Cowboy Valentines

by Liz Isaacson

Or coffee.

  She’d offered him coffee at ten-thirty at night last week, and he suddenly realized that she’d wanted to spend more time with him that night.

  “Do you want to get some coffee?” he asked.

  “Coffee?” Her gaze flew to his. “It’s…eight-fifteen.”

  “So we’re agreeing that coffee is just a morning beverage.” He chuckled, wishing the sound didn’t vibrate with his nerves.

  “Not necessarily,” she said. “I just don’t think Quinn Valley has any coffee shops open this late at night.”

  “We could go back to my house,” he said, the words just materializing in his mouth. “Logan will be there, and he’s got these two dogs that track mud all over the place.” Knox regretted mentioning his house. It would likely be a mess, and Logan was a better coffee maker than he was anyway.

  “What about a sugar cookie and hot chocolate?” she asked as he backed out of the parking spot.

  “Where can we go to get that?” His stomach growled for food. Yes, he’d eaten some potatoes, but that wasn’t enough for him when he’d been working all day.

  “There’s a little pastry shop in the strip mall over by the Scentiments shop. I think they’re open until nine.”

  “I thought there was only one bakery in town,” he said, stopping at the exit from the lot and turning left.

  “There is, but they close at six. This place does quiches, ham and cheese croissants, cream puffs, sugar cookies, flavored sodas, stuff like that. My cousin says the hot chocolate is amazing.”

  “Let’s give it a try.” Knox drove down the street, hoping there was something savory still in the shop.

  “It’s right there.” Betsy pointed to the right, and he swung the truck off the road a little too quickly.

  “Sorry,” he said. Once inside the shop, he saw several savory options, and he ordered three of them. They were the only two people in the shop, and they sat at a flimsy table for two with chairs he wasn’t sure would hold his weight.

  But the pastry was flaky and warm, cheesy and delicious. She’d ordered sweets and hot chocolate, and she sipped from her mug, leaving a smudge of whipped cream on her nose.

  He grinned at her and wiped her face with his napkin while she giggled. Knox hadn’t dated anyone for a while, but Betsy was very easy to flirt with, and Knox really wished it was summer and the night was far from over.

  As it was, he’d be in a lot of trouble if he didn’t get her home and get to bed soon. Yet he lingered over his second croissant, asking her, “So if I was to come to poker night again, what’s one thing I could bring that would make you happy?”

  “Oh, you nailed it with that seven-layer dip.” She grinned at him. “But sometimes a girl just needs a bag of red Starburst.”

  “Just the red ones?”

  “They’re the best,” she said. “I may or may not have a secret stash of them in the kitchen at the homestead.”

  Knox laughed again, realizing that he’d been doing that a lot tonight. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so happy. They finished, and he threw their trash in the garbage can by the door while she went out onto the sidewalk. When he joined her, he reached for her hand, relieved and excited when she secured her palm flat against his.

  It was a short walk to the truck, but when he got behind the wheel, Betsy had scooted over on the seat to ride right next to him. She slipped her arm through his and laid her head against his bicep as they drove back to the ranch, and Knox’s pulse started jumping around like an army of frogs.

  “How long have you been a farrier?” she asked.

  “Oh, only about a year now,” he said. “I went to school in Oklahoma for a bit.”

  “What did you do before that?”

  “Worked on my family’s potato farm.”

  “And you decided that wasn’t for you?”

  “Nah,” he said, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. “My younger brother Alan loves it, and Logan was leaving, so it was easy for me to go too.” He liked the gentle pressure of her body next to his, and she was easy to talk to. “So we got a house in town, and we’ve been making it work.”

  “But you don’t like his dogs.”

  “I like dogs in general,” he said. “But Logan lets his do whatever they want. I really don’t like the dogs in the winter.”

  “So you’re a neat freak.” She laughed softly, and he smiled into the darkness, glad for good headlights in this rural night.

  “Logan thinks so,” he said. “Did you ever go to college or anything?”

