More Than a Rancher

CHAPTER FOUR

“WHAT DO YOU mean you’ll be in San Francisco?” Joe shoved the fence post deeper into the hole they’d just dug and gave it a kick with his work boot to make sure it was solid. Sandro glanced at his brother, all six-plus solid feet of him. Joe was a year younger than Sandro, but people always assumed he was older. With his light brown hair and broad face, he took after their father in more ways than just looks. Joe loved the ranch, had never questioned that his future lay there. He was the oldest son in every way but birthright.

Sandro poured the quick-setting cement into the battered wheelbarrow. Paul brought the hose over and let the water spurt over the dry powder. Grabbing a shovel, Sandro started mixing. “I’m teaching classes at a cooking school. It’s a great gig. It’ll pretty much pay for all the new appliances in the restaurant.”

“Oh, yeah. The restaurant.” Joe said the word as though it tasted bad in his mouth. “It’s a big weekend, Sandro. Pops wants all hands on deck to move the sheep.”

“Well, Joe, Pops has to understand that the sheep aren’t my first priority. I’m trying to help out with the ranch as much as possible, but I came back here to start my own business.”

“Okay,” Joe said reluctantly. “I get it.” He bent down with a level to straighten the post. “But why take Paul with you?”

Sandro started shoveling the concrete into the hole and Paul picked up his shovel to help. They were careful not to look at each other. “I’ll need extra help. My class is completely full. If I don’t have an assistant, there’s no way I can pull it off.” He glared at Paul, silently cursing his brother’s endless arguing, two weeks of it, that had finally worn him down.

He hated to admit it, but Jenna had been right. The more he’d said no, the more Paul had insisted he had to take her dance classes. Sandro could only hope she was right about the other part, that Paul would change his tune once he realized how hard the training really was. He jabbed Paul in the ribs with his elbow. “Besides, he’s a whippersnapper. Not much use to you out there anyways.”

Paul stood up at this and punched Sandro in the shoulder.

“Easy there, little brother.” Sandro grinned. “You don’t want to mess with the big guns.” He set aside his shovel and flexed his biceps a few times while Paul cracked up.

“Will you two stop clowning around so we can get this done?” Joe grumbled. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we have a truckload of these to set in the next couple days. Besides—” he held out his own arm, enormous muscles bulging “—I wouldn’t go showing off those biceps around here, Sandro. You may be the oldest but you’re a scrawny bastard. Comes from spending your life in a kitchen instead of doing man’s work.”

“Well, it’s a pity we can’t all be muscle-bound meatheads like you, Joe. But given the choice, I’ll take my brains over your muscle any day.” He ducked as Joe’s giant fist came at him in a mock swing. “So it’s a done deal. I’m taking Paul to San Francisco and the rest of you mindless country boys can follow the sheep up the hills.”

The truth was, Sandro liked moving the sheep. Riding into the mountains on horseback, making sure the flock got up to the summer meadows, was a hell of a lot more relaxing than teaching a bunch of pretentious San Francisco foodies how to make a decent paella. And the route to the pastures was beautiful, too. But the cash he’d make from these classes was way too tempting. And if it meant that Paul would finally stop making his life miserable and get a dose of reality to cool his dancing obsession, that would compensate for missing the ride. Hell, he’d missed it for the past decade anyway—what was one more year?

Sandro gave Paul a wink to acknowledge the success of their ruse and picked up his tools to head to the next posthole. As his spade hit the rocky ground, he used all the force he could to tame his unruly mind. Because all week his mind had been on Jenna Stevens.

And he had no business thinking about her. His life was in Benson now, not with some woman from the city. She was everything he needed to avoid—gorgeous, funny and flirty. Distracting. He’d made a choice to leave women like her behind in New York and he wasn’t going to choose differently, no matter how much he might want to.

So far work had been his solution. When thoughts of Jenna’s bright blue eyes heated his mind, he worked. When haunted by the vision of her stalking away after dinner that night, all righteous and fiery, he worked even harder. Since he’d been thinking of her almost nonstop, it had been a very productive couple of weeks.

