Summertime on the Ranch
Page 2
“So will I,” Dalton said.
“Sure, you will,” Tessa giggled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dalton asked.
“You’ll sow wild oats tonight. Tomorrow mornin’, you’ll be sittin’ on the back pew praying for a crop failure. You can’t fool me, cowboy,” she said. “I hear that Austin and Rye are off on a vacation and have left you and Becca McKay in charge of the place for the next week. You might want to put those wild oats on the back burner tonight and be a responsible foreman.”
“You givin’ me advice now, Miz Tessa?” he asked.
“Yep, I surely am.” Tessa headed off to the other end of the bar.
The lady singer stepped back from the microphone and took her place behind a keyboard, and the male singer started singing Travis Tritt’s “T.R.O.U.B.L.E.” The lyrics had just said something about looking at what just walked through the door when Dalton caught sight of a tall woman with flaming-red hair in his peripheral vision. He turned to look and almost dropped his beer when he saw Becca coming straight toward the bar.
“You are a genius, Travis,” Dalton murmured.
Becca crossed the room, weaving her way among the line dancers, and sat down on the barstool right next to him. He waited until she ordered a beer and then tossed a bill on the counter when Tessa brought it to her.
“I’ll buy your first drink tonight in exchange for the last dance of the evening,” Dalton said.
“Good God!” Becca exclaimed. “Where did you come from?”
“Been right here the whole time.” He grinned.
“I’ll pay for my own beer,” she said.
“Too late.” Tessa pocketed the bill. “Don’t forget that you owe him the last dance.”
“I never force a woman to dance with me.” Dalton turned around to face Becca. Damn, but she was beautiful in her tight jeans, that cute little dark-blue lace shirt with the pearl snaps, and those fancy cowgirl boots. Her red hair floated on her shoulders, framing her face like a halo, and even in the dim light, her green eyes glimmered.
“I pay my debts, cowboy.” Becca took a long drink of the beer and then held it up toward him. “Thanks for this.”
“You are so welcome. Want to pay for it right now? I can teach you to two-step.” He arched an eyebrow.
“Darlin’, I’ve been in Nashville for the past ten years, and besides I was two-steppin’ when I still had a pacifier in my mouth.” She took another drink of her beer and motioned for Tessa. “Set this back until I finish showing this smartass how to dance.”
“You might ought to let me just dump it and start all over with a cold one,” Tessa teased. “It might get warm before you get him taught.”
“You got a point there.” Becca slid off the barstool and headed to the dance floor.
Dalton finished off his beer and set the empty bottle on the bar. This was his lucky night even if he had to make his own breakfast in the morning. Tessa could be wrong about meeting the right girl in a bar, he was thinking.
You met her five months ago, the pesky voice in his head reminded him.
He didn’t even bother to argue but simply held out his hand toward Becca. He’d wondered what it would be like to hold her in his arms, and he was not one bit disappointed when she moved in close to him.
“Lesson number one,” she said, “is not to hold a woman too closely on the first dance.”
“Darlin’, I know how to two-step,” he whispered into her ear.
“But do you know how to dance with a woman who’s almost as tall as you are?” she asked. “I hear that you prefer short little gals with dark hair.”
“So, you’ve been asking questions about me?” He avoided answering her question. Truth was, he had not danced with many tall women, but oh, sweet Jesus, he did like the way Becca fit into his arms. He was tempted to tip up her chin and kiss her when the male vocalist in the band started singing “Tennessee Whiskey,” but he didn’t dare push his luck.
“Don’t have to ask questions about a rounder like you, Dalton,” she answered. “The news just floats around this part of the world like dandelion fluff in the springtime. Everyone knows who and what you are.”
“And that is?” Dalton asked.
“They’d call you a player in the big cities, but in this part of the world I think you’re just referred to as a bad boy,” she told him.
“Do you like bad boys?” he asked.
“Only on Saturday night when I’m in the mood to dance, and honey, I might dance the last two-step with you to pay for that first drink, but when this place closes down, I will be going home alone, so let’s get that straight right now,” she told him.
“I bet you can’t cook up a decent breakfast for a hungry old cowboy anyway,” he teased.
“You won’t be finding that out in the morning.” She smiled up at him.
His heart melted. His pulse raced. She didn’t say that he’d never find out, but she said in the morning. Someday, he hoped, this woman would make his breakfast every single morning—or maybe he’d make the morning meal for her. He’d sure be willing to do that if it meant he would get to wake up with her in his arms.
Chapter 2
“You do not come into my kitchen with that grumpy face,” Grammie said on Sunday morning. “This is the Lord’s day, and He expects us to be happy.”
If Becca had still been in Nashville, she wouldn’t even have been up that early on Sunday morning. She would have worked a double at Tootsie’s on Saturday, gone home long after two o’clock when the place was cleaned up, and fallen into bed to sleep until sometime in the afternoon. The old cuckoo clock in the foyer had struck twice, telling everyone in Jefferson County that it was two thirty, when she had taken a quick shower and tried to go to sleep, but the sun was peeking over the far horizon when she finally drifted off.
Becca groaned as she threw her legs over the side of the bed and padded barefoot to the kitchen. “I’ve had less than three hours’ sleep.”
“And that, darlin’ girl, would be your own fault, not our Lord and Savior’s, so get a cup of my good, strong black coffee and wake yourself up.” Grammie pointed toward the half-full pot on the countertop.
