by Linda Berry
She chuckled, handing him the roller.
After scraping off the rolling pin, he dusted it with flour, sprinkled more on the cutting board, then executed his mother’s technique which he had observed since he was knee high, standing on a chair at the counter. The dough spread smoothly across the board.
“Good job. You’re a genius.”
“Runs in the family. How thick do you want it?”
She looked up at him over the cookbook, her reading glasses low on her nose. “The recipe says half an inch.”
“Got a ruler, or do you trust me?”
Her eyes sparkled with good humor. “Trust you.”
Using an upside-down glass, he cut out the biscuits and lined them on the oiled cooking sheet. Once they were safely in the oven, he helped her clean the kitchen. “Seems you found a use for every dish you own.”
“No, there’s still a bowl in the cabinet.” She washed and he dried, then she removed her apron and ushered him to the barstools lining the island. “Enough work. Sit, drink, relax.” They sat and she gestured to two bottles of wine sitting on the counter. “Merlot, or Cabernet?”
“Hmmm. Tough choice,” Sully said, mystified. “You choose, and I’ll pretend to know the difference.”
“Cabernet it is.” She expertly removed the cork and filled two long stemmed glasses.
He sipped, enjoying the rich blend of flavors in his mouth. “Nice. I’m really starting to like this stuff.”
“We’ll make a connoisseur of you yet.” Maggie swirled the wine in her glass. “This aged really well. My husband put it in the wine cellar twenty years ago.” She took a sip, nodded toward his grocery bag. “What’s for dessert?”
He reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of root beer and vanilla ice cream. “Floats.”
Her eyes brightened. “I love root beer floats. Aha. Eric told you.”
“Guilty as charged.” He crossed the room, put the contents in the fridge, and reseated himself. “Alcohol was nixed in Afghanistan, but root beer and ice cream were unlimited, and it was cold. A plus, when the temperature was spiking at a hundred and ten. The heat could melt the tread on your Nikes.”
She had put out salsa and chips. They both dipped and crunched.
“Eric and I drank floats and watched movies on our days off,” he said. “We had a limited collection. We watched the same movies dozens of times.” He crunched, swallowed. “He said you were both movie buffs.”
“Understatement. We’ve seen every movie ever made at least twice.” She sipped her wine. “We used to quiz each other on movie quotes.”
“He did that with me too. I didn’t know half of them.” He smiled, remembering how Eric acted out the characters, mimicking their tone and inflection to perfection.
“Try one on me.” Her eyes lit up.
“Okay.” He thought for a moment. “‘I love the smell of napalm in the morning.’”
“Too easy. Apocalypse Now. She thought for a moment. “Here’s one for you.” Her face got tense and she said in a belligerent tone, “‘You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth!’”
“Jack Nicholson. A Few Good Men.”
She raised a brow. “I thought you weren’t good at this.”
“That’s one of the movies we watched over and over. Here’s a quote that’s more obscure. ‘Badges? We ain’t got no badges. We don’t need no badges.’”
“That’s the worst Mexican accent I ever heard,” she laughed. “You were going for the guy in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. One of Eric’s favorites.”
“Correctamundo. No one did accents better than Eric.” A sudden memory of Eric on patrol made him chuckle.
“What?”
“One night we had to deal with some unfriendly elders in a remote village. They wouldn’t let us drive through town without showing credentials. Eric did the whole Sierra Madre shtick. Badges? We ain’t got no badges. We don’t need no badges. I don’t have to show you any stinking badges. Our translator looked at Eric like he was nuts. The guys in my squad were falling over laughing.”
Maggie laughed, too. “Did they let you pass?”
“Yeah, for five packs of chewing gum.” He was happy to make her laugh, and to share memories of Eric.
The oven buzzer went off.
“Time to eat. Wanna grab the biscuits? I’ll ladle the stew.”
“Teamwork.” He slid the biscuits from the baking pan onto a platter and they sat at the counter with steaming bowls of stew. Maggie refilled their glasses.
