by Leigh Riker
She sagged against a porch post. “I think that was successful.”
Sam snorted. He’d loved the party and had named himself the official gift presenter for Nick in the dining room. “They’ll be talking about this for years, Blossom.”
“I’d give today an A-plus,” Logan agreed. “Thanks.”
“You did your part.”
Blossom glanced at Sam. His eyes looked as drowsy as Nick’s had been when he and Olivia said goodbye. Sam wasn’t as hale and hearty as he liked to think. Which gave her the excuse she needed to go inside.
“Let me help you upstairs,” she said. “Take a quick nap before dinner.”
He grinned weakly. “We have to eat again?”
“I made fried chicken this morning. Crispier this time. All I have to do is reheat it and you can eat as much or as little as you like.”
But before she’d turned toward the door, Sam stepped around her.
“I’ll settle myself.”
That left her alone with Logan. At a loss for words, Blossom stayed against the post and stared out at the now-empty driveway, at the dust that was slowly settling back onto the lane. She hadn’t thought about Ken at all today—until Shadow had told her about Bertie and Jack Hancock—but she’d thought about Logan. Blossom had never liked feeling cross with anyone. She’d always rushed to apologize to her father and to Ken. Now she couldn’t seem to say the words. Or maybe she didn’t want to this time.
“I should start cleaning up,” she said yet didn’t move.
Logan propped one shoulder against the opposite post. “I’m having a hard time believing you couldn’t please Ken. You say you never did anything right, but Nicky’s party was perfect, Blossom. I said thanks but I really can’t thank you enough.”
Her next words were knee-jerk. “I live to serve.”
He unfolded his long frame from the post. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. Since you’ve been at the Circle H, you’ve, well, ‘blossomed.’ You’ve become friends with Shadow and Grey—when they’re sure not friends with each other—and you’ve managed to put up with me.”
“It’s not that hard.” With the ice between them cracked, she went on. “Giving Nick the party was easy. Do you know what he said to me? I was taking the sparklers off the last of his cake when he came into the kitchen. He thanked me, too—I imagine, in part because Libby told him to—but then he thanked me for the kitten.”
“No-Name.”
Blossom smiled. “Nick said that isn’t any kind of name for his kitten.”
“What would he choose?”
“You won’t believe this.” She waited a beat before saying, “Blossom.”
Logan grinned. “What did you say?”
“That there was already one flower on this ranch.” Her eyes blurred. “Two would be confusing.”
“And then he said?”
“He can tell a cat from a girl.”
They both laughed. Blossom watched his eyes warm, the glow turning into heat. “He really likes you.”
“I like him, too.” She forced herself to straighten. “I’m going in. I have at least three loads of dishes to do.”
“I’ll help.” He held the door open for her, then, before she could step through, let it close again. “No, I need to do more than help. I need to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone after you like that...in town, then here.” He gestured at her stomach. “I feel better since you’ve seen Doc and started those vitamins. I didn’t mean to sound harsh about you...and me, but—”
“All you can do, Logan, is try to minimize the risks. Every risk.”
He frowned. “I wish that worked for a natural disaster.”
“A flood?”
“Or tornado. Or...” He didn’t go on.
Blossom waved at the still-clear blue overhead. “Look at that sky. Do you see rain coming? A funnel cloud? I don’t.”
“Not today,” he said, but they weren’t talking about the weather. “In any event, I can’t be here much longer. Joe’s pretty hopped up about me staying this long. And Sam seemed...okay today. I have to get to Wichita. Seems like one of us is always planning to leave.”
“About that,” she said. “Did you talk to Shadow?”
“No.” He lifted a stray curl from her cheek, tucked it back behind her ear.
Shadow had left the announcement to her. “Jack Hancock will be taking over here. I know you think that’s better for Sam.” She explained about Bertie’s rehab. “So I’ll be on my way, as we decided.”