  “Nope,” she said. “I took sewing classes from the Bernina on Main Street. And I’ve taken all the cooking classes from the community center.”

  “So…what do you do to make money?” Knox wasn’t trying to be rude. But didn’t she have bills to pay?

  “I get paid by the ranch,” she said. “I’m the official ranch chef.”

  “Oh, yeah, that makes sense.” And she had somewhere free to live, and tons of vehicles she could use, so her financial obligations probably didn’t amount to much. Knox couldn’t help the twinge of bitterness that pricked the back of his throat. He and Logan had been scraping and barely getting by for years, and his debt from his many months at farrier school wouldn’t be paid off for a long time.

  The homestead came into view, and Knox lamented that his time with her was almost up. He pulled to a stop and said, “I won’t be back to the ranch until next week.”

  “That’s lame,” Betsy said with a giggle. She released his arm and leaned into him to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for the ride, Knox. And the hot chocolate.”

  He got out of the truck, and she slid out after him. “What if I said I didn’t want to wait until next week to see you?”

  They climbed the steps together, this silence full of panic for Knox. Had he given away too many of his feelings too soon?

  “Then I’d say you should probably come pick me up for dinner tomorrow night,” she said, facing him. She grinned at him, but the smile slipped from her face quickly. “What about Georgia and Logan?” She leaned forward as she spoke, her voice dropping almost to a whisper.

  He sighed. “I don’t know. Logan made it sound like it wasn’t weird.”

  “You’ve talked to him about it?”

  “Sort of,” Knox said. “He called me to come sign up for the Valentine’s Festival. I think he figured out I had a crush on you.” He sucked in a breath, wishing he could suck in those words at the same time.

  Her eyes gleamed under the yellow porch lights, and her smile widened. “I’ll talk to Georgia.”

  “All right.” He wasn’t sure what to do next, but Betsy opened the door and slipped inside the homestead, so he added, “See you tomorrow.”

  She ducked her head, and said, “See you then,” before closing the door. Though it was easily twenty below zero outside, he floated back to his truck, as warm as if it were the middle of July.

  The following evening, Knox was running late. He’d been out at the dude ranch for-freaking-ever, and he didn’t want to get Betsy for their first date smelling like hot steel and horse flesh.

  So he’d run home to shower, only to find that Rutabega, one of Logan’s dogs, had gotten up on the kitchen counter and dragged everything there onto the floor. The roll of paper towels lay in shreds from the kitchen to the front door, and even up the stairs.

  He’d paused inside the door and taken in the room like it was a crime scene and nothing should be disturbed. Then he’d bypassed it all while dictating a text to his brother about the mess at home, and showered in seven minutes.

  His text to Betsy had happened at the time he was supposed to be at the ranch, but she’d said it was fine. When he turned onto the ranch property, he almost ran her over.

  He hit the brakes and slid a little though his truck had new snow tires. Jumping out, he said, “What are you doing?”

  “I was just walking,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said, guilt pulling through him. “Somet
imes I can’t predict what my day will be like.” The horses and people he worked with could be temperamental, making a simple job take a long time.

  “It’s fine,” she said, stepping up to him. Her cheeks looked plenty pink in his headlights, and he hurried her over to the passenger door.

  “You didn’t need to walk.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t go back in the house,” she said.

  Knox looked at her and paused. “You couldn’t?”

  “It’s too cold to talk with the door open.” She flashed him a smile, but it shook on her nearly blue lips.

  He closed the door, kicking himself for being so late. He got behind the wheel and turned up the heater fan so it was blowing hard. “So you couldn’t go back in the homestead?” He pulled into the driveway of a cabin on the end of the row of three so he could turn around.

  “Too maybe people there,” she said. “They’d all ask questions.”

  “So where do they think you are?”

  “I didn’t say. I just said I had to go to town.”

