“What am I, the help?”
“Hope so.” He gave her his most winning cowboy grin and got a bemused smile in return. Turning his attention to Rembrandt, he watched out of the corner of his eye as the girl unsaddled the horse like an expert.
When she returned from the barn and started rubbing a curry comb over Spanky’s dusty coat, he gave her a nod of approval. “You must be Dora.”
The squint returned. “How’d you know? Did Aunt Cat tell you about me?”
“Yeah, but she didn’t say you were coming today.”
If he could befriend the kid, it would probably score points with Cat. Besides, it seemed like she needed a friend. He watched her switch to the finishing brush, knocking it on her hip with each stroke to get rid of the dust.
“How’d you get here, anyway?” he asked.
Her lips flattened into a thin line. “Shuttle.”
“All the way from the airport?”
“Uh-huh.”
He could almost feel the wall going up. Probing would only make her add more bricks, so he let it go—for now.
“Does Cat know you’re here?”
She shrugged. “I’ll find her in a minute.”
He should probably send Dora up to the house to find her aunt, but she seemed totally absorbed in brushing the horse. Cat had said the girl had issues, and dealing with animals always calmed him down. Maybe it would do the same for Dora.
“So your mother was Cat’s sister?”
“Yeah. She died.”
Shoot. This went way beyond “issues.” He didn’t know what to say, but Dora saved him by yammering on.
“Aunt Cat likes to think she’s my mom now. Like she can replace her or something. That’s why she took me on this trip. We’re supposed to bond.” She brushed harder at the horse’s smooth coat, cleaning off dirt that wasn’t there and blinking fast. “Like that’s going to happen. My mom didn’t even like her most of the time.”
Mack swallowed and tried to think of something soothing to say. This was evidently his day to be tested by women, and he’d failed every trial so far.
He stopped his own work and watched her trade the brush for a hoof pick. She ran her hand down the horse’s leg and Spanky obediently lifted his foot.
“You’re good with horses.”
He was rewarded with a luminous smile that made the girl’s pale face almost pretty. “It’s easy to be good at things you like to do.” The smile dimmed so fast it was like a shade being drawn over a lighted window. “What sucks is being good at stuff you don’t want to do. Stuff you never want to do again.”
“Like what?”
“Art.” She lowered her brows, and Mack could swear a tiny thundercloud was forming above her bright halo of hair. “I hate art. And that’s all I’m going to be doing for two whole weeks.” She said the last words like she was pronouncing a life sentence at hard labor. “You’re our guide, right? The wrangler?”
Mack nodded. He was tempted to say he wasn’t looking forward to the two weeks either, but grown-ups were supposed to set an example, so he kept his mouth shut.
“Maybe I could help you with the horses. Like, work for you. Instead of painting.”
He could feel the solid barn floor beneath him turning into a quagmire. She was trying to get him to take sides. Viv did the same thing, setting her mother against her father to distract them from her own misbehavior.
“Maybe you’d better ask your aunt.”
“Why? It’s not like she’s my mother or anything.” She straightened, absently rubbing the small of her back as she tossed the pick into the bucket. “No matter what she’d like to think.”
***
To Cat’s relief, Maddie welcomed Trevor Maines with her customary enthusiasm. Taking a cue from his lord-of-the-manor attitude, she declared it was time for afternoon tea and began bustling around the kitchen as if the king of England had arrived. Cat took the opportunity to mumble a polite excuse about getting organized and hightail it for the relative safety of the bunkhouse.
She’d chosen the smallest room in the Heifer House for her own, a windowless cubicle at the end of the hall furthest from the bathroom. It was the approximate size and shape of a grave, which left barely room for herself and her luggage. For the moment, the cave-like solitude suited her.
Tugging a string that dangled from the bare bulb screwed into the ceiling, she knelt by the bed and fussed over her art supplies. She needed to have two of everything. Dora would be arriving tomorrow, and Cat had no doubt she’d conveniently forget her own brushes and paints. The girl had been strangely resistant to painting ever since her mother died.