But the endless work didn’t get rid of the shame he felt, and it irritated him. Jenna was kind, and he’d been hostile to her when all she’d been doing was trying to help Paul. Sure, he didn’t want Paul to dance, but that was no reason to be rude to her about it. There was only one logical explanation for his behavior—one which Sandro was loath to admit. When he’d walked into the kitchen and seen Jenna dancing in his brother’s arms, he’d been jealous. Jealous of the fun his brother was having with her, making her laugh as she turned so easily across the floor. He’d been jealous of a fifteen-year-old kid, and that was downright pathetic.

Even more pathetic, he’d spilled his guts to Jenna about his past. And he never talked about that. Outside of his family and a few folks in Benson, no one knew he’d run away from home. He wasn’t even sure how he’d ended up telling her. She’d seemed to genuinely want to know why he didn’t want Paul to dance. And her compassion had somehow gotten him talking about his crappy teen years and how he’d run off. She must think he was a pretty sorry case. He wished he didn’t care so much about what she thought.

He was just like Paul, he realized, as he jammed the posthole digger farther into the earth. Wanting something simply because he couldn’t have it. Maybe he should just try to sleep with Jenna and get her out of his system. His stomach coiled at the thought, some uneasy combination of lust and anxiety. That was certainly what he would have done a few months ago.

But that was just one more reason why he wasn’t going to do it now. He wasn’t willing to go down that path again. He was different now. So he’d just keep his head down and his hands busy until his interest in her passed.

Maybe the upside of taking Paul to these lessons was that he’d see her at work with a bunch of teenagers. Hopefully, she’d look like every one of Sandro’s high school teachers did—tired and hassled. Maybe just like Paul, he needed a good hard dose of reality—though he had a bad feeling it would take more than that to rid him of his thoughts about Jenna.

* * *

JENNA WATCHED HER mother pour herself another glass of white wine. If she was counting correctly, it was her third, and that was on top of the cocktails her mom had insisted on before dinner. She hadn’t seen her mother drink quite like this since, well, since Dad’s affair came to light a few years ago. But she knew her mom drank when she was alone. Jenna got enough late-night drunken phone calls from her to know she was hitting the bottle solo on a fairly regular basis.

She looked down the gleaming mahogany table. Daniel, her older brother, was nodding off over his plate. He’d worked at the hospital last night and he was having coffee with his dinner instead of wine. Shelley, her older sister and a rising star at the San Francisco district attorney’s office, was speaking animatedly with her father about a high-profile case she was working on. Her father actually looked relaxed and happy as he listened, asking all kinds of questions about Shelley’s progress.

Jenna felt a pang of envy that was so old and familiar it was almost like a part of her body—an extra organ or limb. It had always been that way—Dad asking about Shelley’s day at school, buying her expensive gifts in honor of her perfect grades, crowing to their friends about her many accomplishments.

Jenna had worked hard in school, too, clocking far more hours in the library doing homework than Shelley ever did. Yet it never got easier. It was as if her brain had trouble translating the words in the textbook into coherent ideas. So she got Cs and Bs most of the time, and those hard-earned grades were a constant source of disappointment to her father.

Jenna knew now that she was full of imperfections he simply couldn’t understand. In his eyes, her dancing was an embarrassing hobby that stood in the way of real success. Her curvaceous figure and wild curly red hair held no beauty when contrasted with Shelley’s slender form and straight blond locks.

“Jenna!” Her father’s voice suddenly boomed down the table. “What were you doing today? Twirling around the ballroom?”

Jenna winced at the disdain in his voice. “Teaching, practicing, the usual.”

“And how’s John?”

“John?”

“You know, that musician you go out with?”

“Um...you mean Jeff?” Jenna shook her head in disbelief. She’d dated Jeff for two years, and her father had met him several times.

“Yeah. That’s right. Jeff. The drummer with the long hair. How’s that going for you?”

Jenna hated to give him any satisfaction, but she wasn’t going to lie. “We broke up.” Her brother and sister didn’t even bother to disguise their “I told you so” eye rolls.

“Well, good. You need to stop dating all these guys with no focus, no ambition. Shelley, Daniel, you must know some people from work Jenna could go out with. Or why don’t you let your mother help you find a decent boyfriend?”

Oh, like she found you? Jenna wanted to say but didn’t. A man who cheats on his wife?

