A Cowboy in the Kitchen (14 page)

Miss my girl. Come have tea with me? Love, Gram.

PS—Sneak me in something sweet, will you?

PS—It's Gram again.

Just what the doctor ordered...for both of them.

* * *

At least when it came to horses and cattle and land, West didn't mess up. As he saw Jonathan McNeal's blue pickup coming up the drive, he glanced at the range, watching the cattle graze. One of his workers was carrying bales of hay from the trailer and stacking them, the other one cleaning the stables.

Jonathan's pickup came to a stop, and Daisy ran over to greet the visitors.

West waved as he headed over, smiling at the towheaded little boy who hopped out of the truck. “Hey, Timmy. Glad to see you. Daisy sure likes you,” he added, watching the beagle sniff the boy's legs.

The boy didn't smile, didn't say anything, just watched Daisy sniff and look up at him, waiting for a pat. West waited to see if Daisy's magic would work on Timmy—if he'd be able to resist how darned adorable she was—and indeed, Timmy did resist. Which meant West had his work cut out for him. Timmy was hurting. On the phone the other day, West had let Jonathan know that Timmy should be allowed to be 100 percent himself here—no need for his father to “admonish” him for not being polite or any of that jazz. This experience would be for Timmy to be himself, feel everything he was feeling and let it out, no matter what. West could see Jonathan standing back, letting West lead.

West waved at Annabel and Lucy in the pony pasture; Lucy was already atop Starlight, Annabel walking beside them as they walked the perimeter. Timmy stopped and watched—a good sign.

“You like ponies, Timmy?” West asked.

“I guess,” was all the boy said.

West led the way to the stables, to where the three ponies stood. Timmy followed, shoulders slumped, but he was looking around—another good sign that he was interested and engaged, that the ponies and the land and riding would be more powerful than the gray cloud of sadness and worry over Timmy's head. The point was to poke holes in that cloud—if not make it go away altogether.

“Timmy, which pony would you like to ride? If you don't have a favorite, you can try another next time you come. And if you do pick a favorite, that pony can always be yours when you come.”

Timmy glanced at the horses, then at his feet. “I like the brown one the best.”

West smiled. “I like him too. His name is Captain Petey.” After a brief introduction to ponies and how to get up on his back, Timmy was in the saddle, his feet in the stirrups. West led him to the pasture where Lucy was waiting.

“I love Captain Petey!” Lucy called over.

Timmy glanced at her. “I like his spots.”

“Like your freckles,” Lucy said, pointing at his face.

West held his breath, but Timmy touched his face and looked at down Captain Petey, his brown and white markings. “Yeah,” he said, his voice brightening. “Like my freckles.”

West glanced at Timmy's dad, who looked so relieved that tears shone in his eyes. As Annabel and Lucy walked ahead, West held on to the reins and led, Timmy holding the horn tightly.

“My mama didn't like horses, do you believe that?” Lucy said from up ahead. “I love horses. Different something and something, my mommy used to say.”

“Different strokes for different folks,” West said, remembering how Lorna used to say that all the time about just about everything.

“Michael, that's my brother, was scared of horses, but I'm not,” Timmy said suddenly. “Do you think he sees that Captain Petey is nice?”

“Definitely,” West said.”

“Can Captain Petey go superfast?” Timmy asked.

“He can, but while you're learning we'll take it slow. Then next time you come you can take him for a trot—that's like a quicker walk.”

“If he'll even be here,” Timmy said, and burst into tears.

Timmy's dad hurried over and rubbed Timmy's back. “You want to come off, son?”

Timmy shook his head.

“Captain Petey will be here,” West assured Timmy. “He stays in the barn and the pasture, so not much can hurt him. And we make sure he's healthy. Yeah, sometimes things can happen you can't control, that's a part of life, but Petey is kept pretty safe.”

Timmy was still crying, but he was calming down. “I want to come off so I can pet him. Is that okay?”