“I really missed my mom’s biscuits over there. They were a staple at our house.” He picked a biscuit off the platter, dropped it on his plate. “Hot.” He cut it in half, slathered on butter, took a bite.
“What’s the verdict?” she asked, watching him closely.
“Hmmm.” He brushed crumbs from his shirt. “Mom, forgive me. These are just as good.”
Maggie beamed. “Try the stew.”
He blew on a spoonful, tasted it. “Good. This beef’s really tender. You must’ve beaten the hell out of it.”
“Aren’t you supposed to? I used a hammer.” Her face was flushed with pleasure. “Actually, it’s the Burgundy. I added extra. When in doubt, douse.”
“Can’t go wrong.” He buttered another biscuit, ate half in one bite.
He and Maggie made easy small talk while they ate. She was a good listener, and she encouraged him to talk about what he loved most. Everything horses. He rambled on through two bowls of stew, sharing how much he loved being back in the saddle, and how rewarding it was to work with horses. “I have a half dozen reining horses that need serious attention. Before I left, they were like Marines fresh out of boot camp, obeying hand gestures and voice commands instantaneously. Now they’re fat and lazy. From a full lope, Amigo used to stop on a dime, two feet in front of my face. Now he’d kill me if I didn’t jump out of the way.”
She looked impressed. “Wow, horse whisperer.”
“Actually, that would be my dad. He’s a rodeo legend. The Horse Whisperer is mute next to him.”
She pushed her empty bowl away, moved her wine glass closer. “You learned a lot from him, didn’t you?”
“Everything. Especially discipline. Dad made me practice, practice, practice. Seems I spent most of my life in the saddle. Even eating and sleeping.”
She emptied the last of the wine into their glasses and opened the other bottle. “Sorry to bring this up Sully, but I heard on the news last week that some champion horses were stolen in your county and a rancher was murdered. Pretty scary stuff.”
“He was my neighbor.” Sully cleared his throat. “I found the body.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. Her hand froze with her glass halfway to her mouth. She set it back down on the table.
“Monty Blanchert. I knew him all my life. Did chores for him when I was a kid.”
“Are you okay?” She touched him lightly on the arm. “Are your horses safe?”
His gut tightened. “My best stud was stolen the night before I came home.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said, her features softening. “It’s frightening, bad people targeting your community.”
Sully wasn’t afraid, just angry as hell.
“How are your parents?” she asked. “They must be so glad you’re home.”
“They separated. Mom lives here in town. Dad had a stroke six months ago. I just brought him home from a nursing home.” Sully shifted his weight and released a breath that sounded world weary, even to him. “I’m taking care of him.”
“That’s a lot on your plate,” she said gently. Her eyes fixed on his, infinitely compassionate.
“Yeah … well … life throws curveballs. You just keep on playing.”
They were both quiet. He was sorry the conversation took a bad turn. He wanted to take a break from his troubles, park them outside her door and not burden her. She didn’t need any more sadness in her life. He polished off the rest of his stew, wondering if he was overs
taying his welcome. Maybe it was time to go.
“Time for root beer floats,” she said in a lighter tone.
“Sure.” He was in no hurry to get back to the ranch.
“How about you do the floats and I’ll make popcorn, then we can plop in front of the big screen. I have hundreds of DVDs.”
He smiled. “Chances are I could find one I like.”
Sully picked Something about Mary, a light, corny comedy he’d seen dozens of times with other homesick Marines lusting after Cameron Diaz.
Maggie put another log in the fireplace and stoked up the flames. He settled into the recliner, she nested on the sofa with a quilt thrown over her legs. They started watching the movie, munching popcorn and drinking floats, and soon they were both laughing out loud. Sully knew the script by heart. When he mimicked the voices during the funniest lines, Maggie burst out laughing. She was an easy audience.
