by Liz Isaacson
“Oh, you’re a brave one,” the older man said with a hoarse chuckle following.
“Betsy’s a good woman,” Rhodes’s father said, and Knox had no idea what he should say.
“Of course she is,” Gramps said, and Knox realized he wasn’t part of the conversation at all. “I was just saying she’s full of fire.”
“Is she?”
“I’ve seen her in a dance committee meeting,” Knox said, unsure of where the words came from. “And she was full of fire.”
“That’s because she doesn’t like Rhonda Drexel,” Rhodes said.
“Why is that?” his father asked.
Rhodes glanced into the kitchen, where the majority of the women worked. Logan sat at the counter, and he said something that caused an uproar of laughter. Knox turned back to the men at the table at the same time Rhodes did.
“Oh, Rhonda stole Betsy’s boyfriend in high school. She’s never quite gotten over it.”
“Lunch time,” Betsy herself announced, and Knox stood up with everyone else besides Gramps. She went through the food as if everyone in the homestead were blind, and Knox fell to the back of the line, having always noticed that Betsy waited until the very end to get herself any food.
He edged over to her, craving the feel of her hand in his, but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. “I’m sorry,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like you being perfect was a bad thing.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” she said, keeping her eyes on the people moving through line. There were substantially less people than what she fed for lunch, yet she watched them like a hawk.
“Maybe I sometimes, compared to you, just feel…inadequate.”
Betsy faced him then, and he knew he’d said something important to draw her away from lunch. “I have never thought that about you.”
He did take her hand then, squeezing it. “Thanks, Betsy.” He pressed his lips to her temple and joined the line. Maybe he could salvage this day with ribs and mashed potatoes.
After lunch, he found himself out on the ranch with Betsy, watching her toss feed to the chickens. “See, that one’s named Henrietta,” she said, nodding to a black hen. “And this one’s called Chuckles.” She beamed down at him and cocked her head. “See how he chuckles all the time.”
Knox listened, and he could hear the chicken making some clucky warbling sounds in the back of his throat even as he ate. The simplicity of the creature made him smile, and the fact that Betsy loved these chickens also warmed his heart.
“How’s the catering coming?” he asked, taking a handful of feed from her bucket and tossing it to the third chicken, who loitered in the corner.
“Bennie,” she called to him. “Come eat, boy.”
Knox chuckled at the way she talked to the fowl like it was a dog, and the chicken in the corner didn’t move. He wore a wild look in his eye, and Knox wondered if the animal was sick. Betsy didn’t answer his question, and she edged away from him, clucking to her precious chickens.
So the catering business wasn’t going well. Last she’d told him, she was working on her menu, prices, and website.
He decided he didn’t want to let her put the distance between them, so he trailed after her and asked, “Do you still want to be a caterer, Bets?”
Chapter 11
Betsy shrugged her shoulders, sudden emotion at Knox’s question rising through her throat and stifling her voice.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, brushing his fingers along hers. He portrayed compassion and clear concern in his question, and she didn’t think he’d let her get away with ignoring him a second time.
“I’m not sure I want to be a caterer,” she said. “I mean, I want to do something. And I’ve spent a ton of time on the plans and website over the past couple of weeks.” She tipped the bucket and dropped the last of the chicken feed onto the ground.
The sun shone brightly, providing some warmth to the day though it was mostly a mirage.
“So I don’t know.” She turned toward him, barely meeting his eye as she headed back to the shed where the chicken supplies were kept.
“What do you want to do?” Knox asked, taking her hand and strolling like it was summertime. “If you could have anything you wanted, do anything, live anywhere, what would it be?”
Betsy studied the ground as she walked. “I’m afraid to say.”
“You can tell me,” he said gently. “Isn’t that what we’re doing? Sharing important things about ourselves? What we really want?”
That was exactly what Betsy wanted, but she heard the incredulity in his voice when he asked her what she did to make money, all those weeks ago.
“I’m still figuring it out,” she said. “I’ll let you know when I do.”
“Maybe I could help you.”
Maybe he could, but she still didn’t want to tell him that she wanted his brother to build her a house near the entrance of the ranch so she could quilt, bake, and garden to her heart’s content. Would he support her…doing nothing?
It’s not nothing, she told herself. Her mother had never had a job. She’d raised the kids, made sure breakfast was eaten before school, homework and piano lessons done afterward, and now she claimed to be preparing herself for grandparenthood.
She and Knox made it back to the homestead, and she paused on the front porch and tipped up on her toes. “I’m sorry I upset you earlier today.”
“I know,” he murmured just before kissing her. Betsy felt herself falling, falling, falling. She held onto his shoulders, and touched his hair, and cradled his face in her palms until someone opened the front door and caused them to jump apart.
“Granny wants to play a game,” Jessie said, poking her head out. “And all the blinds are open, just so you know.” She gave them a look that said stop making out on the porch where we can all see, and she ducked back inside.
“You up for a game with my family?” she asked.
“Is it bad?” Knox asked.
“Oh, Rhodes is a cheater and will defend himself to the death. My mom usually gets upset about halfway through and leaves to go make cookies. And Jessie wins everything.”