  Knox frowned as he passed Rhodes’s cabin and then the one where Betsy’s grandparents lived. He eased to a stop at the sign and then turned toward town. “So we’re not telling anyone about….” He glanced at her. “Dinner.”

  “Not yet,” she said. “I was thinking we could go over to Riston tonight.”

  Knox didn’t know what to say. He drove, finally deciding that he was old enough to have an adult conversation. “I don’t like that we’re keeping this a secret.”

  “I know.” Betsy sighed and slid across the seat to sit beside him. She took his hand in hers, and he liked that she wasn’t afraid to also show him how she felt. “But we’re not really lying.”

  “We’re just not saying anything,” he said. “Some would consider that lying.”

  “My granny said sometimes secrets need to be kept, at least for a little while.”

  Knox thought about what she’d said. He supposed parents didn’t tell their kids about Santa Claus. Or kept secrets for birthdays and special surprises. But no one had gotten hurt by keeping a new bicycle a secret.

  “Who are we trying not to hurt?” he asked.

  “Georgia,” she said. “I just…I don’t want her to think I’m crowding her.”

  “Because Logan is my brother.” Knox knew it was a weird situation, no matter what his brother said. Number one, he and Logan were practically identical. Why did Betsy like him and not Logan? Or Georgia like Logan and not him?

  “So it’s just a little secret,” she said. “Until I can talk to Georgia.”

  “What if she says she thinks it’s weird, and she’d rather we didn’t see each other?”

  Betsy didn’t answer, and that didn’t provide any comfort for Knox. He let the question hang there for a few minutes, and then he covered it with, “Where are we going in Riston? I only know of the fried chicken place.” His mouth watered for the crispy, fried chicken with the sweet, tangy sauce.

  “That’s great,” she said. “I like their sweet potato fries. They’re double fried.”

  Knox wasn’t even sure what that meant, but he did know where to go. It was nice to be with Betsy, and she started talking about the chickens she took care of.

  “I thought Georgia took care of the farm animals,” he said.

  “Oh, she does,” Betsy said quickly. “But I hatched these chicks myself. Sort of—I don’t know. I wanted to prove that I was more than the woman who sewed.”

  “Well, you cook too,” he said, nudging her slightly with his elbow. “And I’ve heard you make a killer apricot rhubarb jam. Oh, and I believe you’re responsible for the gardening around the homestead.”

  Betsy gave an exaggerated sigh and snuggled into him. “And I raise a trio of chickens,” she said.

  Knox got the distinct feeling that Betsy needed a reason to be valuable—that she wanted to feel valuable. To who, he wasn’t exactly sure. Her family? Herself? Him?

  He wasn’t sure. But he wanted to find out, and if that meant he had to keep their relationship a secret a little longer, he decided he could do that.

  And when he opened the door for her to go into the fried chicken pub, he was even happier they’d made the trip to Riston.

  Chapter 7

  Betsy adjusted her shawl as she quilted, the basement so cold in the winter. She’d even come down that morning before breakfast to turn on the two space heaters down here. How Cami could live down here full-time was beyond Betsy’s understanding.

  She shivered, but she pulled the needle through the fabric effortlessly. This particular quilt was for Carter and Avery, and she’d put it together in a couple of days and got it on the quilting frame.

  She did a lot of sewing and quilting in the winter, because there was no vegetable garden to tend to. No fruit to harvest and make into jams, jellies, or juices. She definitely preferred summer and fall to winter and spring, but she did enjoy quilting. Especially if she could put her aromatherapy oils in the diffuser and turn on some soft music.

  Jessie teased her that she was an eighty-year-old woman trapped in a thirty-four-year-old body, and Betsy always laughed with her. So she liked florals better than trendy patterns. And quilting more than surfing the Internet. Didn’t mean she wasn’t a good person or didn’t have value.

  Still, Knox’s question from over a week ago continued to plague her. What do you do to make money?

  It was a valid question, and Betsy was well-aware that she was a paid housewife only because Rhodes hadn’t found one that would do her job for free.