Shelly cleared her throat. “Look, Jenna, I spoke with Ralph Clark yesterday.”

“Who?” Jenna turned to her older sister, who was smiling at her benevolently.

“Ralph Clark—a lawyer at my old firm? He told me that they need an administrative assistant. He’d like to interview you.”

Jenna stared at Shelley in disbelief. How was it possible they’d grown up in the same house, just a few years apart, and yet Shelley knew so little about her? She took a sip of her wine and suddenly felt sympathy for her mother. This family would drive anyone to drink eventually.

“Jenna? What do you think? Should I send you his email address tomorrow?”

She sighed. “Thanks for thinking of me, Shel, but I already have a job.”

“Oh, ballroom dancing? Jenna, that’s not a career—that’s a hobby.” Shelley was a perfect echo of their father.

“So why do I get paid, then?” Jenna tried to keep her voice calm, but she could hear the edge in it. “It’s not a hobby—it’s my career, and it has been for ten years now. And if you’d been paying attention, you’d know I am really good at it.”

Her father’s voice was softer than usual in attempted persuasiveness. “Jenna, Shelley is just trying to help you. Just go in for an interview. They’ll pay well. They have great benefits. You know your mom is so worried about you living in that tiny apartment. You could afford something better with a higher salary.”

“Dad, I like my apartment. I like my job. There’s nothing wrong with my life that you or Shelley or anyone needs to fix!”

“Honey, we just want you to be successful. Look at your sister. Did you know she’s considering a run for supervisor? She’ll be mayor of San Francisco one day—mark my words. And your brother here is so humble he wouldn’t mention it, but he’s just been promoted to head of surgery.”

“Congratulations, Daniel,” Jenna said to her brother, raising her glass slightly in his direction. He smiled at her sleepily. “Dad, I’m glad they’re doing so well. But I’m also successful.” She glanced around the table and saw the doubtful look on every face. “Look. I have a competition in two weeks. It’s a big one. If my partner and I win, we’ll be national champions for Latin dance—again. We won it the last two years, as well. Why don’t you come out and see for yourself?” She realized she sounded as if she was pleading with them. Pleading for attention and acceptance.

“I’ll be in Chicago for a conference,” Shelley said.

“Dancing’s not really my thing.” Daniel rubbed his eyes wearily. Her father didn’t answer at all, just poured himself another drink and looked down at the floor, as if his disappointment was so great he couldn’t even acknowledge her.

When would she learn? Jenna could have kicked herself for trying. She turned her focus to her mother. “So how are you, Mom? How’s your work going with the cotillion committee?”

Her mother took another swallow of wine, draining her glass. “Oh, you know...it’s fine...the usual...” Her voice trailed off and she didn’t seem to notice.

Well, at least the food was as delicious as always. A grilled salmon with a slightly brown buttery crust. All kinds of summer vegetables fresh from the farmers’ market, lightly sautéed. Their current chef was a really talented guy. Jenna’s thoughts immediately drifted to Sandro and the incredible meal he’d cooked at Samantha’s. And the bitter expression on his face when he’d found her dancing with Paul. He’d probably get along great with her family.

When her mother reached for the bottle to fill her glass again, Jenna couldn’t stand it any longer. Glancing down the table to make sure her father and sister were still engrossed in conversation, she put out her hand and stilled her mother’s. “Mom, I’m not trying to be rude, but it seems like you’re drinking a lot. And you’ve hardly touched your food. What’s going on?”

Her mother looked outraged, but under the indignant expression, Jenna noticed something else. A puffiness that no amount of expensive makeup could hide. This wasn’t the first night her mother had been hitting the bottle hard. Her heart sank.

“Jenna! What has come over you?” Her mother was going on defense. “We’re having a nice dinner and I’m having some wine. That’s all.”

“Mom, you’re having four glasses of wine. That’s an entire bottle. Plus you had a couple cocktails. I’m worried about you. Is something wrong? Between you and dad?”

“You’ve been counting my drinks? Jenna, I’m not a child. Why do you try to treat me like one? You have no respect for me. No respect for all the things I do!”