Cat hoped she’d be able to figure out why on this trip. Figure out why and fix it. Underneath the hard shell Dora had donned at her mother’s funeral was a sweet, talented girl. And Cat aimed to bring that girl back into the light.
She put everything back into the canvas bag she’d bought just for the trip. The brushes fit into neat slots, graduated by size. The paints themselves went into a plastic-lined compartment, and there was a removable zipper pouch for sketching pencils, charcoal, and erasers.
She loved art supplies the way some women loved fashion or food. There were so many possibilities waiting inside the tubes of bright color, and the blank paper was just waiting to take the paint.
The sketchbook went in last, and reluctantly. She’d noticed a rustic cabin behind the house, set in a copse of trees at the end of a picturesquely winding path. It would be lit by the lowering sun right now, with long, crisp shadows stretching from the sagebrush. She’d love to do a quick watercolor sketch of the place, but she needed to check on Trevor Maines and see if Madeleine Boyd had stolen his free will yet.
She hoped so.
Strolling up the steps to the ranch house, she was careful not to even look toward the barn. She had trouble enough without ogling the cowboy again. She mounted the steps and edged the door open.
“Anybody home?” She hoped her voice sounded more playful than she felt.
“In here.” Madeleine sounded chipper enough.
Trevor was laughing as she entered, his head flung back so that his blond hair flowed over the back of the chair. The laughter sounded forced and artificial, and when he slanted his gaze her way she caught a hard gleam in his eyes that had nothing to do with humor.
What was it about this man that made her so uneasy? For some reason he set off alarm bells in her head.
“It looks like Mrs. Boyd made you comfortable,” she said.
“Oh, yes. We’re old friends now.” He shifted his feet, which were resting on a fringed footstool constructed mostly of cattle horns. Like much of Maddie’s furniture, it looked like a relic of the nineteenth-century west of cattle barons and entrepreneurial British nobility. The website said the original Boyd was a duke from Scotland whose father had sent him to America after he’d killed a rival in a duel.
She tried to picture Mack fighting a Scottish duel, but she only got as far as the kilt before her thoughts wandered off on a rocky and forbidden track.
Or maybe not so rocky. The kiss had been awkward, but she had to admit the cowboy was growing on her. There’d been a companionable silence during their ride that felt somehow soothing, and he’d let her look at the landscape as long as she wanted. Most nonartists got impatient with her gawking, but Mack had a stillness about him that let her relax and enjoy the view. She enjoyed looking at him too, but she’d been serious about the “no touching” rule. There was no way she could indulge herself in a wild cowboy fling once Dora arrived.
Still, she wasn’t sorry she’d taken a quick sample of what the Wild West had to offer.
“You have to try this shortbread.” Trevor gestured toward a plate of buttery cookies dusted with sugar. “It melts in your mouth.”
“No thanks.” She forced a smile and turned to Madeleine. She�
�d hoped the woman would show Trevor to the bunkhouse, but evidently that job was reserved for Cat. “I’m sure you’d like to see your room before dinner.”
“Oh, I’ve seen it,” he said. “Quite nice. The rustic decor’s a bit, well, forced, you know? Rather juvenile. But it’ll do.”
Cat felt like she’d just cleared the biggest hurdle in a boot camp obstacle course. Maybe she’d been wrong about the bunkhouse. If it was okay with Trevor Maines, surely it wouldn’t be a problem for anyone else.
“The bucking horse motif is a bit over-the-top,” he said with a languid wave of his hand. “That bedspread, those curtains.”
Bucking horse motif? Cat blinked. She’d checked out the Bull Barn, and it hadn’t had any kind of curtains at all. The bedspreads had been plain blue-ticked cotton.
“I thought Mr. Maines would be more comfortable in the house, so I put him in Mack’s old room,” Maddie explained.
