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Danica winced. Oh, boy, had she put her foot in it. “I only meant to imply that you aren’t very sensitive yourself,” she told him sheepishly. It wasn’t at all true, she admitted silently, his current reaction a case in point.
“It’s bad enough that she abandoned us for the party life,” he went on heatedly, “without you making him think you don’t like him, too.”
She blanched, truly ashamed now. “Oh, gosh, he didn’t really think that, did he?”
“That’s exactly what he thought! He’s a kid, and a kid whose own mom didn’t think enough of him to stick around.”
She moaned, eyes squeezed shut. “Me and my big mouth! I don’t know what’s wrong with me anymore. I have no patience. My fuse is so short! I just didn’t want to take the boy’s dog, and you wouldn’t accept that, so I lost it. I certainly never meant to make him think that I didn’t like him.”
Winston folded his arms and heaped on the coals. “You did more than that, frankly. You didn’t appreciate the sacrifice he was making in order to do the right thing. Yes, he’s fond of the dog, but he realizes that it belongs here. What’s more, Jamesy’s got sense enough to know that you need that dog, even if you don’t.”
She had her own opinion about that, but she wasn’t going to argue about it now. It didn’t matter at this point that she wasn’t going to get caught under a fallen horse or slip getting out of the bathtub. As unfair as it seemed, she’d survived a horrendous car crash; she couldn’t believe anything worse could happen to her. That, however, was not the issue.
“What can I do?” she asked simply, and he told her.
“Just let me tell Jamesy that he can come visit Twig occasionally.”
“That’s it?”
“You were maybe thinking of adopting him?”
She rolled her eyes, but the truth was that she wouldn’t be leaving herself open to much more interaction with Winston Champlain if she did adopt his son. He wasn’t really giving her any options, however, and she couldn’t seem to find any for herself.
Sighing inwardly, she nodded and said, “Tell Jamesy for me that he’s welcome any time, that I wasn’t shouting at him yesterday, and that I’m looking forward to getting to know him. And tell him that I’ll take good care of Twig.”
Winston Champlain shoved his hat farther back on his head and sent her a lazy, approving smile with just enough smugness in it to make her want to hit him. Problem was, he had a right to that smile.
“If it helps, I figure you have good reason to be mad at the world right now,” he said.
She grimaced and held up both hands defensively. “We aren’t going to grief counseling now, are we, because I’ve got to warn you, I am not up for it.”
He looked down, rubbing his chin. “No fear there, but we could talk about that restitution order.”
She looked away, pondering what to say. The truth was that she’d had about all of Winston Champlain that she could take for the moment. He had the most infuriating way of being right about too much, and in her current state of mind, one slip of the tongue, his, and she would be shouting. She’d prefer to avoid that embarrassment.
“Uh, this isn’t the best time, actually,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t press for an explanation. “Why don’t we make an appointment for, oh, day after tomorrow?”
He rubbed his chin. “It would have to be that evening.”
Relieved, she agreed immediately. “Sure. Evening’s fine.”
“Say about seven?”
“Seven’s good.”
His smile beamed pure pleasure this time. “Okay,” he said, resettling his hat. “See you then.” He leaned forward and ruffled the dog’s ear, saying, “You take care of her now, Twig.”
The dog snuffled, then yelped in delight when Winston took a short stick from his shirt pocket. Danica marveled at how cleanly the dog nipped it from the cowboy’s long, lean fingers. It immediately dropped down onto its belly then and began gnawing.
Winston chuckled, flipped her a wave and walked back to his truck. A few moments later, he and the truck disappeared around the same curve from which they had appeared.
Danica sat down on the step next to the dog. “Well, I tried, but I guess we’re a team, after all,” she told it, “for now.” The dog glanced up at her, then went back to gnawing the stick. “I’d better see what I can scare up to feed you until I can find a store and buy some doggy chow.”
She frowned at that, remembering nothing that even resembled a store on the long drive out from Rawlins. Surely she wouldn’t have to go all the way back there just to shop. She should’ve asked Winston. If she didn’t find something before she saw him next, she’d make a point of asking during their next meeting. Meanwhile, she’d given herself a little breathing space. Winston Champlain made her feel crowded, threatened, even, though not in any way that she could easily identify.
