Читать книгу Cowboy Comes Home - Carrie Alexander, Carrie Alexander - Страница 9

THE NEXT MORNING, Meg woke to the smell of frying bacon. She burrowed deeper into her bed, awash with memories of a time when her mother was alive and active. They had filled out the small kitchen table perfectly—two parents, a little girl who swung her legs against the chair rungs, and Rooney, a grizzled, guffawing “uncle” who used to give her quarters for candy and gum.

Mornings for the past few months had been ascetic. Caffeine was her only remaining vice. Sitting at the same table with the coffeemaker at hand, she’d made lists of chores, lists for the feed store and hardware store, lists of low-cost ways to advertise her training stable. She’d never been a list maker before, but she’d thought that having it all written down would get her going, and doing.

Some days, it worked. Others, not.

She’d learned soon enough that there wasn’t a list on earth that could write away her loneliness.

This morning was different. Rio was in the house. She was up and out of bed, showered and half-dressed before she realized it.

When she entered the kitchen, he was laying strips of bacon on a folded paper towel. Tall, brown, in a red plaid flannel shirt, jeans and stocking feet. A lock of black hair fell in his eyes. He looked up and flashed a white smile. “Morning, Meg. I started breakfast.”

“That’s not your job. But thanks.” Her stomach growled. “I guess I’m starved.”

“Good. You’re too thin.”

“Yeah, well, you look like you could use a few home-cooked meals yourself.”

“That’s what my mother says.”

Rio’s mother. He’d brought her up several times yesterday, as they were working on the cabin. He’d kept it all casual, but Meg had the feeling that he was planning to get them together and talking, despite their agreement that he was here for a job, not a lovey-dovey reunion.

She did have some fond memories of Virginia Carefoot. For a time, the woman had seemed like just about an ideal, motherly kind of mother to Meg, even when her own had still been alive. But then she’d grown up and Virginia had become quietly disapproving of the relationship between her upstanding son and the town’s bad girl. From a more mature perspective, Meg could hardly blame Mrs. Carefoot for that. She’d been dead right in predicting that Meg would lead Rio to a sad end.

“You go feed the horses,” she told him. “I’ll finish breakfast.”

“I already fed them.”

“Oh.” She glanced at the clock. “I overslept.” She would have sworn that having Rio on the ranch would keep her tossing and turning, but instead she’d conked out for a solid nine hours—the longest she’d slept in years. “I’ll start setting an alarm.”

“No problem. I can take over the morning feeding. I’m closer to the barn, in the bunkhouse. The horses wake me anyway.”

“Um, okay, then how about pancakes?” She reached for the canister of flour. A carton of eggs was open on the counter. She cracked several into a bowl, glad to have something to do with her hands. He was watching and that made her skittish.

“Sure, if they’re apple.”

“Why not.” Yesterday, she’d bought more produce than she had in the previous ninety days. A mixing bowl filled with Macintoshes sat on the table. “If you slice them up, nice and thin.”

He got a knife and sat at the table. She drained the grease from the cast-iron frying pan, the same one that had always been used at the ranch. She added milk and baking soda to the mixing bowl and began whisking the batter. “So…you seem to have settled in all right.”

Her scalp prickled from the sensation of Rio’s gaze on the back of her head. “I’m at home here,” he said easily. “Nothing’s changed.”

“Except you’re sleeping in the bunkhouse.”

“We did that a few times. Remember?”

Hell, yes, she remembered. As kids, they’d thought it was great fun to take over the cabin on the rare nights that Rooney was gone. They’d played at being cowboys, with a campfire and beans heated in the can and served on tin plates. They’d rolled out their sleeping bags and told ghost stories and dirty jokes that they hadn’t half understood, until finally they couldn’t keep their eyes open any longer.

But there’d been other nights, too, when they’d grown older. In the cabin, in the barn, even, once or twice, in Meg’s bedroom. Her father would have banned Rio from the ranch if he’d ever caught them. That had been half the thrill for her.

“I remember.” She poured a dollop of the batter into the pan and watched the sizzling edges as if they were mesmerizing. Remember was a dangerous word for them.