“You bet,” West said.

For the next half hour, the bunch of them stayed in the pasture, Timmy petting Captain Petey and Starlight, laughing as he and Lucy fed them carrots, Lucy talking a mile a minute about how much she loved Starlight.

And then it was time for the McNeals to go.

“I can't wait to come back and see you,” Timmy told Captain Petey, wrapping his arms around the pony.

Captain Petey turned his head and eyed Timmy, which got a big laugh from the boy.

Jonathan mouthed a thank-you at West and they walked over to their pickup.

“This would have been great for me and my sisters when we lost our parents,” Annabel said, patting Captain Petey. “We didn't have much exposure to horses and riding, but I can see how it would have helped.”

“My brother wanted to start a therapeutic riding program for troubled kids,” West said, remembering how Garrett used to talk about the way horses and riding and the freedom of open land could reach kids whose stubbornness ran deep, like West's. “His dream was to be a cop in Austin and start a program for youth. But he never had the chance to make it happen.”

“You could start one here in his memory,” Annabel said. “A program for grieving children, for troubled youth. You could do so much good, West. It's clear this is your bailiwick.”

Huh. Maybe he could start that program. He knew how riding a horse, caring for a horse, could take your mind off your troubles, how trusting a horse could help you open up, the way learning new skills, whether grooming or riding or mucking out a barn, could rebuild confidence. Then again, part of him didn't feel right about going after something that had been so important to his brother. He could imagine his folks thinking he'd screw it up, not do his brother justice.

You know, a lot of what you think your parents think about you might be in your head
, Annabel had said the night of his brother's memorial when they were talking in the barn, when she somehow got him to open up.
You see yourself as the troublemaker you used to be, not as the man you're becoming, the man you are.

He'd wanted to believe that, he really had. But then later that night, he'd come upon them talking about him ruining Annabel's life and there was no doubt what his parents had thought of him. He'd only been home that night because of the memorial, thinking he should stay for a few days, not even sure he was welcome. But after that first night he'd gone back to the Piedmonts' big spread where he had room and board in exchange for being a hand. He'd been directionless then but liked working on a big ranch, a dream just sprouting about having his own place someday, not that he figured he ever would. The day after he'd heard his parents say—in so many words—they hoped Annabel would leave town and live her dream instead of sticking around Blue Gulch for a nobody like him, he figured he'd never amount to much. He'd spotted Lorna Dunkin in the coffee place and she'd offered her sympathy and whispered some sweet nothings in his ear and that was that. She'd helped him forget. About his losses, his brother, his parents' love, Annabel. For about an hour, he had forgotten everything.

He glanced at the range, at the herd, at the land as far as he could see, then at the house and the red barn behind it. The place might have started out as his parents', but he'd turned it from a small farm to one of the most reputable and profitable ranches in town. He'd done good here.

But the therapeutic riding program was his brother's baby and now his brother was gone.

“I'd love to be a part of it,” Annabel said. “I could definitely help with the kids who've lost loved ones. Been there, done that.” She glanced at him, then quickly whispered, “I mean, even when it's time for me to go, I could come back to work in the program.”

The thought of Annabel leaving his house, leaving Lucy, leaving him, tore up his gut. He liked having her here. So did Lucy. Even if every night he had to pretend his hands were tied behind his back so he wouldn't touch her.

He didn't want to talk about her leaving, so he just nodded and said he'd better go help his ranch hands with the hay bales. He kissed Lucy on the head and told her she'd been a good friend to Timmy today, then walked away, wanting to stay with them more than anything right then.

Chapter Eleven

F
or the rest of the week, after putting Lucy to bed, West spent what little spare time he had in the kitchen. He might not love cooking, but he was getting better at it. Part of him wanted to stay as far away from the kitchen as possible, to be the same old awful cook he'd always been so that Annabel would have to stay and teach him...maybe for years. But he owed it to her to set her free, and he owed it to Lucy to be the father she deserved, which meant practicing his roasts and his pastas.