Her voice was rising, and Jenna’s father and sister stopped talking and looked down the table at them. Her mother seemed to appreciate the audience. “You don’t get to show up at this house and tell me what I should be doing! You ask me what’s wrong? I should be asking the same of you, Jenna. Why don’t you listen to us? We’re family—we want what’s best for you.”

“Because dancing is what’s best for me!” Disappointment had tears stinging her eyes. Her mom was so defensive about her drinking she’d attack her own daughter. “Mom, let’s not fight. I asked you about the wine because I love you and I’m concerned.” Jenna was using her full voice now. She figured her father and sister had probably noticed the empty bottles at their end of the table, too. Maybe they could all work together to find out what was wrong with Mom.

Her mother’s voice was icy. “You may be on one of your newest health kicks, Jenna, but I happen to enjoy a glass of wine with my dinner and I don’t see anything wrong with that. I’m just trying to have a nice evening with my family. I don’t see why you have to come here and cause a scene.”

“Mom, I wasn’t—”

“That’s enough.” Her father’s voice interrupted and it shook with anger. “Jenna, I wish we could just have a peaceful night as a family. Maybe in your life at the ballroom, with all those artsy dancers, this kind of drama is acceptable. But here in this house it’s not okay.”

“It’s not drama, Dad. I am worried about Mom. And maybe if you spent a few minutes paying some attention to her, you’d see that she’s drinking way too much!”

There was a silence at the table so solid that it felt like a wall around her. Jenna waited for her sister to say something. Or her brother. He was a doctor, after all—he should be the one bringing this up. And her father must be able to see how much her mother needed help.

Instead the silence seemed to go on forever before her father broke it up. “How dare you insult your mother like that?” His voice was low and mean and it occurred to Jenna for the first time that he really might hate her. Just for being her. And for being honest.

Shelley shook her head slowly, as if heavy with her displeasure. “Jenna, Dad’s right. This is really uncalled for.”

Jenna stood up. Her legs were shaking. She turned to her mother. “Mom, I’m sorry I offended you. I was only trying to help. I am worried about your drinking and you should be, too. And, Dad, I don’t think it’s drama to be concerned for someone you love. You should try it sometime.”

In the hall she grabbed her backpack and coat from the maid, who’d hustled to fetch them for her, and burst into the foggy night through the giant oak front doors, then closed them behind her—grateful for the thick wood between her and the bizarre evidence of her family’s denial. They truly did not believe, or didn’t want to believe, that her mother had a problem. They truly believed that Jenna was the problem. The cold mist mingled with the hot tears pouring down her cheeks. It was moments like these, when the differences between her and her family were so stark, that she felt the most alone.

Fumbling through the jumbled contents of her backpack for her keys, she cursed herself for opening her mouth. Why did she think that her concerns would make any difference to her family? They had no respect for her or for her work; why would they respect her opinion?

She snapped open the lock on her bicycle, threw the coiled cable into her backpack and shoved her helmet on her head. She hated that her hands were trembling so much she could hardly close the buckle.

Jenna pushed her bike into the empty street of the exclusive Seacliff neighborhood and started pedaling, swiping her sleeve at the tears trickling down her face. As always, exercise was an escape. She covered the two blocks to California Street in what seemed like moments, pumping hard, not bothering to switch gears on the slight uphill, forcing herself to stand on the pedals and put all her frustration into propelling the bike forward.

She swung left and got into the bike lane, thankful that the evening traffic rush was over. She pedaled furiously, the old shame and anger that her family inspired burning like rocket fuel inside. In record time she was turning right onto Arguello Boulevard, heading toward the black shadow that was Golden Gate Park at night. Pedaling around its shadowy edge—no way would she venture into its dark groves at this hour—she cut through the Haight-Ashbury, the famous old Victorian buildings a dim blur as she rushed past.

By the time Jenna got to Divisadero Street, her anger had cooled a bit, the bitterness had tempered and she pedaled at a steadier cadence past the neon marquee of the Castro Theatre. She automatically looked up to see what they were showing, and a small thrill interrupted her gloom when she saw that it was An American in Paris. Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron dancing together—a heavenly duo. Jenna tried to picture her class schedule for tomorrow. Maybe she could steal a few hours and escape to the theater’s vintage red velvet seats and indulge her love of old musicals. That would cheer her up for sure.