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Authors: Lois Greiman

BOOK: Finally Home
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“Then what's the problem?”
“I don't take favors.”
He stopped chewing, swallowed. “You messing with me?”
“No, I'm not.... Okay, so I've accepted a few favors from Casie.”
He stared at her.
“And Colt. And his folks and Mrs. French and Mr. Sommers and . . . The point is,” she said, interrupting herself with a scowl. “I don't trust him.”
“Why not?”
“What's he doing here?” she asked and leaned forward with sudden zeal. “Does he look like a country boy to you?”
“No. But lots of our guests look as city as traffic lights. Mr. Barrenger don't exactly make me think of longhorns and wide-open spaces.”
“At least he's got the boots.”
Thinking of those shiny alligator boots made Ty cock his head in question.
She had the courtesy to look chagrined. “Okay, that's not a good example. But he
enjoys
country life. Alexander doesn't even pretend to be interested in . . .” She waved her free hand. “Anything.”
“He says he just needs some time away.”
“Away from what? We don't know anything about him. Maybe he's planning to rob us blind.”
“Seems like we're pretty near-sighted already, Em.”
She stared at him a second, then snorted but didn't give up. “I think he's after something.”
“Like what?”
“Something valuable. Maybe something we don't know about.”
“If we don't know about it, how would he?”
“Casie lived in Saint Paul for years. It could be her old man hid something on the ranch while she was gone. And . . .” She shook her head, thinking. “You know how small towns are. Maybe rumors got around. Maybe . . .” She stopped. “Maybe there's nothing. Maybe he just
thinks
there's something and he's trying to find it.”
“Well, how 'bout we let him fix your truck while he searches?”
She scowled. He watched her.
“What's going on, Em?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“You're sure you don't know him . . . from before or something?”
Her expression was somber now, her eyes earnest. “I'm very sure.”
“Then why not let him fiddle with your truck? He's only gonna be here a little while. Why not—”
“That's another thing! What nineteen-year-old can afford our rates?”
“He's nineteen?”
She blinked at him. “I don't know how old he is. How would
I
know? And why are you drilling me, anyway?”
He raised his brows at her tone. “He don't look old enough to tie his own shoes. That's all.”
“Oh, well . . . I asked him his age . . . just to make conversation. He said he'll be twenty on the third of February. Do you believe that?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“That's my mom's birthday. I don't trust anyone with those stats.”
He was quiet for a moment, thinking back. Maybe he hadn't exactly gotten the pick of the litter when it came to parents, but at least they had kept a roof over his head. Yeah, his mom had been as unpredictable as a rattler, but she hadn't abandoned him completely. “I'm sorry, Em,” he said.
“She refused to tell me who my dad was. Said she didn't know.” Her tone was reflective. “But I think she was lying. Barry, boyfriend number eighteen, had droopy earlobes. Especially the left one. His was pierced.”
He stared at her.
“My earlobes droop, too,” she said, coming to the point suddenly. “I mean . . . not that it matters. I don't need a father, but sometimes it'd be nice to have some clue about the other half of your DNA.”
Melancholy washed through him. She didn't deserve to be alone. If anyone should have good in her life it was Emily. She was tough and creative and . . . His thoughts stopped. She
was
tough. And she
was
creative. Creative about everything. Especially lying. And when she lied, she thought it most effective if she elaborated. She had told him that herself.
He settled his fork against the edge of his plate. “You can tell me the truth, Em,” he said. “And you don't have to change the subject. If you don't want that Lincoln fellow messing with your truck, I'll just tell him no.”
“You think I'm lying?” Her tone was breathy.
He said nothing.
“I thought we were friends,” she said. There was pain and disappointment in her tone. He was pretty sure it was real.
“I thought we were, too, Em.” He said the words with gut-wrenching slowness. She stared at him, eyes bright.
“Fine. That's fine then. You want him to play around with the truck, go ahead and let him,” she said and hugging the baby to her shoulder, disappeared up the stairs.
Sophie appeared a couple seconds later. “What was that about?” she asked.
He glanced up at her. Her hair was as sleek and smooth as a thoroughbred's, her lavender pullover and dark jeans freshly washed and perfectly fitted. But it was her eyes that always stopped him dead. Her better-than-thou eyes that begged for acceptance. That begged to be worthy. It was a dichotomy he could neither understand nor ignore.