He enjoyed the heat of the crackling fire and the warmth of Maggie’s company. His gaze shifted from the TV to photos of Eric and his father smiling down from the mantle. He felt safe and comfortable in the surroundings that had shaped Eric’s character, and instilled in him the courage to go to a war zone to help his country and injured Marines. In his absence, Sully knew Eric would appreciate him watching out for his mom. He stole a glance at Maggie. Her eyes were locked on the screen and she looked relaxed, her cares transported far away. She laughed suddenly and met his eyes. He smiled back, barely aware he was doing it.
During the second movie, Sully passed out. Maggie let him sleep and woke him after midnight with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“You work too hard, Sully,” she said at the door.
He shrugged, shaking off the cobwebs.
She gave him a warm hug and tucked a bag under his arm. “Biscuits and beef stew for lunch tomorrow. Same time next week?”
“Sure thing. Thanks for a great evening, Maggie.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Can I help you with the dishes?” Justin asked Sarah, even though he was dead tired.
“Hell no.” She let out a rich, throaty laugh that lit up her pretty face. “Billy’s parents do the cooking and cleaning. They go to mass on Sunday night but they’ll take care of it when they get home.”
“How long have they worked here?” he asked, making conversation.
“Forever. Billy was born on the ranch. Now he’s eighteen. They have their own cottage.”
“Maybe you could show me to my room,” he said politely.
“Happy to.” Her lips spread into a sultry smile, as though he’d made an intimate suggestion.
“Then I’ll pull my truck around back and unload my stuff.”
When she stood, he saw Sarah had gained a couple inches in height since the afternoon. Her long legs now ended in four-inch heels. How women walked in those things, he had no idea. She had somehow managed to squeeze into a sprayed on red dress that accentuated her curvy figure. He followed her down the hall, a little hypnotized by the sway of her hips.
Sarah turned into a doorway and stepped aside to let him enter. The bedroom, he saw with a rush of pleasure, was spacious and handsomely furnished. Knotty pine furniture, overstuffed leather chairs, Navajo rugs on the walls, handmade quilts folded across the bed. Through an open door, he saw brass fixtures and granite countertops in the adjoining bathroom. This kind of luxury, he’d only seen in magazines. Too nice for a ranch hand. Maybe tomorrow, they’d put him in the barn. Feeling the tightness in his muscles, he couldn’t wait to take a hot shower and get horizontal between the sheets. “This is great, Sarah.” He turned and felt a jolt of annoyance. Sarah had planted herself on the bed, looking relaxed and in no hurry to leave. Shit.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” she said, that lazy drawl returning to her voice.
“Not much to talk about.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, shook one out, tucked it between her teeth, and lit it. She inhaled deeply, exhaled from her nose and mouth. The way she looked up at him through her lowered lashes, the way she smoked, reminded him of Lauren Bacall in her early movies. Cinnamon smoke drifted into the room. Feeling bushwhacked, he thought for a moment, considering how to politely extract her and her cigarette from his room.
“So what’s with the name change from Alex to Justin?” she asked.
“I use Alex as a rodeo name.”
“Why?”
“What are those things you’re smoking?”
“They’re French. Less nicotine.”
His eyes stung. “Do you mind not smoking in here? I’m allergic.”
“Oh, sorry.” She sucked in a drag as she walked into the bathroom, then she tossed the cigarette into the toilet. His gut tightened as she resettled herself on the bed lying on her side, head propped on a fist. She watched him like a cat, docile, all curves, brows arched expectantly. He felt himself getting aroused at the prospect of what she was offering. She seemed to know what he was feeling. He looked away.
“We all went to Beaverhead High. Small world, huh?” she said.
“Yeah, small.”
“Your name really Justin?”
From down the hall, Justin heard the door open and shut in the dining room, followed by heavy footsteps. “Sarah?” A man’s voice boomed. “Sarah, you here?”
“Back here.” She stood quickly, smoothed the surface of the bed, yanked down her dress, and reached the door the same time as a man in the hallway.