Well, it didn’t matter. After their next meeting, she wouldn’t have to really even talk to him again. The boy could visit, just as she’d said, and that undoubtedly meant Winston would have to come along. But their business would be settled by then, and she’d make sure that she was too busy to converse with him. Then, in a few weeks, she’d be out of here. Though she hadn’t really thought it through, yet, she’d never meant to stay. Once all the business was taken care of and the ranch was sold, she’d be on her way. To where?
Dallas no longer seemed to hold any appeal, though she supposed that what remained of her life was there. Still, now that she thought of it, she could go anywhere she pleased. If she wasn’t quite sure where she was pleased to go, well, she’d figure it out later.
For now, insuring that she could feed this old dog was occupation enough.
Chapter Three
Winston stared into the bathroom mirror as he smoothed his hair back from his forehead with a pair of matching brushes which fit neatly into his palms. While intently studying his image, he realized with dismay that his hair needed a trim. Why hadn’t he had his mother get out the scissors and whack off the bottom of it? Impulsively deciding that he should strip off his neatly pressed gray shirt and let her have a go at it right now, he lifted his hand to begin opening the buttons on the heavy cotton placket, which brought his wristwatch into view. One glance showed him that he didn’t have time for such indulgences. Sighing richly, he resigned himself to needing a trim and quickly examined his jaw to be sure he hadn’t missed a spot during his shave, then hurried from the small room.
Snagging his tan felt dress hat from the top of the dresser in his bedroom, he clumped down the stairs in his freshly polished boots and swung around the newel post to stride down the hall and into his mother’s kitchen, the very heart of the house. Suddenly thirsty, he stopped by the sink, ran a glass of cold tap water and drank it down without stopping.
“I’m off,” he said to the room in general, turning toward the coatrack beside the door. His gaze caught on the bloodred bloom of one of his mother’s summer roses standing in a water-filled jar on the windowsill. Even as he reached for his good jean jacket and slung it on, he pictured himself delivering a big bouquet of the rare beauties to Danica Lynch. She would be surprised, then pleased, and she would look at him in a whole new way, appreciation glimmering in her eyes.
“Earth to Winston,” said an amused familiar voice.
Win shook himself free of the ridiculous notion. “Did you say something, Mom?”
As a small, plump woman with dark, graying hair that waved about her face and chin, Madge Champlain was the perfect antithesis to her tall, rawboned, white-haired husband, Buck, who was even now slurping his coffee from a saucer at the table in the center of the room.
“She said, you’re looking fine,” Buck answered Winston. “What she means is you’re mighty well armed for a business discussion.”
Madge whacked Buck reprovingly on the shoulder with a dish towel, her blue eyes twinkling. Win cleared his throat self-consciously. What had he been thinking when he put on these snug, well-starched jeans, best shirt, dress hat and freshly polished boots? This wasn’t a date, after all. “Never hurts to make a good impression,” he muttered.
“Of course, it doesn’t,” Madge agreed placatingly.
Buck slurped and added, “’Specially if she’s as pretty as her sister.”
“More,” Jamesy said matter-of-factly, opening a cabinet to take down a box of cookies. Winston and everyone else stared at him in surprise. After a moment, Jamesy realized it and looked around. “Well, she is,” he said defensively. “She don’t wear all that goop on her face like Mrs. Thacker did, an’ I like her hair.”
“Doesn’t,” Winston corrected automatically, thinking that his son and he were more alike than anyone even knew.
“Huh?”
“She doesn’t wear too much makeup.” Madge said to Jamesy. “I think that’s what you were trying to say.”
“Yeah, okay,” the boy mumbled around the cookie he’d bitten into.
Winston went back to the sink for another drink of water. He was feeling unaccountably dry this evening. Better yet, maybe he ought to have a beer. Might relax him a little, not that he was nervous, exactly—no more than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs! Whatever was wrong with him? he wondered, drying his damp palms on the thighs of his jeans. This wasn’t a date, for pity’s sake. It was business. Nevertheless, he left the water glass beside the sink and went to the refrigerator, where he snagged a beer with one hand. On second thought, he grabbed another and wrapped both in a thick kitchen towel. This way he wouldn’t show up empty-handed and he’d get the relaxing effect when he actually needed it. Tucking the bundle under one arm, he went out, calling to his family, “See you later.”