She couldn’t read the expression in Logan’s eyes. Relieved? No. Not happy either, but he didn’t say a word. For a long moment, his hand stayed on the too-warm skin just beneath her ear. “Blossom. There’s no hurry. Remember when you came back before—and I said I’d missed your curry?”
She smiled, a soft smile as if they’d spend the rest of their lives making such memories together. “Hard to believe.”
Logan leaned closer. His lips brushed her ear then moved lower along her cheek to the line of her jaw, where his hand still lingered. As their mouths met at last, and she sank into him, she could feel the mound of her baby between them. “What I should have said, what I meant to say is—” With the words his lips moved against hers. A wave of tenderness, of need, washed through her, and maybe him, too, deep inside, like the sea coming to the shore. “I really missed you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JACK HANCOCK MOVED in two days later, not quite to Logan’s relief. By the second night, Jack had taken full command of the Circle H kitchen. At dinner Willy stared down at his plate.
“It’s boeuf bourguignon.” Standing behind him at the table, Jack—or rather, as he preferred to be called, Jacques—looked down his nose and sniffed. “The French are master chefs.”
“I can’t even pronounce what I’m eating,” Willy grumbled.
“I trained at the Cordon Bleu. With the very best,” Jacques said.
“I don’t know parlez-vous Francais from bull—”
“Willy.” Logan fought a grin. Blossom’s gaze had fixed on the Remington-style painting on the far wall. Tobias didn’t seem to care about what had already become their nightly ritual. He’d filled his plate then began to eat what she would have called plain beef stew. No more. Logan covered his mouth with his napkin. Be careful what you wish for.
As soon as Jacques had come to the ranch—borne on a wave of praise from Shadow and half a dozen references headed by Bertie O’Neill’s—he’d declared that the hired hands would no longer eat any of their meals in the bunkhouse. Devouring franks and beans or canned spaghetti as they had before, Willy and Tobias couldn’t possibly have enough energy to do their hard work on the ranch, according to Jacques. So now they were “dining” in the main house every night—and none too happy about it.
Willy pushed carrots and potatoes around. “What’s this white stuff?”
“Leeks. Some fennel. Pearl onions. A garni of—”
Willy pushed back his chair. “Look here, Jack. I eat regular food. I’m going right now to open me a can.”
“You are ruining your stomach, William.”
“Yeah, well, it’s my belly.”
Blossom shot Logan a look. “Willy,” she said, half rising from her chair. “Sam loved this casserole—and Jacques has been cooking all day.”
Relieved that she was still here, Logan stepped in. “You’re out of luck at the bunkhouse. Jacques already tossed all the cans.”
Willy gaped at him. “My bags of Cheetos, too?”
“Everything,” Jacques said. “Their nutritional content is rien.”
Willy didn’t blink. He’d quickly learned, like everyone else, the few words of French that seemed essential to communicate with Jacques. With a groan, he sank back into his chair then tugged at the col
lar of his Sunday go-to-church shirt with the pearl buttons. “Nothing? If I wasn’t so hungry...”
Jacques sniffed again. He’d made it plain he considered the cowhands to be more than common.
Logan picked up his fork. The first bite sang along his taste buds. “Really good, Jacques. Another great meal.” If he kept eating at this rate, he was going to weigh more than Cyclone.
Jacques disappeared into the kitchen as if he were part of some royal procession, the guy with the crown on his head.
“Weirdo,” Willy muttered.
Logan sighed. “Shadow warned me the guy was different—though she barely mentioned the French thing.” Jacques might have gone to some fancy French cooking school, but the Circle H didn’t need that or the snooty attitude.
Tall and reed-thin, Jacques never appeared without his “uniform,” a pair of black pants, a white tunic and the kind of shiny patent leather shoes normally worn with a tuxedo—which Logan had sported exactly once in his life, when he married Libby. He’d been meaning to call Bertie. It didn’t seem likely Jacques had been so formal there. Maybe he viewed the ranch as some kind of vast estate and this job as an upgrade position and wanted to look the part.