On Wednesday, close to midnight, he was probably too tired to be trying to figure out what the hell a roux was and he ended up dumping a pound of flour on the floor, which of course Daisy stepped in and tracked all through the living room.

On Thursday, at 2:00 a.m., between a calves' check and wanting to avoid slipping back into bed where beautiful Annabel was sleeping, he let the fettuccini overboil and inadvertently woke her up. Annabel's nose missed nothing.

“You sure are trying your hardest to learn to cook,” she said, her expression one West couldn't read.

On Friday night at eleven, thinking he'd try the fettuccini again, that maybe he'd make it as a side with his chicken parmigiana for the Dunkins, he found Annabel in the kitchen, sitting at the table and drawing boxes. She had at least ten pages spread out of little boxes divided in all different way. Apparently Clyde's Burgertopia's grand opening had been such a success earlier that day that Annabel felt it necessary to add a couple of lunch/dinner take-out items to the menu to lure in folks. She and her grandmother and sister had come up with a “po'boy in a box” special lunch to eat in or out with two sides, all in an easy-to-carry-and-eat-from unleakable box in Hurley's trademark apricot color. It was a good reminder that she was very involved in Hurley's success, that she'd married him to keep Hurley's going, that she wanted to be able to get back to her own life as soon as possible. He mentally kicked himself for not thinking of inviting her family over for dinner, showing them the ranch and the house, making them feel welcome to come out anytime. But Annabel was so furiously working on her box design, pouring yet another cup of coffee, that he figured he'd bring it up the next day over breakfast.

On Saturday, he was the first one up, as usual, and after his chores on the ranch, he found Annabel and Lucy making smiley face pancakes with banana slices for eyes, a strawberry for the nose, and a line of blueberries for a mouth. Lucy wanted to add hair, so Annabel added a little whipped cream at the top.

“I won't tell Nana,” Lucy said, putting a finger to her lips. “Nana says whipped cream is bad for you.”

He caught the look on Annabel's face—which he'd translate as
oh,
does
she?

Then Annabel added even a bit more whipped cream to make longer hair. She turned to Lucy. “Well, I don't really like keeping secrets. And I try not to do anything that I wouldn't want the people I love to know about. So it's perfectly fine for you to tell Nana that I put whipped cream on your pancakes.”

“I think secrets can be fun,” Lucy said, and launched into a story about how her friend Olivia told her a secret—that Olivia liked the color orange—and Lucy has never told anyone else. Then she slapped a hand over her mouth and said, “Oops!”

Annabel and West laughed and promised not to tell.

That night, after Lucy was in bed and West had perfected his fettuccini, salting the big pot of water with a flourish as if he were Jacques Pepin or something, he went in search of Annabel, who'd been scarce since she sang Lucy two lullabies and Lucy's eyelids drifted closed. He went room by room in the house, then the back deck, where he knew she liked to curl up and read at night. No Annabel. As he was passing a side window, he saw a light on in the barn, on the second level. Was Annabel up there?

He checked on Lucy, made sure she was fast asleep, then headed out to the barn, the midnight breeze refreshing against his face. The wooden steps leading up to the loft were right by the front door and he took them two at a time.

Annabel sat with her knees curled up in the hay, the blanket around her shoulders.

Uh-oh.
“You okay?” he asked, staying at the landing.

“Not really.” She didn't look at him, instead resting her face on her arm.

He moved closer and sat down next to her, cross-legged, a memory of the two of them up here seven years ago flitting into his mind, of Annabel handing him the thermos of chili, even taking a spoon and a napkin from her pocket. He could still remember how good that chili was, so good that it really had distracted him from grief for the three minutes it took him to devour it. Later he'd been surprised he had an appetite at all.

“What's bothering you?” he asked, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them as she was doing.

She lifted her head. “I hate what I said to Lucy this morning. It's been killing me all day.”