“I ain't sure.”
She poured herself a mug of coffee and curled her hand around the heat of it. Her nails were trim and clean, her fingers slim.
“What do you think about that Lincoln guy?” he asked. Her eyes were as green as summer above the edge of her ceramic mug.
“You know me,” she said. Her lips twisted a little. She didn't smile often, but when she did, he felt it like an anvil on his chest. “I don't like anyone.”
“That ain't true.”
Their gazes met. His heart stuttered.
“You like Casie,” he added.
She nodded, all humor gone from her wide, save-me eyes. “Casie and—” she began, but just then Monica Day-Bellaire breezed into the kitchen.
“Good lord, it's freezing in here.” She rubbed her hands together. “Look at you,” she said, smiling at her daughter. “You're the spitting image of your grandmother at her first cotillion. Sometimes I think I did you a terrible disservice by taking you out of that world. But . . .” She brightened. “You could slip back into it any day if—”
“Mother!” Sophie said. Her tone was raspy. “Ty was just asking me what I thought of Lincoln Alexander.”
“Oh!” Monica Day-Bellaire said and turned with guilty surprise to stare across the table at him. “I'm so sorry. I didn't even know you were here. But you can hardly blame me. I haven't seen my daughter in ages. And she's so beautiful, isn't she?”
“Mother!” Sophie said. Her cheeks were flushed, but Ty knew he should be the one who blushed. He had no right to think about her like he did. She was beauty and brilliance and old money.
He was nothing more than a dirt farmer's son.
“Excuse me,” he said and bumbled, hapless, to his feet. “I got work to do.”
CHAPTER 19
E
mily glanced up from rolling out piecrusts when Casie entered the kitchen. Lumpkin jumped up from her blanket near the stove, floppy ears bouncing as she trotted toward the door. Bliss slept soundly in her backpack. “Where've you been all day?”
“The water tank in the cattle pasture froze,” Casie explained. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. “Took me half the morning to get it chopped out.” Bending, she lifted the lamb from the floor. “Is it feeding time?”
“Isn't it always?”
The woolly infant bobbled excitedly as Casie dumped powdered milk into a bowl.
“Did you get that tank taken care of?”
Casie shook her head as she set the baby back on the floor where it nosed her pant leg and wildly waggled its tail. “I went to town to buy a new heater, got the wrong kind, went back to town, ordered the right one.” She sighed as she whisked the milk. “I was hoping to get the tack room finished before the next guest arrives.”
“We
have
a next guest?”
“Didn't I tell you?”
“I barely know we have
any
guests.”
“How do you mean?”
“No one showed up for dinner. I kept it warm until two.”
“You're kidding.”
She shook her head. “Sophie and her mom went shopping in Rapid City. I guess they won't be back until tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Casie's voice was quiet, her tone solemn.
“Don't,” Emily said, not looking up as she placed a piecrust in the waiting tin.
“Don't what?”
“Don't feel sorry for me.”
“I'm not. I just—”
“I don't need a mother,” she said and bounced, gently jostling Bliss, though she hadn't made so much as a peep in over an hour. “I
am
a mother. And maybe the luckiest person in the world.”
“I wasn't feeling sorry for you,” Casie repeated, but she was going to need a lot more lying practice. “If you had any more men in love with you, they'd have to take numbers and stand in line.”
Emily snorted. “Ain't that the truth? Everybody's jonesing for a mixed-race hippie girl and her bastard baby.”
“I've noticed that myself.”
“Yeah?” Emily didn't like to admit it, but she was feeling a little alone, a little self-pitying, a little pathetic. “Name one.”
“Colt,” Casie said and poured the reconstituted milk into its waiting bottle. “He thinks you're the Virgin Mary and Julia Childs all rolled into one.”
She laughed. “If you weren't so demented, you and Mr. Dickenson would have your two-point-five children and a minivan by now.”
“Don't be ridiculous.”
Emily turned on her, half angry, half appalled. “Seriously?”
“What?”
“Are you honestly trying to tell me that you don't know how he feels about you?”
Casie chuckled as she lifted the lamb back into her arms, but her expression was strained. “
Colt
doesn't even know how he feels about me. He just . . .” She shook her head. “Wants what he can't have.”
“And he can't have you?”
