Читать книгу The Marriage Season - Linda Miller Lael - Страница 13

CHAPTER SIX

TATE POURED ANOTHER cup of coffee and went over the plans again. One of the tough decisions he’d have to make was the size of the barn itself. He didn’t have the resources to be too extravagant; still, it would be so much easier—and save money—to do it right the first time, rather than adding on later.

He might have to consider asking his father to invest, after all. That would be the more practical route, but he balked at it.

One of the things he wanted to include was a small separate cabin/bunkhouse next to the stables so that eventually, with luck, he could hire staff to help with the horses. Staff who could live right on the ranch. Stalls had to be mucked out, horses would need to be fed, exercised, started or trained, if they were going to be sold as saddle horses. With a few animals he could handle all that, but turning this into a legitimate business meant he’d require help.

The problem was if he so much as mentioned the word investment to his father, the man became relentlessly overinvolved. Let him put up one dime, and there’d be spreadsheets and reports and phone calls. All Tate wanted was to live on a serene piece of property with a spectacular view of the Tetons and raise horses and his sons.

It seemed straightforward enough. In theory.

His father’s approach to business was probably the correct one, but Tate wasn’t out to make a fortune, he just wanted to provide a good life for his children and have a simple existence in a more wholesome environment, rather than a crowded city.

“I need to decide.” He ran his fingers through his hair and said it out loud.

“’Bout what?”

He hadn’t realized that Adam had wandered into the kitchen, still sleepy and decked out in his Batman pajamas, his hair messy, dark eyes inquiring.

Tate saw a reflection of his own features in his son’s small face, and he had to admit that whatever problems he had in this world, they faded away when he looked at his child. “I was wondering if I wanted more coffee or a glass of orange juice. You need to make a big decision, too. Cereal or waffles?”

“Waffles.”

Of course the kid chose waffles, since they involved syrup. These were of the toaster variety, but Tate tossed some fresh blueberries on top and handed over a glass of milk. “You guys have fun last night?”

Adam nodded, his mouth full.

“Still want to go fishing?”

Another emphatic nod.

Naturally he’d guessed what the answer would be. “I hope Josh and his dad can go, too.” He’d mentioned it to them at the finish line yesterday; there’d been general excitement but no specific reaction to the option of including Greg.

Adam swallowed and washed down his mouthful of waffle with milk. “Josh don’t want his dad.”

“Doesn’t,” Tate corrected automatically.

His son stopped eating for a moment to inform him, “He wants Aunt Bex to go instead.”

“Fishing?”

That was an interesting picture. She was the athletic type; no one would deny that. Still...he could also clearly remember the slender figure in that black skirt and the graceful curves under the gold sweater.

“She’s a girl,” Tate pointed out, resting his elbows on the table. The house was small and there was no dining room, just space for a kitchen table. “You want to go fishing with a girl?”

He was joking, but boys were boys, and he sometimes found himself swimming in the dark against a swift current. In other words, he didn’t always grasp what they were thinking—or why.

Adam thought about it for a second and nodded again. “She’s not really a girl.”

Oh, he was dying to hear where this was going. And his youngest son was absolutely right; she was every inch a woman, not a girl at all, and Tate was only too aware of it. “How so?”

“She can run a long way.”

“Okay, that’s true.”

“Yeah, she can run as far as you.” He popped a few blueberries into his mouth. “You said so.”

That stung a little, but male pride wasn’t the issue here. He had said that as they waited for Bex to cross the finish line. It never ceased to amaze him how children remembered even the most casual of comments. “What I said is that she can go the same distance.”

“And it was a long way.”

“It was, yes.”

Adam shrugged his small shoulders. “So that means she can fish, too.”

There was a certain logic to that argument, he supposed, at least to a six-year-old boy. Girl can run as far as a guy, girl can fish just like a guy.

Maybe she could. He sipped his coffee and considered his response. “I guess I can ask her instead of Josh’s father. You’re sure that’s what Josh meant? Could be he’s mad at his father and they need to talk.”

“That’s what he said. Aunt Bex.” Adam polished off his breakfast. “Can I watch TV?”

It was Sunday morning, so Tate nodded. He tried to keep his children’s media interaction to a minimum, but cut them some slack on weekends. Since they both read and got good grades—he pushed for both—he allowed lazy Sunday mornings.

Adam went off to the den and Tate heard the television come on. He returned to the architect’s plans for another look.

Now, though, he was admittedly distracted.

He’d only met Josh’s dad that one afternoon at the ranch, but what Tripp had told him didn’t inspire much confidence. He hoped one of his children wouldn’t choose someone else over him in a situation like this. There was also the issue that he’d prefer Bex as the other adult companion.

He didn’t know if she could go, or if she’d even agree. She was busy, and the idea might not appeal to her, anyway.

In his experience, some women liked the great outdoors, and some women didn’t. That wasn’t exactly a profound observation, since the same could be said for men. There were boardrooms and designer suits on the one side, saddles and worn boots on the other, and everything else in between. Personally, he loved to fish, but he also liked a hot shower.

His friend Russ, the cabin’s owner, had said, as if it didn’t matter much, that the place had hot water from a small heater under the sink, but only enough for washing dishes. The outdoor shower, which pumped water from the lake, was cold; however, you could heat a pail on the stove and pour it in for the final rinse.

Not exactly a four-star resort.

It was only fair to let Bex know what she’d be getting into, but...if he did, she might decline. Since he hadn’t been to this cabin himself, he wasn’t sure what precise degree of rustic applied. It sounded on the higher end of the spectrum to him—or lower, depending on your perspective. Still, during the summer Bex had participated in chaperoning a trail ride for a group of teenage girls, so obviously she wasn’t opposed to camping. If she had time to get away for a few days, maybe the idea would appeal to her.

The prospect of the trip took on a whole new rosy glow.

* * *

HADLEIGH WAS IN her quilt shop, draping a new creation over a display rack, when Bex opened the door to the tinkling of the bell. Since she sewed like someone with ten thumbs, Bex always found her friend’s talent astonishing. In a philosophical discussion they’d had once over a glass of wine and some pasta dish Melody had whipped up involving garlic, peppers and a sauce made from homegrown tomatoes, they’d all agreed that their different strengths were probably what had kept them friends for so long. Just as Bex had explained to Tate the evening they’d flown to Cheyenne. During their high school days, Melody had been a cheerleader, and Bex a volleyball star. Hadleigh had aced home economics—renamed Family Studies, for some reason. She’d done it so effortlessly, as if she could create beautiful things in her sleep. They’d all muddled through adolescence and then college, a team for the most part, although they hadn’t always agreed.

It was definitely time for a team meeting.

On a Sunday, the shop stayed open because during the summer and winter tourist seasons, the town was busy. But autumn was quiet in Mustang Creek. So chances were they’d get some uninterrupted minutes today.