“What are you talking about?” Oh God, she was crying. He saw the tears slipping down her cheeks and wanted to pull her into his arms, but he settled for taking her hand and clasping it in both of his. “Annabel, what?”

“I told your six-year-old daughter that I don't like keeping secrets. That I try not to do anything I wouldn't want the people I love to know about.” She looked at West, a combination of sadness and anger in her dark brown eyes. “I
am
keeping secrets, West. I did do something I don't want the people I love to know I did.” The tears came fast and furious then, and he pulled her against him.

“Annabel, are you talking about us—our marriage?”

She barely managed a nod. “I didn't tell my family about our arrangement. I let my grandmother and my sister—two people in the world I'm closest to, who I'd do anything for—think that we married for love, that everything is hunky-dory, that my new husband is so generous he stocked Hurley's bank account, that we're newlyweds so busy cocooning together that we haven't come up for air to even invite them over. And do you know
why
I haven't invited them over to the ranch?”

“Actually I was thinking about that last night,” he said, his stomach twisting at what she was saying. “Let's have them over Monday night, then. Hurley's is closed Mondays, so Clementine won't be working.”

“That's the thing. I don't
want
them to come here. I don't want to drag them any deeper into a lie, West.” The tears came again.

“Annabel, we
are
married. That's not a lie.”

She was burning to say something, he could see it. But whatever it was would tear him up and he couldn't deal with that, so he grabbed her and kissed her, his hands moving to her face, the back of her head, down to her breasts, where he lingered on their fullness against the thin material of her T-shirt, the strain against his jeans almost unbearable.

“No, West,” she said, pushing him off her. “Not again.”

He felt his cheeks burn. “Not again? What?”

She bolted up, anger flaming her own cheeks. “Seven years ago. Then our wedding night. Seven years ago you dumped me for Lorna. Then the morning after our wedding, you said that our wedding night was a mistake, that we should be platonic, that our marriage had a job to do. Sex complicates, remember?” Her brown eyes were flashing. “I don't like secrets, West. And I don't like lies. So let's just keep the truth the truth. This marriage is a business arrangement.”

“Got it,” he gritted out. Damn it. There was so much to say and it was all jumbled in his head. Part of him didn't even know how he felt about half of it. Their marriage did have its damned job to do. Sex did complicate. And he didn't like secrets and lies either.
But, but, damned but.

“Good. Then we're settled.” She let out a deep breath and dusted hay off her jeans, then hurried down the steps, the barn door shutting behind her.

“But this wasn't a lie, Annabel,” he whispered. “How bad I want you isn't a lie. The way I'm feeling about you isn't a lie.”

He fell back on the hay, staring up at the beams. How
did
he feel about Annabel?

He supposed he felt about Annabel the way he felt about the therapeutic riding program—as though she was something he wasn't really supposed to have, that she wasn't supposed to be his.

He punched into the hay with his fist, anger welling up from somewhere deep inside him. He closed his eyes, remembering how he and Garrett used to wrestle up here, how Garrett would sometimes let him win, though he never let on at the time. Garrett had always been doing stuff like that, quiet little benevolences that had had huge impact. And what had West been doing? Hanging around, getting into trouble, barely graduating from high school because his grades were so bad from skipping school.

Times like this, when he was torn up about himself, he'd let himself think about Lucy, his beautiful little girl, her dark ringlets poking up in every direction, her green pants, her wide smile missing a couple of baby teeth, her questions and her laughter. And he'd know, heart, mind and soul, that he'd done something right, that he was doing something right.

Keeping things platonic with Annabel would let him keep doing that something right. He let out a deep breath, relief flooding him.
Business arrangement
, he said to himself, then repeated it a few times to get it back in his head.
This is just a business arrangement
.

He wouldn't touch Annabel again.