“He . . . I . . .” She paused. Lumpkin sucked noisily at the bottle, tail wiggling madly. “He's not ready for this, Em.”
“This?”
“This!” She nodded toward the ranch at large. “The dull, the drama, the boring, the baby.” She laughed a little, but the truth lodged like an icicle in Emily's veins.
“So it would be different without me and Bliss?”
“What? No. No!” Casie's face looked pale suddenly. “I didn't mean it like that, Em. He's crazy about Bliss. And you! You know that.”
“Yeah.” She nodded and turned back to flute the edges of the piecrust. “He loves us.”
“He does!”
“Lots of people love us like . . .” She shook her head. “Like people love artichoke dip or fondue. They just wouldn't want to make a steady diet of it.”
“Emily . . .” Casie's voice sounded tortured. “You're not the reason Colt and I aren't together. You know that, don't you?”
“Well, it doesn't look like I'm helping the situation.”
“You're wrong. Absolutely wrong. This has nothing to do with you. Colt and I . . . we're totally different. He's like a thunderstorm and I'm . . .” She shrugged. “Bathwater.”
Emily stared at her. How could so many people be so entirely unaware? Sometimes it almost made her wonder if she was as deluded as the others. “Rainwater, maybe,” she corrected.
“What's the difference?”
“Not much. Except rain's essential for life.”
Casie gripped the nipple more tightly against the lamb's persistent tugs. “The point is, what happens or doesn't happen between Colt and me has nothing to do with you. You believe that, right?”
“I almost have to,” Emily said, though worry still gnawed at her. “Since you're the worst liar ever.”
“Well . . .” Casie shrugged, but the motion seemed tight. “We can't all be virtuosos.”
“It's a sad truth.” The kitchen went silent except for Lumpkin's enthusiastic sucking.
“I know you want us to get together, Em,” Casie said finally, attention tight on the lamb. “And I appreciate that fact. But Colt is used to dating Miss Rodeos and Miss . . .” She shrugged. “Wyomings.”
“And Miss-takes.”
“What?”
“I'm just saying . . . maybe he's ready to be happy instead.”
Casie turned toward her, silent for a second before speaking. “Look at you, calling the kettle black.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Max Barrenger.”
Emily felt her heart rate quicken, felt guilt and hope mix up to a dumbfounding infusion inside her. “What about him?”
“Do you think he goes around the country offering to finance
everyone's
business?”
“He's just being a man. Men say things they don't mean.”
“That's not true.”
“Really?”
Casie frowned. Memories of her ex-fiancé were probably marching through her head like army ants. “Well . . . not
all
men,” she corrected.
“And this from the woman who habitually turns down
Colt Dickenson's
advances.”
“He's not . . . advancing.”
Emily stared at her, then hissed in frustration and rolled her eyes. “If I had a guy like Mr. Dickenson mooning over me, I'd have him hobbled and blindfolded before dessert was served.”
“Hobbled and—”
“What I'm saying is . . .” Emily began, then shook her head and tried a new tack. “He's one of the good guys, Case. Hell, he might be the
only
good guy left.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about men. . . . They don't . . .” She shook her head. “Relationships . . . they're not meant for girls like me.”
“I don't think Max Barrenger believes that.”
She made a psffting sound again. “He just likes my sticky buns.”
“He likes them, all right, sticky or otherwise.”
“Don't be lewd!” Emily scolded, fully aware of their suddenly inverted roles.
Casie chuckled but sobered in a minute. “Are you considering his proposition?”
She shook her head. “I'm not going to ask him to spend money on a plan that will probably never work out. Besides, I can't leave the Lazy. Who'd take care of Bodacious and the orchard and the chickens and—”
“I wasn't talking about his business plan. I was talking about his personal plan.”
“You're crazy. He's going to marry Sonata.”
“Then he's a fool.”
Emily glanced at her. Their gazes met.
“If he spends any more time staring at you, his eyeballs are going to dry out.”
“He's just being nice.”
“Nice is when you say please and thank you. Infatuated is when you leave your girlfriend during your vacation and spend the day driving a new mother around the country.”
Emily's gut clenched, but she fought down the queasiness. “Spinsterhood has made you delusional. Max and Sonata left for town right after breakfast. A man's gotta be in love to drive sixty miles in weather like this.”
“Believe me—” Casie began, but Emily stopped her.