“So that’s why you don’t invite her to poker night,” he said, a smile on his face.
“Oh, there’s so many reasons she can’t come to poker night,” Betsy said, reaching for the doorknob.
“Oh?” Knox moved to follow her. “What’s another one?”
“All the cowboys love her,” she said, pushing open the door and going inside the house. A rush of warmth greeted her, and she sighed into it, glad there would be more people to distract Knox’s attention from her and her lowly dreams to be a homemaker and mother.
As she scanned the crowd, she decided right then and there to invite Jessie to poker night. Then she’d see Flynn and Betsy would know if he was the one her sister was crushing on.
Another week went by, and they were another week closer to Valentine’s Day. She’d stopped practicing the baking in the morning, and she hadn’t worked on Cast Iron Catering for another minute.
With just over a week to go until the fourteenth, Wednesday morning found her walking down the long road from the homestead to her grandparent’s home near the entrance of the ranch.
Granny’s friends would be coming over for lunch in a few hours, and she’d asked Betsy to come help her make a brunch that wouldn’t be forgotten. Specifically, she wanted Betsy’s famous ham and egg breakfast sliders. They were popular on Christmas morning, as they could be made ahead of time. Or when Rhodes wanted to have real food at a tailgate party for the Superbowl. Or New Year’s Day.
Betsy hadn’t made them for any of those events this year, and Granny would be pairing the sliders with her special fruit salad, peach punch, and her lemon poppy seed muffins.
In fact, Betsy could smell the citrusy goodness when she was still a block or two away from her granny’s cabin. She’d learned to bake the muffins as one of the first recipes Granny had trusted her
to do solo.
“Granny,” she said as she entered the cabin, her cheeks tingling as they warmed up.
“Come in, come in,” Granny said from the kitchen. She’d already put her serving platters and trays on the dining room table, along with five place settings for her and her friends. “I’m ready to learn your ways.”
She smiled and accepted a hug from Betsy, holding her at arm’s length and looking right into her face. Betsy used to hate it when Granny did this, as if she could see right into Betsy’s soul.
Of course, that was back when Betsy did things she didn’t want her grandmother to know about, like sneaking off with a boy or skipping class to go to lunch with her friends.
“You and Knox are getting along okay,” Granny finally decreed, and Betsy smiled at her.
“Most of the time,” she said.
She released her and bent to look at the muffins through the glass in the front of the oven. “What’s holding you back?”
Granny was a safe person, and Betsy had always been able to talk to her. “Has it every occurred to you that I don’t really do anything around the ranch?”
Her grandmother straightened and looked Betsy right in the eye. “What?”
“I make lunch sometimes,” she said with a sigh, turning away from her grandmother’s sharp eyes. “Is that really what my life is going to be?”
Gramps came in from outside, stamping his feet and going, “Whoo-ee! It’s freezing out there, but the well is as good as ever.” He stepped into the kitchen, shaking his hat in one hand. “Oh, morning, Betsy.”
“What are you doing today?” Betsy asked, opening a drawer and putting on an apron.
“Oh, Dusty is coming to get me and take me to the movies.”
“He likes to flirt with the girl who sells popcorn there,” Granny said as if she was mentioning that it would snow later.
“Of course he does,” Betsy said dryly. It was no family—or town—secret that Dusty was a huge flirt.
“Betsy was just telling me that she wants to follow in my footsteps and be a professional homemaker.”
Betsy froze, ice filling her chest. “Granny, I didn’t mean—”
“I know exactly what you meant,” she said, pulling two cartons of eggs out of the fridge. “Women these days are so progressive, but you know, there’s nothing wrong with being a homemaker. And you’re very, very good at it. Knox would be a very lucky man to have you waiting for him at home.”
“Just like I have been to have you waiting for me at home all these years,” Gramps said, giving Granny a quick squeeze. He faced Betsy, a wrinkly grin on his face. “She does kick me out every Wednesday, but I still love her.”
Betsy laughed with her grandfather while Granny rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Do I have to wait for him?” she asked. “I mean, you didn’t just sit around and wait for Gramps to come in off the ranch, did you?”
“Heavens, no,” Granny said, pointing to the two bags of rolls on the counter. Betsy reached for them, wondering if she really had to be more, do more, be something, do something, to be a valuable part of her family. Or valuable to society. Or to Knox.
“Sometimes, you want him waiting for you, you know?” Granny purred in the back of her throat, and Betsy laughed again. “Now, let’s get started on these sliders. Gramps won’t go until he gets some breakfast.”
Betsy started instructing about the layers, and the cheese, ham, and scrambled eggs came together quickly. It was really quite an easy dish, and her mind was allowed to wander toward the future she wanted for herself.
No money restrictions. No roadblocks at all.
In it, she saw herself feeding people and making them happy—basically what she did now.
She saw a home of her own here on the ranch—which seemed impossible.
She saw her and Knox—which infused fear right into her bloodstream. Would he want her if she didn’t have grand aspirations for herself or a career?
Betsy mixed her dry ingredients with her wet, the kitchen in the pub quite chilly this early in the morning. She was going through one last practice run with the sugar cookies, and she actually enjoyed the date with herself, the stainless steel work benches, and the dough.