Rio nudged her. “The apples.”

She stepped away. “Go ahead.”

He laid slices in the frying pancake. “Remember when we tried to roast apples over the campfire?”

“Sure.” That word again—remember. Was he deliberately making her recall how easy things used to be between them? “We stuck them on sharpened sticks. They came out all black and crisp outside and raw inside.”

“Those were good times.”

“Yeah.” Meg retreated. Leaving Rio to flip the pancakes, she snatched one of her lists off the sloppy pile of notepads, instruction manuals and several outdated phone books on top of the fridge. “We should go over the day’s chores. Get it straight how things are going to be around here.”

“Fuel first,” he insisted. “I need a hot cup of coffee and a bellyful of apple pancakes before I can face my first day as your stable boy.”

“You started yesterday.”

They had emptied the cabin, scrubbed the floor and sink, scraped and painted trim, washed the window. Her final task had been to hang a pair of curtains she’d fashioned out of two linen dish towels printed with strawberries and watermelon slices. Rio had laughed and said that Rooney would have never stood for such a womanly touch, but fortunately he was secure in his masculinity.

That was when Meg had scrammed. After soaking in a hot bath and thinking a little too long about Rio’s very secure masculinity, she’d decided she’d have to reiterate their position as boss and employee. She would assign him duties that ensured there’d be as little contact as possible between them during an average day. They’d already become too chummy.

She ducked her head over the list as he put a platter of pancakes between them. Sharing a meal in the cozy kitchen wasn’t helping her cause.

“Today,” she announced, “you can work on repairing the fences.” That would keep him out of her way.

“Shouldn’t I muck out the stalls first?”

“But I was going to groom the horses.”

“Exactly. They’ll be out of their stalls.”

“Of course.” She forked two pancakes onto her plate and four onto his.

He buttered them and added syrup, looking too content for her peace of mind. “I don’t bite, Meg. Hell, I won’t even talk to you if you don’t want me to.”

She frowned. He’d had a knack for knowing what she was thinking and feeling. Except the one time that she’d held a huge secret so deep inside that not even Rio had suspected. He had known that something was wrong, but she’d led him to believe that she was just nervous about their upcoming high school graduation and her plan to leave home immediately afterward.

“It’s not that.” Her eyes darted to his face. He was studiously slicing through his stack and didn’t look up. “We can be friendly, sort of. We just can’t be close. Not the way we used to be.”

He reached for the coffee, still too relaxed. “Why?”

She became very interested in chewing. He was stirring milk into his coffee, the spoon going around and around until she knew that he wasn’t as indifferent as he portrayed.

She hooked her feet on the chair rung. “Too much happened. And too much time has gone by.”

“But if we got it all into the open, wouldn’t that be better?”

“Not for me.”

Rio’s expression didn’t change, but she could tell he was disappointed in her. Join the club, she thought. I may not be much good for closure, but I’m an expert at cutting my losses and moving on.

He jerked the spoon from the mug. “Whatever you say, boss.”

RICHARD LENNOX HAD RUN a good-size herd of cattle back in the day, when the market had thrived and there’d been more than one cowboy in the bunkhouse. Lean years had cut the herd in half by the time Meg had been allowed to work the cattle alongside the men. After she’d gone and Rooney had passed away, the word around town had been that Lennox was a broken man. He’d reduced the herd even more and scraped by on his own. Sometime along the way, a large parcel of the ranch land had been sold.

What acreage remained was remote but prime, reaching as far as the mountains to the south and culminating in a small, deep canyon to the west. Meg could have made a nice sum by selling it, but she was her father’s daughter, likely to turn her nose up at the large ranch corporations or California tourists who’d be the buyers.

While much of the land was free range, the pastures closest to the house were strung with barbed wire. That meant a lot of fence to ride.

Rio could think of worse jobs. Plenty of them. Only months ago, he’d been stuck in a mountaintop outpost in Kunar Province, barely surviving the grinding heat and dust and stones while dreaming of the cold, clear Wyoming skies. Ten years away hadn’t made him forget what it was like to breathe air so pure you felt glad to be alive.