“He’s funny.” Blossom smiled.
“I notice he keeps you moving.”
He squirmed in his seat. The sooner Jacques got used to the ranch routine, the quicker Blossom was going to take her packed suitcase and leave. In fact, she’d probably never unpacked and was still ready to go at a moment’s notice. Which had been her plan all along, just like his return to Wichita. Why feel so unhappy about that now?
He didn’t quite appreciate it when Blossom tried to put a good spin on things. “At least with him here I’ll have time to plant more flowers before I go.”
Willy glanced up. “Bet old Jacques is a genu-ine horti—hortic—”
Logan said, “Horticulturist.”
“Yeah, that.”
But all Blossom said was “He does seem to be very good at everything.”
* * *
AN HOUR BEFORE lunch the next day, the whole house sparkled. Blossom trotted along behind Jacques Hancock. Maybe the better decision would have been to leave the Circle H before her replacement moved in—as she’d tried to do once.
Already, three days after he’d turned up at the front door with his Louis Vuitton bag in hand, Blossom had become his assistant in the kitchen, just as her mother had been her father’s second in command. But then, the faster Jacques adapted here, the sooner Blossom would be unneeded and could leave.
Jacques might be an odd person—as Willy and Tobias kept saying in more colorful terms—but he’d quickly picked up on the household routine.
In the upstairs hallway Jacques paused, holding the latest pile of Sam’s sheets, which he insisted on changing each day. “I am grateful to you. I did not know about making these hospital corners. So neat and tight and much harder for Monsieur Sam to pull out from the mattress each night.”
“My father taught me,” Blossom admitted.
“The laundry—sorting, pretreating stains was his doing aussi? Separating the whites from the colored clothes?”
“No, my mother’s.”
“You are too modest. These details make all the difference.”
“I’m being truthful. They trained me—not in the happiest way but—” She wouldn’t mention Ken, who’d taken her parents’ strict regimen to the extreme.
“Blossom, be proud of yourself. These are your accomplishments now. You must own them, and not take them lightly.” He paused. “You are more skillful than you know. There is not a dirty piece of clothing in this house,” Jacques said with satisfaction. “The furniture has been polished until it gleams. The windows shine.”
“That took two of us.”
He frowned. “I believe a chimney sweep will be needed for the living room fireplace—such a buildup of creosote is a fire hazard—but for now, we are done. You must believe me.”
“Thank you, Jacques. I appreciate your vote of confidence.”
“Confidence is exactly what you need.”
Flushing, she swiped at her chinos. They had a hole over one knee. Work clothes, she thought. She didn’t need anything more stylish. And her loose pants and flowing poet’s shirt were practical, if too tight these days.
As if he sensed her discomfort at being praised, he brushed at the front of his spotless white tunic, which he seemed to wear day and night until Blossom wondered if he slept in it or had a dozen such outfits.
The Circle H had certainly gotten fancied up the minute he arrived.
“Now. It is time for today’s cooking lesson. This is where I will contribute most.” Blossom didn’t think she’d need new recipes. She wasn’t likely to be a caregiver again, or a cook. But she trailed Jacques down to the laundry room to deposit the sheets then up into the kitchen. “We will have croque monsieur for lunch.”
“Isn’t that like a ham and grilled cheese sandwich? A panini?” she asked.
He kissed the tips of his fingers. “A taste of paradise. You will learn.”
Blossom could hardly keep up with Jacques. He whizzed from pantry cupboard to stove then back again for another ingredient.
“You may slice this fromage,” he told her, handing Blossom a knife and a block of Swiss cheese. “Very thin, if you please. No, much thinner,” he said after she’d made a first attempt. Then suddenly, he stopped swirling butter around in what he called a sauté pan. “You are a good student—but I have been meaning to ask about those cowboys. How do you tolerate such ruffians? I regret my inclination to feed them. I do not like William.”