He paused on the back stoop to pocket a half-chewed stick he’d seen there earlier, then went, not to the battered old truck he usually drove, but to the late model, double-cab dualie that was both the ranch workhorse and the family vehicle. After placing the wrapped bottles carefully on the seat next to him, he started up the truck, slid in a tape and cranked up the volume. He didn’t turn it down again until Danica’s cabin came into view. As he parked the truck, she came out of the house, wearing slender jeans that made her legs look a mile long and a coral pink matching sweater set, with the top sweater cropped just below the bust. The dog padded along at her heels.
Winston dug the beers from the protective towel and carried them in one hand to the steps. He plucked the stick from his pocket and tossed it to the dog. Twig snatched it from midair and loped off with it.
“Wet your whistle?” he asked, holding up one of the brown bottles.
A delicately arched brow lifted high, then she swept the bottle from his hand, stepped down and sat on the edge of the porch, her feet on the bottom step. He sat down next to her. The space was just wide enough to comfortably accommodate them both if they were careful with their elbows. She tucked hers in next to her body, held the bottle between her knees and twisted off the top, which she dropped on the bottom step between her feet.
Winston pushed his hat back, decapitated his own drink and dropped the small metal top into his shirt pocket. Lifting the tall bottle to his lips, he took a good drink of the still cold liquid, sighed with sudden contentment and leaned forward, bracing his elbows against his thighs. “Fine night,” he said, gazing out over the red-washed horizon.
“Mmm,” she agreed, sipping delicately. After a moment, she leaned against the support post of the roof and lifted one foot onto the second step. “It’s peaceful out here.”
He nodded. “No people.” He drank again and expounded, “Funny how it works, isn’t it? People just naturally screw up everything, destroy the peace, clog up the works, make all kinds of trouble, but it’s people, the people you care about, who make everything in this life worthwhile.”
She looked down at that, her free arm crossing over her chest almost protectively. “You have the most irritating way of being absolutely right.”
He thought about that, wondering whether he ought to be complimented or insulted, then another thought occurred. “Well, if I’m so right,” he asked, “how come you’re out here all on your lonesome instead of with the people who should be supporting you now?”
She twisted her upper body so that she could put her head back against the post and took a long drink, grimacing slightly at the end of it. “There aren’t any.” He wasn’t sure he understood that, and it must have showed, for she fixed him with an inscrutable look and elaborated. “I didn’t have anyone but Dorinda. Our parents died years ago.”
“Oh, hey, I’m sorry.”
“Mom was forty-one when we were born, Dad nearly nine years older. I think they’d given up. Then suddenly they had twins.”
“Must’ve been a double shock.”
“You might say that,” she admitted. “Dad always thought he was too old. Maybe he was. He had a stroke when we were seniors in high school. Mom had just been diagnosed with a serious melanoma, and she always felt that brought it on. She fought the cancer, long and hard, then right after we graduated from college, she let go.”
“Man, that’s tough,” Winston said. “I don’t know what Jamesy and I would do without my folks. We almost lost dad in a freak accident a few years ago. Hay baler shot a piece of baling wire about eleven inches long straight into Dad’s chest and right through his heart.”
She sat up straight again, obviously intrigued. “Good grief! What did you do?”
“We called the doc in Rawlins and headed that way with him, baling wire and all. Doc called the hospital in Cheyenne, and they sent a helicopter to meet us. We intersected about an hour south of here. That pilot set it down right in the road, they loaded him up, and by the time we got to Cheyenne, he was in recovery.”
“Thank God you didn’t try to pull out the wire!” Danica said.
Win nodded. “We started to. We really did, but none of us had the nerve. He started to do it himself—he was conscious through the whole thing—but we stopped him.”
“He’d have died if you hadn’t.”
“We know that now.”
“How is he? Fully recovered?”
Winston wiped a bead of perspiration from the beer bottle. “No, not really. The angle of the wire insured maximum damage. He lost a lot of heart tissue. But we all know that it’s a miracle he survived at all, and we’re thankful for what we got.”
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