and flip it over to show her the switch on the bottom. “Battery operated.”
She flopped into the chair he held for her. “You’re crazy. There was no need to leave things lit up.”
“I wanted to make a good first impression. And you need to trust me more,” he repeated.
“I mean it’s pretty, and all, but still.” She glanced around the space. “Fancy.”
“Private,” he countered. “We’ll go to Traders later, but we need time to talk, and it’d be nice to do that somewhere no one can overhear us.”
She seemed to consider for a moment before nodding. “You should’ve told me. I would have brought something along for a picnic.”
“Good lord, I couldn’t eat another bite right now. Your mother cooks like that all the time, doesn’t she?” He settled in the chair beside her, kitty corner, instead of across the table. “I didn’t come over that often, but the times I did, I remember rolling away from the table even if it wasn’t Thanksgiving.”
“Hospitality rules,” Laurel answered. “I’m surprised she didn’t cook your favourites. That’s what she tends to do as well.”
Mrs. Sitko probably hadn’t wanted to choose between cooking his favourites and Jeff’s, but he didn’t voice the words. No need to make things awkward, not when Laurel was relaxing back in her chair and looking at him with anticipation, a soft smile on her face.
Instead he reached into the cooler beside them and brought out a bottle of fancy pop, placing it on the table along with two plastic cups from his kitchen. “Can I interest you in a drink? One of the finest sugar-coma-inducing food-colouring hits available.”
A loud laugh burst out from her. “Brat.”
“What? I knew you wouldn’t drink anything alcoholic since you’re working tomorrow, and I like this stuff too.”
She watched as he poured them both glasses. “Since when? I could swear you used to say this stuff tasted like orange Tang gone bad.”
“I’m sure you remember wrong.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “To friendship.”
She touched her glass against his—the hard plastic clinking with a hollow sound—then drank.
Rafe couldn’t take his eyes off her. He itched to undo the elastic she’d pulled her hair back with and let the soft strands slide through his fingers. He knew exactly how soft the material was that covered her. He wanted to slip the fabric from her shoulders and press kisses to her bare skin.
Icy-blue heat shone back, and he clutched his glass a little tighter to stop from reaching for her.
“You keep looking at me like that and we’re not going to get any talking in,” she warned quietly.
“Trust me, I can look at you like this for a long time. Doesn’t matter if we’re talking or not.”
<
br /> She swallowed hard. “What do we need to talk about?”
He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, checking for clues of how to approach the topic. The last thing he wanted was for her to be upset, but the elephant in the room needed to be addressed.
Straight up. The only way.
“As far as I can figure, Jeff Lawson either needs to be buried somewhere in the back forty, or I should be sending him a present for whatever it was he did to screw things up with you.”
Laurel pressed her lips together. “You just jump right on in there, don’t you,” she accused, leaning back.
“Aren’t you glad I didn’t bring this up in the middle of Traders?”
“Very,” she said. He gave her a moment as she fiddled with her glass, gathering her courage. Yet she tilted her head and looked him straight in the eye as she answered. “He and I dated for a while at Bible College.”
“So he told me.”
“What?” Her mouth hung open for a minute. “When did he tell you that? Oh my God, he didn’t tell you before dinner, in front of my father?”
“No, this morning.” Rafe leaned to one side and came back up with a box of doughnut holes. “Timbit?”
Her eyes narrowed as he opened the box and held it toward her. She sat there, staring, so he picked out a doughnut hole as if it was the most important thing in the world, popped it in his mouth and chewed carefully.
“Tasty,” he announced.
A growl escaped her. “You’re looking for pain, Coleman.”
“Hmmm? Oh, right. Jeff.” Rafe wiped the corners of his mouth and licked his fingertips before continuing. “It seemed he figured six a.m. was a good time to share that you two were once an item.”
“No. I’m so sorr—”
“—and that he’d like that to be true again.”
She sputtered before snapping out the words, “No fucking way.”
Rafe blinked in surprise. “Excuse me, Sitko, did you just swear?”
“Trust me, Jeff Lawson is worthy of a few prime words that I wouldn’t usually utter.”