This morning, the wind sweeping off the mountains had a bite. He pulled up the collar of his jacket before returning a steadying hand to the reins. Meg had put him aboard her horse Renny, short for Renegade. The bay gelding had some age on him, but he’d capered like a two-year-old as they rode toward the foothills.

Clouds like thick cotton wadding moved slowly across the sky, hiding the sun. Rio remembered long hours spent down in a bunker while insurgents fired on the camp, the sun beaming relentlessly down on him and his infantry unit. In those hours, he’d often think of Meg. Happy and productive, he’d hoped, but maybe as lonely without him as he was without her.

The war had dragged on. He’d seen soldiers killed. More wounded. Many lost arms or legs. Eventually he’d come to understand that Meg was his phantom limb. A pain so real it woke him up at night.

At his discharge from the army, he’d overcome the temptation to search for her. He hadn’t considered that he’d find her right here, in Treetop, even though that made sense. They’d both returned like homing pigeons.

He studied the landscape that had once been so familiar, recognizing certain trees, particular rocks.

It seemed unbelievable that they were living on the ranch together. Except that the Meg he’d been remembering all this time was not the person she was now.

Would she become familiar again, too?

He wanted to relearn her, but she wasn’t ready to give him any specifics about what and where she’d been for the past decade, beyond a list of short-term jobs she’d held down. He couldn’t blame her. He didn’t want to talk either, which was why he’d taken to writing as an outlet.

Still, this was only their second day together. They had time. And nothing to keep them apart, except fences of their own making. Which, Rio well knew, were the most insurmountable of all.

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, he gripped a pair of pliers with a hand rubbed raw. Rookie move, forgetting his gloves. Wearing the proper gear was basic cowboy knowledge, but he hadn’t done ranch work in a long time.

He put some muscle into his task and stretched the broken wire taut, then attached it with an efficient twist to one of the extra lengths he’d brought along. That’d hold. Especially since he didn’t figure Meg would be running stock up here in the high pasture anytime soon.

He doffed his cap, an army-issue camo job, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. It was past noon. The sun had risen above the clouds and was warm enough to heat the back of his neck. Renny nosed the dry grass, looking for green, tugging the reins as he stretched his neck toward a tempting mouthful.

The last thing he needed was to lose his horse, so many miles from the house. It’d be a long walk back. Meg would tease him mercilessly, probably bring up the last time his horse had arrived at Wild River an hour before him.

Might be worth it, he mused, to get her to remember—or rather, acknowledge—their history. She remembered; he knew she did. That was why she was being so standoffish.

Freeing the reins from the fence post, he led Renny along the fence line, coming to a section that was beyond spot repair. Rusty barbed wire lay in snarls in the buffalo grass, tangled in the branches of a fallen tree.

Sloop and Meg appeared on the rise, loping through the golden grass. The horse’s pale mane and tail made a bright flag in the sunshine. Meg sat astride, slim and quiet in the saddle. Rio’s gut tightened, the way it did when he watched a hawk soar above the mountains, or the sunset burn a line across the desert. She’d always been his own personal force of nature.

She pulled up alongside Renny. “Problems?”

He gestured at the downed fence. “I’ll have to move the tree, then run new strands.”

Meg flicked the reins against her mount’s neck to keep him from nipping at Renny. “All right.”

“Barbed wire is no good for horses.”

“Well, no. But I can’t afford board fences right now.”

“Maybe not up here, but how much grazing land do you need, with only three horses in the barn?”

“There will be more. Until then, I suppose the home pasture will do.”

“Then why’m I out here?” Rio caught the sheepish cast to her expression before she glanced away. “You were just trying to keep me busy,” he accused her.

She turned Sloop in a tight circle. “No…”

“You wanted me out of the way.”

“That’s not it,” she protested. With small conviction.

“My time would have been better spent in the barn. The feed room’s neglected. There’s enough space between some of the boards to see daylight.” He stowed the pliers and wire cutters in the saddlebag. “I won’t be much use to you if you can’t stand to have me around.”