  Yet.

  Rhodes hadn’t found someone to marry and move into the homestead with yet.

  But he would, and then Betsy would need to figure out what to do with herself. She had no real employable skills, and she hated that.

  So do something about it, she thought, and she determined that as soon as she finished this row of quilting, she was going to do exactly that. She needed to be in town at four this afternoon anyway for a planning meeting for the dance, and she could certainly scope out a few prospects for real jobs before that.

  Her fingers ached by the time she finished the row, and as she parked outside the bakery, her head pounded too. There was no NOW HIRING sign in the window. She went inside anyway and asked the girl behind the counter if they needed help.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “But I don’t think we do. My uncle runs the shop, and he’s only here in the mornings. You could ask him.”

  Betsy didn’t need to go through the humiliation twice, but she nodded.

  “I could take your name and number.” The girl smiled, and that alleviated some of Betsy’s embarrassment. “And he could call you.”

  “Sure,” she said, and she gave the girl the information—and then she bought a chocolate croissant filled with peanut butter mouse and chocolate covered pretzels. As she walked out of the shop and bit into the pastry, she knew she wouldn’t be getting a job there. She couldn’t make pastries like this.

  She sat in the parking lot to eat her treat, her mind revolving around other possibilities. Something she could do from home.

  “Catering,” she said aloud to her and the car. A warm feeling enveloped her that had nothing to do with the heater pumping to keep her from freezing. She rode the high as she drove over to the community center and sat down with Rhonda and two other people on the dance committee.

  She’d known their numbers would dwindle once the real work started, and when Rhonda glanced around with disapproval in her dark eyes, Betsy said, “I think a lot of people have jobs, Rhonda. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “So we’ll just finalize a couple of things we need to get started on for sure,” she said. “And we’ll meet again on Saturday.”

  Betsy bristled that every meeting got to be set by her, according to her schedule. If she’d ask people when they could meet, she’d have more success in getting people to volunteer their time and resources. But Betsy said nothing.

  “Invitations,”
Rhonda said. “We can use the Boy Scouts like we usually do to put flyers on doors a day or two beforehand.”

  “Do we really need to do that?” Betsy asked. “I feel like we spend a lot of money and time giving out slips of paper to people who don’t even need them.”

  “Who wouldn’t need them?” Rhonda asked.

  Betsy exchanged a glance with Tia, the woman to her right. “Well,” Tia said. “Last year, the entire retirement home got papered, and they were having their own Valentine’s Day dance. So it was a waste.”

  She looked nervous, and Betsy wished she could communicate telepathically so she could let Tia know how much she appreciated her speaking up.

  “And one or two days beforehand is too late anyway,” Betsy said. “People need to have this on their calendars now.”

  “I’m sure they do,” Rhonda said.

  “Then why do we need printed flyers?” Betsy challenged.

  Rhonda scratched it off her list. “So no printed flyers. Fine.”

  “No,” Betsy said. “I was just asking a question. I do think we should have it on the town website. And it should be going out in the monthly utility bills. And we should utilize our town social media as well.”

  Rhonda’s head wobbled like one of those dolls, and she looked at Betsy with malice in her expression. “I’m putting you in charge of marketing,” she said. “Get as many people there as possible.”

  “No problem,” Betsy said, and Rhonda looked at the next item on her list.

  “Food,” she said. “We need to hire a caterer that can do something romantic and simple. My ideas were cupcakes, cake pops, sugar cookies, that kind of thing. And our budget isn’t very big.”

  Betsy wanted to blurt out that she was starting a catering business, but she felt like she and Rhonda were the only people talking in the meeting, so she waited for Tia or Kate to say something. Neither one of them did.

  “I’m available,” she said.

  “Available?” Rhonda asked icily.

  “I’m doing catering now,” she said. “I can definitely do cupcakes, cake pops, and sugar cookies.” Her imagination started exploding with pinks, reds, and purples, hearts and flowers and everything Valentine’s Day.