“I'm not a home wrecker.” Worry gnawed at her because, to tell the truth, she wasn't sure what she was.
“There's not a home to wreck yet, Em.”
“Families . . .” she began, then took a deep breath and continued carefully. “I don't know much about them, but I won't be breaking any up.”
“You can't break up something that doesn't exist,” Casie said, but Emily shook her head.
“Let's change the subject.”
There was a pause. Casie sighed. “Okay,” she said. “How about Lincoln Alexander? What do you think of
him?
”
“I think he's a douche bag.”
“What? Why?”
Emily swallowed, tamping down a thousand wild emotions. “He didn't show up for dinner, either.”
“What's
he
doing?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you knock on his door? Make sure he's all right?”
“I'm not his mother.”
“I'm not his mother, either. But if he drops dead on the Lazy, I'll still be liable.”
“He's not going to drop dead,” Emily said. “Unless he's doing drugs or something?” She glanced up. “Is that what you think?”
“No!” Casie gave her an odd glance. “I never even considered that . . . until you mentioned it. Do
you
think he's doing drugs?”
“I don't know. How would
I
know?”
“Holy Hannah.” Casie set the empty bottle on the counter, placed the lamb on its tiny hooves, and rose to her feet. “I'm going to go check on him.”
“Are you sure that's a good idea?” she asked, but Casie was already pulling on her jacket.
“Why wouldn't it be?”
“He—” she began, but just then the front door opened. They turned toward it in unison.
Max Barrenger stepped inside. “What's cookin', good-lookin'?”
Suddenly nervous, Emily shifted her gaze back to Casie. But her mentor just raised her brows and retreated without another word. The door closed behind her in a matter of seconds.
Emily cleared her throat. Lifting the second crust from the counter, she eased it into the waiting pie plate, which boasted two chips and a crack. “Supper won't be ready for an hour at least,” she said.
“Well . . .” Walking up behind her, he peered over her shoulder. “Sonata's on the phone. Will be forever. Do you mind if I stay here? Soak up the scents?”
“It's a free country,” she said.
“Is something wrong?” His voice was quizzical, a little wounded.
“No. Of course not,” she said and, feeling fidgety, slipped Bliss's sling from her back. The baby drooped contentedly, downy lashes dark against her mocha cheeks.
“Here, let me help you,” he offered and hurried forward to lift the baby, backpack and all, against his chest. “Should we have called earlier to tell you we weren't going to be here for lunch?”
“No. That's fine. You're on vacation. Sonata wanted to go into town. You did the right thing.”
“Sonata wanted to have a conference call with her underlings to make sure they fulfilled their thirty-million-dollar-a-year quota,” Max corrected.
“Thirty million . . .” The number made her queasy, but Max shrugged it off.
“Money's just money, Emily. There are more important things in life.”
“Are you sure?”
He laughed. “Positive.”
“Can you give me a for-instance?”
He grinned as he stepped into the living room to lay Bliss in her bassinet. “Fun,” he said as he returned. “When was the last time you had any fun, Emily?”
“I have fun every day.”
“So you like making pennies an hour cooking for strangers?”
“It's practically orgasmic.”
He raised his brows at her. “If it's orgasms you want . . .” She backed away, verbally and physically, immediately chagrined. “I didn't . . .” She shook her head. “That's not what I meant. I wouldn't . . .” She swallowed. “Sonata seems like a really nice woman.”
“Does she?”
“Yes. She . . .”
“She's not as nice as you.”
“Mr. Barrenger . . .”
“Mr. Barrenger?”
He grinned charmingly and bent at the knees to search her eyes. “You make me sound like I'm the headmaster of Miss Spinster's Finishing School for Snobs or something.”
She made a face, despite herself. “Do finishing schools still exist?”
He chuckled, and stepping closer, cupped her cheek. “You're so beautiful.”
“No, I'm not!” Panic skittered through her. “Sonata—”
“Doesn't need me.” He stared at her, longing clear as daylight in his eyes. “I never thought I'd be the kind of man who needs to be needed. But maybe everybody does,” he said, and leaning forward, kissed her.
She knew she should draw back, but he thought she was nice. He thought she was beautiful. And he should know. He was older, wiser. And it felt so good to be touched, to be—
“I wish I could say I'm surprised.”

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