“You’re wrong.” She’d never admit defeat. “It was just that the good weather won’t hold for long. I thought the fences should be taken care of first.”

“Busywork,” he groused, giving the weather-worn fence post a shove. It rocked. “You need new posts, too.”

“Next time I’m in town, I’ll price lumber. Maybe we can do the home pasture for now.” She looked relieved that he’d let her off the hook. “Anyway, I rode out to see if you were hungry for lunch.”

“That wasn’t necessary. I packed a sandwich and a thermos of coffee.”

Her eyebrows went up. “When did you manage that?”

“After breakfast. You were lurking on the back porch, trying to avoid me.”

“I was pacing, not lurking. I had a craving for a cigarette.” She wheeled Sloop around. “Leave this section for now. Just fix what you can.”

“Waste of time,” he called, forestalling her departure.

She glanced back. “What?”

“There’s no need to send me off to Outer Mongolia, Meg. I was planning to keep to myself anyway. When you want to be rid of me, all you have to do is say the word.”

She didn’t seem to know how to respond.

He lifted the second flap of the saddlebag and took out the thermos. “You could even safely share my coffee and sandwich, with no danger of camaraderie.” Let alone intimacy.

“I rode out here to be sure you got your lunch, didn’t I?”

“But I’ll bet you had no intention of eating any yourself. At least not with me.” He shook his head. “You’ve got to learn how to relax around me.”

Her lashes lowered. “I don’t seem to know how to treat you anymore. What do you suggest?”

“First off, don’t treat me at all. You’re thinking too much when you should be natural. Second, climb down off that horse and have a sip of coffee.”

“I’m weaning myself off caffeine,” she said, but she dismounted.

He tied Renny to the rickety post and strolled to an outcropping of rock and sagebrush. “You had coffee this morning.”

“I allow myself one cup with breakfast.” She smoothed her horse’s reins between her hands. “I gave up all my other vices—alcohol, cigarettes, swearing.”

Men, he silently added, though he didn’t know that for sure. He was guessing, by her antsiness around him, that she hadn’t been with a man for some time.

“How come?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Just had enough of them, is all.”

“I hope you weren’t sick.” She had the gaunt look of someone who’d been through the wringer, one way or another. He supposed he had the same look.

“Not exactly what you’d call—” She pressed her lips together. “You see? This is what I wanted to avoid. All this talk. The questions.”

“Uh-huh. And what sort of conversation would you prefer, ma’am? The common weather variety, I suppose.” He pointed to the sky. “Chilly and clear. Partly sunny, with intermittent clouds. It’s turned into a fine autumn day.”

She nudged at a mossy stone with the toe of her boot. “Go tell it to the Weather Channel.”

He screwed the top back on the thermos. The coffee had warmed him from the inside, the sun from the outside. Yet he was still cold. “It’s going to be a long winter, Meg.”

“It always is.”

“But with just you and me here, especially if you keep on acting so prickly…”

Sloop pulled on the reins, snatching at the grass. Absently Meg tugged back. Her eyes were narrowed on Rio’s. “What are you saying?”

“Ease up. Pull in the quills. I’m not an enemy.”

She shortened the reins, bringing the horse’s head up. Her face was unnaturally pale beneath the two spots of ruddy color in her cheeks.

“You know it,” he added. She had to. “You know me.”

“It’s been ten years.”

“Not that much has changed, no matter how long it’s been.” He wanted to shorten the distance between them, but it wasn’t going to be that easy. “You can trust me, Meg.”

She threw the reins around Sloop’s neck and reached for the stirrup. He admired her athletic grace as she swung her leg over the saddle. And, admittedly, her fine shape. Even skinny, she filled out her jeans very well.

“If you’re staying all winter,” she added. “I guess I’ll find out.”

He watched her ride away, loping again, faster than she should have, not looking back. He was satisfied with himself for making even a small amount of progress with her, until a disarming thought struck him.

Given what a large part of his life Meg had once been, there was the enormous likelihood that he’d be writing about her in a very intimate way. She wouldn’t like that. In fact, she’d hate it.

Yet he’d just said that she could trust him.

If the book deal went through, it would prove him to be a liar.