She rolled and cut, each cookie a wonderful four-inch tall heart that would puff and then crinkle along the edges. She hoped. She got the first four sheet pans in the fridge to chill while she used the giant mixing bowl to stir up another batch of dough.
By the time Bethany showed up at seven to start her daily prep for the pub, Betsy had one hundred and ninety-two cookies and the cream cheese frosting to go with them. She’d made this many cookies three previous times, and she boxed up twenty to take out to the ranch.
The rest she’d take to the bakery on her way back to Quinn Valley.
“Want a cookie?” Betsy tipped the plastic container toward Bethany, who plucked four out.
“Thanks, Betsy. You all ready for the big day?”
Betsy drew a deep breath and blew it out. “I sure hope so. I am so done getting up this early.” She flashed a grin at the chef who’d married her cousin, Ryder. Meeting a Quinn honestly wasn’t hard to do. If Betsy threw a rock, she’d hit a Quinn, and that was saying something as throwing certainly wasn’t her strong suit.
Bethany laughed. “You get used to it.”
“Well, at this point, I’ll be glad when this dance is over.”
“Really? You seem to love it.” Bethany pulled a binder out and flipped it open, glancing through it. To Betsy, it looked like recipes or a list of menu items, and Bethany tied an apron on while Betsy started taking her huge bin of cookies out to the car.
Thankfully, Marge at the bakery had been paying Betsy for the cookies, so she’d been able to replace the ingredients she’d been buying.
“Betsy,” Marge said when she came stumbling through the bakery doors. “Let me help you.” But the older woman couldn’t really do much except clear some counter space. Betsy slid the cookies onto the counter with a huff and wiped her hair off her forehead.
“There’s about a hundred and seventy here this morning,” she said.
Marge punched a button on her cash register, and the till popped open. “I can’t wait to see these all displayed at the dance.” She counted out some twenties and handed them to Betsy.
“Thanks.” She folded the money and tucked it in her pocket. “I’m still good to use your trays and stands, right?”
“Of course, dear. I’ll meet you at the community center about an hour before it starts.”
“Oh, I can come get them from you.”
Marge laughed and shook her head. “Nope. I’ll have Culver load them in our delivery van. We’ll see you there.” She looked over Betsy’s shoulder as the bell rang and another customer came in.
Betsy left the bakery, glad she hadn’t had to be there at three o’clock in the morning and then act happy to see people when they came in. Betsy needed a nap, stat.
A few hours later, her bladder woke her, and she stumbled out of her bedroom only to see Knox standing there. He wore his regular farrier clothes, but the apron had been left somewhere else.
“There you are,” he said, holding his position at the end of the hall. She needed to go right to the bathroom, but Knox was on her left, and she was torn. “Taking a nap?”
She ran her hand through her messy hair and tried to laugh. But embarrassment squirreled through her. “Yeah, I was up early this morning.”
“Aren’t we all?” He cocked his head at her, that smile seemingly stuck in place. “Well, I won’t interrupt you. Must be quite the life, napping before ten a.m.”
Betsy felt like someone had poured dry ice down her throat, and it cooled and froze everything it touched. Her vocal chords. Her lungs. Her stomach. She could simply stare at Knox, and blink.
Must be quite the life, napping before ten a.m.
He had no idea that she’d been up late with Georgia as her sister lamented the ill health of one of her potbellied pigs, then up e
arly to get into the pub to practice the cookies. She didn’t need to justify a nap to him, or to anyone.
She retreated inside herself, folded her arms, and forced a laugh out of her mouth. She’d known for about a week how she’d answer his question about what she wanted her futue to look like, but she hadn’t told him.
“I’ll be right back,” she said and started toward the bathroom.
“I was just leaving,” he called after her, and she raised her hand in a farewell wave. Inside the bathroom, she closed and locked the door, her fingers trembling. She pressed her palms flat against the vanity and looked at herself in the mirror.
She was a mess, with half of her hair matted on one side and her skin so pale, she could’ve passed for a zombie.
“Shouldn’t matter,” she said to her reflection. Knox should be able to see her in any condition and find her beautiful. Did he?
She had no idea.
What she did know made her heart ache and tears prick the backs of her eyes. She didn’t want to tell him why she was taking a nap. Didn’t want to include him in the good news that every single cookie had come out perfectly. Didn’t want to share with him that the future she’d seen for herself involved him.
Because now, she wasn’t so sure it did.
Chapter 12
Knox worked in the blacksmith shop, able to juggle hot pieces with his gloves easily. He’d waited in the homestead for at least ten minutes for Betsy to come out of the bathroom, but she never had.
He’d texted her that he hoped he could come up to the homestead for lunch, but she hadn’t responded yet. Maybe she was sick. She hadn’t looked great coming out of her bedroom, and a pang of concern ran through him.
His phone finally chimed, and he glanced at it, expecting to see a Sure, come up for lunch message from Betsy.
Instead he saw, I don’t think so, Knox.
The text was from Betsy, but the response didn’t make sense. He set aside his tools, peeled off his gloves, and picked up the phone.