Finally Home (18 page)

“What happened to Colt?”

“He had to go to detention. But he didn't care. He was such a . . .” She ground her teeth and stopped herself. “What I'm saying is . . .” She shook her head as if trying to remember where their conversation had taken a wrong turn. “Parents make mistakes. But your mom's here now.”

“I wish she wasn't.” It was more honest than she had meant to be, but the words slipped out unbidden.

“She's trying, Soph,” Casie said. “Maybe you should, too.”

The kitchen went quiet. Sophie released a long breath. “I don't know if I can.”

Casie glanced at her, brows half lifted in a knowing expression. “If you can train a thousand pounds of recalcitrant equine to pull a sled, you can do this.”

“Horses don't jet off to Zurich and miss the piano recital you've practiced for since June.”

“Not generally,” Casie agreed. “But they don't usually catch the red-eye back to Nowhere, South Dakota, to spend the holidays with their daughters, either. Keep that in mind, huh?”

Lumpkin pranced up, tinsel gleaming shiny as a tiara between her woolly ears.

Sophie sighed and reached for the lambkin, who bleated cheerfully. “If she can forgive
her
mom, maybe I should be able to, too,” she admitted.

And on the stairs nearby, Monica Day-Bellaire hoped it was true.

CHAPTER 17

“T
hat was literally the best meal I've ever eaten,” Max Barrenger said. Beside him, his carefully groomed fiancée smiled, but her expression seemed a little tight.

“I've never believed that old axiom that the best way to a man's heart is through his stomach,” she said. “But I'm starting to see the error of my ways.” She patted Max's slightly protruding belly. “I may have to get some of your recipes, Emily.”

“And do what with them?” Max asked and laughed. “Use them as coasters?”

Casie watched as Sonata raised her brows.

Emily pushed nervously to her feet. “It's just because the ingredients are so fresh,” she said.

“Believe me, that's not all it is,” Max argued. “But S. has an interesting idea. Have you ever considered writing a cookbook? I think it could be a big hit.”

“It would never work,” Colt said.

Max scowled at him, giving off the slightest whiff of antagonism. “Why's that?”

“Em doesn't use recipes. Her meals never taste the same twice.”

There were four men around the table; Ty and Colt watched Emily with protective zeal, Lincoln and Max with unconcealed interest. What did the girl have that drew men like fruit flies? True, she could make ambrosia from a pint of manure dust and a dollop of vinegar. But she wasn't exactly beautiful in the traditional sense. Not like Sophie. Casie let her gaze drift to the younger girl for a second, then glanced back at Emily. Perhaps it was because Em truly didn't know she possessed that indefinable spark that drew people to her. Whatever it was, Casie was jealous. It was as simple and as demented as that.

She bit off her bad karma and reminded herself that she truly loved Emily. It was Colt who made her crazy. Him and his grin and his grasshoppers and his oddly flexible body. She would have been better off if she'd never opened her locker door, she thought, and almost smiled at the idea of him hunkered down in the dark after the last cheerleader went home.

“Recipe or not,” said Monica Day-Bellaire breezily, “it was a wonderful meal.”

“Thank you,” Emily said. Her cheeks were a little rosy, either from the heat of the kitchen or from the flattery. She looked flustered, making Casie wonder if perhaps she had read the girl wrong from the very beginning. Maybe it wasn't simply that she longed to impress
men
. Maybe she needed to impress adults regardless of their gender. Abandonment, she thought . . . not a fantastic idea. “But you haven't tasted dessert yet. There's rhubarb crisp and suet pudding. Which would you prefer?”

“Oh, dear,” Monica said, “I'm participating in a symposium with a group of my fellows in two weeks and I must—” she began, then glanced toward Sophie and stopped herself. Her mouth softened, and her shoulders dropped a quarter of an inch. “Never mind,” she said and, laughing, shrugged disarmingly. “I'll have a piece of each.”

 

The rest of the meal passed quickly. Lincoln Alexander left the table first. The door opened and closed almost silently behind him. Ty and Colt returned to the Red Horse soon after. Casie ran warm water into the kitchen sink and tried to pretend she didn't even notice their leaving.

“Well, I'm going to hit the proverbial hay early,” Sonata said and rose lithely to her feet before glancing down at her fiancé. “Are you coming?”