“I take it the photographs are of your son?” Trevor asked.
“That’s right.” She tapped him playfully on the knee. “So you look out. Those bucking horses might get in your blood. They sure got into his.”
“I can’t wait to meet him,” Trevor said, his bored tone belying the words. “He sounds so… rustic.”
Cat felt something in her spark and flare. “From what I hear, he’s a very successful bronc rider,” she said. “It takes a lot of skill to get that far.”
“Well, well, well.” Trevor flashed her a wicked smile and she heard the alarm bells again. “I think we’ve found the teacher’s pet.” The smile bent down into a sneer. “I hope that won’t affect the quality of our instruction.”
“Of course not.” Cat laced her hands in her lap, trying to look prim and teacher-like. Was it that obvious that she had a crush on the cowboy? She forced a smile. “I promise, the teacher’s pet will be the one who’s the best artist. I’m sure Mr. Boyd is hardly Leonardo da Vinci.”
Trevor tossed his hair and laughed. The sound made her grit her teeth, and she wondered how many times she’d have to endure it on this trip. A hundred spiteful retorts rose in her throat, but she only laughed along halfheartedly, hating herself for not standing up for Mack. She’d always believed in standing up for your friends, and while Mack wasn’t exactly a friend, he was something.
Really something.
And she’d better make sure he didn’t become anything more.
Chapter 10
Cat returned to the bunkhouse to find Mack at the fire pit, constructing a dense nest of kindling. A slim figure stood beside him, holding a few sticks and twigs.
A very familiar slim figure.
It couldn’t be.
“Dora? What are you doing here?” Cat struggled to make her brain work. “You can’t be here yet. You land tomorrow.”
Dora flicked her a tight smile, along with a fluttering finger wave loaded with adolescent irony.
Cat set her fists on her hips. “How did you get here?”
“Interstate 25.”
Her tone made Cat’s heart sink. Her niece sounded as sour as she had the day of her mother’s funeral, when she’d refused to look at the casket or shed a single tear. She’d always been a sweet child, funny and loving, but on the day her mother died she’d turned into an angry little ghost of her former self. Cat had worried that her niece would burst into emotional flames at any moment—although at this point, a crying spell would be a good thing.
Cat had hoped it was only the freshness of Dora’s grief that had turned her into a grim-faced zombie, but it looked like nothing in her niece’s attitude had changed. Who could say how long it would take a fifteen-year-old girl to get over the death of her mother? Trying to help her grieving niece was like navigating an unknown country without a map.
At least Cat was making an effort. Her brother-in-law, Dora’s father, was so lost without his wife and playmate that he could barely spare a glance for their only child. Couldn’t he see Dora was the one part of Edie that was left?
Cat turned over the notion that had been fermenting in the back of her mind ever since the funeral. Maybe Dora’s dad wasn’t capable of caring for a teenaged girl. Maybe she should be with her Aunt Cat all the time.
She pictured the two of them living in Chicago. Painting together, going to museums. Shopping for school clothes. She hadn’t spent nearly enough time with Edie, and she was determined to do better with the little family she had left—which was standing here in front of her.
Dora bent down and poked a stick of kindling into the bottom of the pile. A few logs collapsed and fell to one side. Mack touched her shirtsleeve.
“Leave it alone. It’s fine.”
To Cat’s amazement, Dora gave Mack the same tight little sideways smile she’d always given her mother when she’d admonished her for some misstep. Cat had been hoping to dig that smile out from under Dora’s grief on this trip. She’d figured a change of scenery would help, but Dora wasn’t smiling at the scenery. She was smiling at the rakish cowboy who’d kissed Cat senseless within hours of her arrival.
Things were getting complicated.
Raking her hair back from her face, Cat bunched the wavy mass in her fist while she glanced from Mack to Dora and back again. Dora was supposed to arrive on the airport shuttle van tomorrow, along with Trevor and five other students who were scheduled to arrive on various flights between nine and noon. The shuttle had been scheduled weeks ago as part of a carefully thought-out plan that was apparently already in tatters.