“Hey, baby,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “You all dolled up for me?”
“Just for you, darlin’.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist and lowered his lips to hers.
Even in the dim light, Justin saw that the man was a hulk, around six-foot-six, built like a lineman. In her heels, the top of Sarah’s head brushed his earlobe, and his bulk gave the impression that her curvy frame was reed slender.
“Thought you weren’t coming home for a couple hours,” Sarah purred. “Didn’t hear you fly over.”
“We came in from the north.”
The man’s posture grew rigid as he spied Justin over her shoulder.
“Oh, this is Justin Powell,” she said, pulling away. “The bull rider Dad hired. Justin, this is Todd Behr, our livestock foreman, and my fiancé. We all call him Bear, as in grizzly.” She looked up at him. “I was just showing him his room.”
Bear’s eyes traveled down her body, then scanned the room, the bed, and came back to Justin, giving him a good look over. Justin could read his thoughts. The man’s cold expression made the hair rise on his arms. Justin stared back in equal measure. It was a pissing contest, each telegraphing his disdain for the other. Bear blinked first.
“So, you’re the bull rider?” He stepped into the light of the room, his voice matching his bulk. A low rumble.
“Yep.”
“You up from Arizona?”
“Yep.”
“We weren’t expecting you today.”
Justin shrugged.
“Hank said you handled yourself pretty decent. Rode Cyclone, huh?”
“Did my best.”
“Not something that makes us too happy around here, but we respect talent.” The big man crossed the floor and held out a paw the size of a frying pan. The two shook hands. Bear squeezed. Justin didn’t wince, though it hurt like hell. It was meant as a warning.
“If you’re here to work with livestock, you’ll be working under me,” Bear said with a slightly menacing tone
Great. If that were the case, this job would be hell. Justin had worked for men like Bear before, men who liked to throw their weight around and intimidate people. He wondered what Sarah saw in him. The hulk was handsome in a hollow-cheeked, bull-necked sort of way, all muscle and attitude. If she got off on brute strength, this was the guy. He envisioned Bear slapping hay bales together like cymbals while Sarah swooned. Justin didn’t foresee himself knocking back a few cold ones with the couple anytime soon. He wanted
them gone.
“Let me get you some dinner, darlin’,” Sarah crooned. “You must be starving.”
“Food sounds good.” He gave a curt nod to Justin, and followed Sarah out of the room.
Justin left the door open a couple inches, listening to their voices drift down the hall.
“What the hell were you doing in his room dressed like that?”
“I dressed up for you.”
“Where’s your ring?”
“I forgot it.” Sarah’s tone was indignant.
“What’s he doing sleeping in the house?”
“That was Cody’s decision,” Sarah said. “The bunkhouse is full.”
“Cody’s, huh?” His tone warmed a bit.
“Yeah, Cody. Why don’t you give her the fifth degree?”
A pause.
“Sorry, babe. Come here.”
Justin closed the door, relieved to put a barricade between himself and the high-strung personalities he’d encountered today. It was crystal clear what Sarah’s intentions had been. She figured she’d have a couple hours to romp in the sack with Justin before her fiancé showed up. Justin would not have let that happen, but if he had, and Bear walked in on them, he figured he’d be ripped into flank steaks before any questions were asked. Though engaged, Sarah hadn’t worn her ring. Helluva thing, cheating on her man like that.
He stripped off his dirty clothes and got into the shower. The hot water felt good on his sore muscles and the thick lather of soap washed away the dust, but it didn’t wash away the bad feeling festering in his gut. Seemed he’d be navigating a minefield on this job, trying to avoid conflicts with his nut-job co-workers—something he’d had to do a good part of his life, moving from home to home. Chalk it up to human nature. Seemed there were always one or two jackasses who were determined to make his life miserable. He could practice civil disobedience for only so long before he fought back and raised some holy hell. Thankfully, he could always count on doing a stint back at St. Teresa’s before his next placement. Temporary refuge.