He pulled his attentive gaze from Emily. “I think I'll stay and nurse my coffee for a little bit longer.”

Her brows dipped a little toward her carefully made up eyes. “You're just hoping for another piece of rhubarb crisp.”

“Actually, I prefer the pudding,” he said, and lifting his empty plate, gave Emily a hopeful glance.

Sonata made a little snort of disgust. “I thought we were going snowshoeing in the morning.”

“That's just it,” Max said. “If we're going to be trekking through the wilderness, I want to make sure I have enough energy to save you when we're accosted by grizzlies.”

“You think another six hundred calories is going to help you fend off wild animals?”

He shrugged. “We don't want to take any risks.”

She rolled her eyes and headed for the door. “You have your key with you, don't you?”

“I think we're safe out here, S.,” he assured her.

She gave him a tilted glance. “Just don't wake me when you come in,” she said and took some of the tension with her when she left.

Monica Day-Bellaire rose to her feet. “How about if Sophia and I do the dishes?”

“Oh no,” Casie argued and slipped another plate into the warm water. “You're on vacation.”

“It's a vacation just to be here,” she said.

“Honestly, I like this job. It helps me warm up.”

“Well . . .” Monica turned toward her daughter. “Maybe you could show me the stables then.”

“They're not stables. They're just—” Sophie began, but Casie shifted her gaze surreptitiously toward the girl, who stopped in her verbal tracks and pursed her lips.

“You don't have the proper clothes,” she said.

“What clothes do I need?”

“Something that wasn't purchased in Milan.” Sophie's tone was punctuated by disdain and maybe a dash of almost indistinguishable pride.

“She can wear my overalls if she wants,” Casie said, and Sophie laughed.

“I doubt—” she began, but Monica stopped her.

“That would be wonderful.”

Even Sophie Jaegar, blasé soul that she was, couldn't quite hide her shock, but she bumped her expression quickly back to one of nonchalance.

In a matter of minutes they were out the door.

Casie exchanged a sideways glance with Emily, who shook her head once.

“I take it those two aren't exactly BFFs,” Max said, watching them from his kitchen chair.

Casie sighed. “They're trying.”

“There you go.” Emily set a bowl of suet pudding in front of him. “The stuff grizzly fighters are made of.”

“You're a lifesaver,” he said.

“I might be the opposite.”

He closed his eyes and made a dreamy noise as he tasted his first bite. “How do you mean? This stuff is heavenly.”

“Far be it from me to discourage anyone from appreciating my desserts,” she said, “but there are about five thousand fat grams per serving. One more bowl and your heart is likely to drop from your chest cavity into your shoes.”

He laughed. “I think we might want to try a little different angle when we market it.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said, but her eyes looked happy.

“I don't think you realize your own worth, Emily.”

“Oh, I'm aware,” she said. “It's about a hundred and twelve dollars after my last stellar purchase.”

“Which was . . .”

“The truck.”

“Shrewd move,” he said and took another bite.

“I'm full of them,” she assured him, and taking a large covered bowl from the refrigerator, dumped the contents onto the flour-sprinkled counter. In a moment she was kneading the dough with rhythmic cadence, dark knuckles caressing and punishing.

Taking his dessert with him, Max rose to lean his hips against the counter and watch her work. He took another bite. “I'm telling you, Em, you could make a fortune. I know a little something about big business.”

She narrowed her eyes as if considering. “I think I'm probably more of a small business–type of girl.”

“But you have a baby to think about now. It'd be shortsighted to turn down a possible fortune.”

She shrugged. Her cadenced kneading was strangely soothing.

“Tell her, Casie,” he said, but just then Bliss gave a small mew of despair.

Elbow deep in dough, Emily glanced up.

“I got her,” Casie said and hurried into the living room.

The voices behind her murmured on as she bent over the ancient bassinet.

Inside, Bliss blinked up at her, dark eyes wide with infantile wisdom.

“Hey,” Casie said and lifted the baby from her blankets. “What's going on?”

The tiny mouth lifted into a cheeky grin.

“Your momma's in there stealing hearts . . . or stomachs,” she said and wiggled the infant, prompting a wider smile. The feelings perpetrated by that silly expression were indescribable, making Casie wonder where she had gone wrong. Or had she gone right? Maybe this was what she was meant to do . . . live independently, give others a chance to get their lives on track, to gain perspective and mend fences. It could seem like a lonely life to some, but her track record with men suggested she might be better off alone.