* * *

At four o'clock the next day, Sunday, aka Dinner with Dunkins Day, Annabel came down from playing with Lucy in her room to see if West needed help with dinner. He'd insisted on making everything himself. She'd tried to tell him that the Dunkins couldn't possibly expect him to be a great cook after just one week and two days of marriage to a chef, but he'd said, “I got this, thanks,” in a tone that told her to beat it.

Fine. Have it your way
, she thought.

Except two minutes of pacing later, she'd come back to the kitchen and said, “Let me at least check on things for you.”

He trained those driftwood-brown eyes on her. “I said, I've got this.”

She'd left the kitchen again, pacing the living room, worrying that he'd undercooked or overcooked the pasta, that he'd added too much garlic to the sauce, that the chicken would be too tough.

Then again, West wasn't the most confident of cooks. If he said he was okay, especially given how important this dinner was, then everything must be all right. And anyway, if his cooking was a big disaster, the Dunkins would just say that thank heavens Annabel was here and that West should stick to ranching from now on.

The doorbell rang at exactly six. West came out to greet Raina and Landon, and they ignored him, fussing over Lucy in her lovely yellow dress, her hair in a high ponytail with a matching yellow hair tie. Raina scooped Lucy up in her arms, then set her down. Landon settled himself in an overstuffed chair and picked up a coffee table book on wild horses, flipping through it.

“That is a lovely dress,” Raina said, beaming at Lucy. “What a pretty yellow!”

“Yellow was Mommy's favorite color,” Lucy said, twirling around.

Raina smiled at Lucy, then turned to Annabel. “I smell something wonderful! I can't wait to sit down to a home-cooked meal cooked by a talented Dallas chef.”

She'd done it again—ignored Lucy saying something about her mother. “Actually, Raina, West did the cooking tonight. I think he wanted you to see how far he's come in the kitchen.”

Raina's face fell. “Oh. Well, I'm sure he's picked up something by having a Michelin-starred wife.”

Annabel was about to explain how Michelin stars worked, but Raina interrupted her, the older woman's gaze stern on Lucy.

“Lucy,” Raina said, “little ladies don't flip their dress hems up and down.”

Lucy scrunched up her face in anger and flipped her dress up and down again, then again.

“Lucy, honey,” Annabel said, “let your dress be.”

Lucy looked at Annabel and burst into tears, then ran up the stairs. A door closed.

“Well, I wasn't expecting this,” Raina said, raising her chin and crossing her arms over her chest.

“I'll run up and talk to Lucy. Why don't you sit and enjoy your drink? We'll be right down.”

As Annabel turned to head up the stairs, she noticed Raina walking into the living room and looking at the photos on the mantel—two of Annabel and West's wedding photos, one of the Dunkins with Lucy. And one of Lucy with her mother. Raina's gaze lingered on the photo before she lifted her chin again and moved away, standing in front of the window, her back to the room.

Tension seeped into Annabel's muscles and she hurried up the stairs. She knocked on Lucy's door.

“Lucy, it's Annabel.” She opened the door and found Lucy sitting on her bed, holding her Eeyore.

“What got you so upset, honey?” Annabel asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Lucy shrugged, her face still crestfallen.

Maybe Lucy didn't really know, couldn't articulate it, but Annabel knew the girl had likely been internalizing her grandmother's refusal to talk about Lorna, the constant changing of the subject, and she'd reacted.

“Your dress is so pretty,” Annabel said, touching the yellow cotton. “I like that yellow was your mommy's favorite color. My mother's favorite was red.”

“I used to draw the sun on all my pictures because Mommy liked yellow.”

Annabel's heart squeezed. “I used to draw hearts for that same reason.”

Lucy smiled and threw her arms around Annabel. “I'm sorry I was flipping up my dress.” The backs of Annabel's eyes pricked with tears at how much this little girl had come to mean to her, how much she...yes, loved her.

She gave her a tight hug. “That's okay, sweetheart. Ready to go back downstairs? You have special company.”