“How did you get here?” she asked again.
“I took the shuttle.”
“The shuttle? By yourself?” Cat was trying not to screech, but she couldn’t help herself. “The airport’s three hours away. It must have cost you a hundred dollars! Dora, your dad said you were only supposed to use the credit card for emergencies. You can’t…”
“Dad doesn’t care.” She grimaced. “He didn’t even care about the money the airline charged to send me a day early.”
“He sent you a day early?”
Dora shrugged. “He had to go to Costa Rica. He’s buying a beach house.”
And that mattered more than his only daughter. Who had lost her mother only six months ago, and was clearly troubled. Cat had told herself to give Ross a break. He was healing too. But right now, what she wanted to break was his bones. Every one of them.
“The shuttle wasn’t that expensive,” Dora said. “Would you rather I rode with that guy?”
“What guy?”
“That Trevor guy. I met him at the gate. He said he’d take me here, but I said no.”
“What?”
Dora rolled her eyes. “I saw his art supplies, put two and two together. We were going to sit together on the plane, but… I don’t know, he’s kind of weird.” She quirked a mischievous smile. “But he rented a Lexus. That’s way better than one of those skanky airport vans.”
“I don’t care if he rented a Cinderella carriage and flying monkeys.”
“So you’re glad I took the shuttle.” Dora looked triumphant.
“Well, you can’t go getting into cars with strange men.”
The crunch of gravel made her look up to see Trevor approaching from the house.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“I don’t mean that kind of strange.” Actually, she did. The guy gave her the creeps, and the fact that he’d talked to Dora at the airport set off warning bells in her head. But Dora had said that she saw his art supplies. So he hadn’t instigated the conversation.
Still, it made Cat uncomfortable. “I meant that she doesn’t know you.”
“We got to know each other.”
Cat literally bit her tongue to keep from responding. There wasn’t a thing she could do about it now. And Dora was here, safe and sound and apparently unmolested.
“So where have you been since
you got here?” she asked her niece.
“Helping Mack.”
“She’s got a great touch with animals,” Mack said.
“I told you, if you’ll just show me how, I’ll be happy to help with the horses,” Cat said. “Dora’s here to paint.”
“No shit?” The thundercloud was forming over Dora’s head again. “I thought I was here to relax. Get away. Have some girl time with my Aunt Cat.”
Dora looked angelic—tiny, balletic, and blonde—but she seemed to have developed a mouth like a sailor and the rebellious spirit of a spoiled princess since her mother’s death. Ross said she’d been suspended from school once for fighting, and once for cussing out a teacher. But this probably wasn’t a good time to wash her mouth out with soap.
“We’ll have fun, hon. We will. But it’s also a great chance for you to get some painting done. Some new subjects.”
Dora had always been a talented artist, but since her mother’s illness, her paintings had taken on a dark tone. When she painted at all, she churned out abstracts, tortured scribbles in dark blues and blacks. Her work was incredible, especially for her age. But hanging one of her pictures on the wall was a sure way to suck all the air out of a room.
“I told you, I don’t want to paint. I’m going to help Mack with the horses.”
“But…”
“They make me happy, okay? And Mack treats me like I’m normal.”
“You are normal.” That wasn’t quite true; Cat thought Dora was exceptional in many ways, good and bad. “I’m just worried about you, hon.”
“I’m not the one who died, okay?” Dora’s brittle veneer cracked for half a second, but she quickly straightened her shoulders and shot Cat a scathing glare. “I’m sick of people worrying about me.” She kicked a stone into the fire, which was starting to eat its way up the carefully stacked wood. “Just leave me alone.”
***
Dinner was everything Maddie had promised and more. Mack arranged log benches around the fire pit as promised, and the casual atmosphere and gorgeous setting made everything taste better.
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