She ruminated on that while she changed Bliss's diaper and snapped her onesie back in place. After rinsing the cloth in the toilet, she dropped it in the stainless-steel bucket and propped Bliss back against her shoulder. The baby felt soft and substantial against her chest, life in bloom. She closed her eyes to the poignant feelings for a moment, then bumped herself out of her reverie and marched back into the kitchen, where Emily was folding the dough into a long, fat roll. The smell of warm butter and cinnamon drifted cozily into the air.

“You wouldn't be
just
an overseer,” Max was saying. “You could cook as much as you like. That's the beauty of it. You'd have all the time you wanted to experiment instead of—

“Ohhhh,” he sighed as he caught sight of Bliss. “Look at
her
.” He shook his head as he put his bowl on the counter. “She gets cuter every time I see her. Just like her mama.”

“Can you hold her for another minute?” Emily asked, glancing at Casie. “I'm almost done.”

“Here, let me have her,” Max said, and wiping his hands on his designer jeans, reached for the baby. Bliss eyed him critically as he held her out in front of him. “Wouldn't she be the perfect face for a baby food jar?”

“Baby food!” Emily said and laughed.

Max joined in. “Okay, maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. It will be a strictly adult menu for now . . . with a picture of you
and
Bliss on the label.”

“You
are
a dreamer,” Emily chuckled, but Casie couldn't ignore the fact that her tone wasn't altogether dismissive.

“Never underestimate the power of dreams,” Max said.

The front door opened. Monica Day-Bellaire's voice was soft from the entryway. “So you're breaking the palomino all by yourself?”

“I think she had quite a bit of training before she came here,” Sophie said. Her voice was still cool, but it had lost that caustic edge it so often used to contain, and was buffered by the sheen of excitement she always exhibited when talking about horses. “I'm just continuing her education. She's super-intelligent.”

“And so beautiful. Palominos have always been my favorite.”

“Since when did you have a favorite horse?” Sophie asked.

“I was a girl once, too,” Monica said. “You know that, right?”

Sophie didn't respond for a moment.

Monica laughed. “I wasn't always a stodgy old psychiatrist,” she said. “Hey, you know what would be great?” Her tone was bright with excitement. “If we bought a farm somewhere.”

Casie shot her gaze toward Emily, who glanced back, eyes wide and brows winging toward her hairline.

“What?” Sophie's voice was very soft.

Casie returned her attention to Bliss. The baby looked perfectly content cuddled against Max's shoulder, and in that second, it dawned on her that her whole house of cards could crumble to nothing in less than a heartbeat.

“I don't mean an establishment this big,” Monica said. “Just something small. How many acres would you need for, say . . .” She paused. “A herd of fifteen?”

“Fifteen?” There was an awed breathiness to Sophie's voice.

“Well sure. I mean, you'd want enough space to take in animals that have been neglected or abused. But you'd have to promise never to steal another horse.”

“I didn't
steal
Freedom . . . exactly.”

“Oh, Sophia, I just can't tell you how wonderful it is to spend time with you again.”

“Yeah.” The girl's tone was iffy but stronger. “It's great.”

“Come on,” said the older woman, “let's go see if there's any dessert left.”

A moment later they stepped back into the kitchen. Sophie's cheeks were flushed from the chill outside air. But maybe there was something else that made her face pink and her eyes bright. And maybe that something sparked an ache in the middle of Casie's chest. What would she give to have one more day with her own mother?

“Cassandra . . .” Monica said, voice exuberant. “Join us for a second dessert?”

Casie's stomach twisted with something oddly akin to jealousy, and for one fragile moment she was poised on the brink of telling her that some people didn't deserve second chances, didn't deserve families and fortunes and prestigious careers. But just then the phone rang.

“Sorry,” she apologized and lifted the receiver from the jack on the wall before stepping into the hall so as not to disturb the others.

“Hello?”

“Is this the Lazy Windmill?”

“Yes. Sorry.” She'd not only forgotten her professional salutation but the appropriate upbeat tone. What would this place be like without Emily to keep them all on track? “This is the Lazy Windmill. Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” The voice on the other end of the line paused for a second, as if the speaker was gathering her strength. “I can't think of a thing to get my sister for Christmas.”