“I don’t trust him,” Blossom admitted. Her dinner with the truck driver at the motel had made her less fearful of opening up to someone she didn’t know well, and a moment later, while carefully slicing cheese, she found herself telling Jacques about the night in the barn when Willy had cornered her.
Jacques scowled. “He is a Neanderthal. Have you told Monsieur Hunter?”
“No, and don’t you tell him either, Jacques. It was nothing. Really.”
Soon, it wouldn’t matter. Blossom had made her decision. She was leaving tomorrow, this time for good.
* * *
“THEY’RE AT IT AGAIN.”
Sam’s voice snapped Logan’s attention from the ledgers on the desk to his grandfather in the office doorway.
“Who’s at it?” He’d been drowning in a fresh stack of bills. Wichita seemed as far away right now as Paris. He’d be lucky to ever leave this place. And once Blossom was gone...
“Willy. Tobias. Jacques,” Sam said, leaning heavily against the door frame.
“How would you know?”
Sam’s chin jutted out. “I took my evening walk. Only a deaf man wouldn’t hear the ruckus coming from that bunkhouse.”
Logan blew out a breath. “Just what I need.” A fight.
“Sounded to me like someone was trying to kill somebody.”
He threw his pen down on the desktop. “Your evening stroll?”
“Walk, I said.”
“Sam, you’re supposed to stay in the house.”
Ever since Jacques had come, and it looked as if Blossom would leave any minute, his grandfather had been out of bed more than he was in it, as if to make sure he was up when she left.
“I feel good,” he said.
“Maybe, but you shouldn’t stress that strained ligament. You’ll undo any progress you’ve made—again. Walking around inside the house is okay. That’s been a gradual way to regain your strength. But the path to the barn isn’t level in places. What if you fell?”
“I didn’t. I did fine during the birthday party. But those three out there—”
Logan pushed back his chair. “All right. Let me see what I can do.”
“I can help,” Sam said, already turning back into the hall.
“No, you can’t. For just once, will you do what I tell you?”
Blossom had managed Sam with far less effort. Now he was halfway to the back door.
“Treat a man like an invalid—with no worth left at all, no dignity—that’s what he’ll become. Useless. I won’t be a shell of myself, Flyboy. You wouldn’t like being in my position either.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” He’d come close the night of the flood. “But let me handle this, okay?”
“Another bout of helplessness on the way,” Sam muttered.
Still, he did what Logan had asked. In the kitchen doorway he grumbled to himself until Logan wished Blossom was in the room to restrain him. Logan went out and made a beeline for the bunkhouse.
The fresh air cleared his head. It wasn’t a bad night. No rain today, and in the blue-black sky a few stars had begun to pop out. Later, there’d be millions of them like a carpet for the heavens. And wasn’t he the poet laureate of the Circle H tonight?
Halfway to the bunkhouse he heard the shouts.
“Frenchy, my...patoot!” Willy’s familiar voice must have carried all the way to the house. Logan said a quick prayer that Sam wouldn’t decide to join him after all. “I’ve had enough of your highfalutin ways. I won’t eat another bite of some fancy concoction like that lamb stuff—”
Jacques cut him off. “Mon dieu. You seemed to eat your dinner tonight.”
“Guess I’m just a polite cuss.”
“You had three helpings, William.”
“Well, I’m done.” Logan heard boots stomping across the bunkhouse floor. “Don’t you ever use that high-toned language with me again.”
“Incroyable.” Jacques banged a pot down, probably on the old iron cookstove. “After all I have done for you...no more stew in a can...you should be grateful—”
“Oh, yeah. I just love having my denim shirts starched, too.” Jacques had taken over the cowhands’ laundry. “My everyday boots polished until they look like mirrors—before the manure gets on ’em again, did you ever think of that? This isn’t a Saturday night dance here, Jacques. It’s a working ranch. I’m a working cowboy.”