Becca yawned and poured a full cup of the thick, black stuff her grandmother called coffee. Without a little cream and sugar, it was strong enough to melt the silver plating off the spoon, but that morning, she needed an extra boost, so she took it straight up.
“Muffins are on the table, and we’ll be heading to church soon. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You can’t be goin’ to church wired to the moon,” Grammie said as she slathered butter on a blueberry muffin and handed it to Becca.
Poppa McKay had died when Becca was eight years old, and Grammie had left Ireland to live closer to her only son who lived in Ringgold, Texas. In the past twenty years, she’d left some of her Irish slang behind, but when she blasphemed, she did it with the whole family, and wired to the moon was another way of saying that Becca was hungover.
“I only had three beers all night,” Becca argued and then bit into the muffin.
“Your eyes are tellin’ me a different story, but I’m not fussin’ at you. I remember when I was a young woman and spent my Saturday nights at the local pub.” Grammie’s eyes went slightly dreamy. “I met my Seamus at that pub, and we had fifty good years together.” She blinked and sat down at the table. “My mam didn’t let me miss church just because I was still sleepy. No, ma’am. Not one single time. So, eat your breakfast and get all prettied up. We’ll sit on the front pew, so you won’t be fallin’ asleep.”
“Grammie!” Becca gasped.
Greta giggled. “I’m just funnin’ you. We’ll sit on our regular pew about halfway back in the church. I figure that’s a safe place for you. The devil can’t drag you through the back door with all those folks around you.”
Becca reached for a second m
uffin. “What makes you think the devil even wants me?”
“Honey, he wants all of us. We just got to outsmart him, kind of like I did my Seamus back in the day.” Greta stood up and headed out of the kitchen. “I’ll be waitin’ by the door with my purse and Bible in my hand at a quarter of eleven.”
“Yes, ma’am, but that’s two hours from now,” Becca said.
Greta stopped in the doorway. “Us older ladies take a little longer to get beautified than you young’uns. What gravity ain’t got a hold of, wrinkles have. Finish your coffee and then go make yourself pretty for that cowboy you been runnin’ from since Christmas. If you run hard enough, you’ll catch him.” She giggled as she disappeared down the hallway toward her bedroom.
“I’m not sure I want to catch him,” Becca muttered as she finished off the last of her coffee and then pushed back her chair. She put the dirty plates and cups in the dishwasher and went to her room. Six outfits later, she finally decided on a sundress the color of her eyes and a pair of strappy high heels that matched it. She was sitting on a ladder-back chair in the foyer when her grandmother appeared with her white patent-leather purse slung over her arm.
Greta pointed at Becca’s feet. “I’m pea green with jealousy over those shoes, darlin’ girl. You might be named after me, but you got those long legs from your mama. I bet Dalton’s old heart throws in an extra beat this morning when he sees you walk past him.”
Becca stood up and slung an arm around her grandmother’s shoulders and tried to veer her away from Dalton. “Grammie, I’ve seen pictures of you when you were my age. You were stunning.”
“Don’t you be tryin’ to butter me up so I won’t talk about Dalton Wilson.” Greta shook a finger toward her. “I might be old, but I ain’t stupid.”
The old folks around town kept saying that they were in for one hot summer, and Becca believed every word of it when she opened the door and a blast of hot air rushed across the porch to meet them. Hot summer. Hot cowboy. Hot everything—or so it seemed.
Nothing in Terral was more than ten minutes away, not even the new casino that had been built out at the edge of the Red River. To go from the ranch and watermelon farm to the only restaurant on Main Street, the churches, or the convenience store up on the corner of Apache Avenue—the street most folks called Main—and Highway 81 took half that time. Driving the four blocks from her grandmother’s place to the church took about three minutes. Becca’s little compact car wasn’t even cooled down when she turned into the gravel parking lot. That old saying that if you blinked while driving through the two blocks that were downtown, you’d miss it was the unadulterated, guaranteed truth.
As luck would have it, Dalton arrived at the same time as Becca and her grandmother, and he rushed over to be the perfect gentleman and help Greta out of the car. Becca opened her door, slung her long legs out, and turned to look over the top of the car—and locked eyes with Dalton.
“I just asked this handsome young man to sit with us,” Greta said.
He arched an eyebrow toward Becca.
“And what did he say?” Becca’s eyes didn’t leave his.
“That he’d be glad to attend church with us this mornin’.” Greta flashed her brightest grin, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth. “If you two kids are real nice and sing pretty, maybe he can even go home with us for Sunday dinner. I put a pot roast in the oven, and it will be done by the time services are over.”
“I can be the best cowboy in the whole state for a Sunday dinner like that.” Dalton grinned. “Here, Miz Greta, take my arm. Those steps going up to the church are pretty steep.”
You can worm your way into my grandmother’s heart, cowboy, Becca thought as she followed them into the sanctuary. You can dance with me, and even have dinner at Grammie’s house, but I refuse to be another conquest in your line of one-night stands. She felt like a little puppy trailing along after her two masters as the three of them made their way into the church and down the center aisle.
“This is where I like to sit.” Greta stopped in her tracks about the middle of the church.
“Yes, ma’am.” Dalton stood to one side.
Becca bit back a groan when she realized she would be sitting between her grandmother and Dalton. Three of Greta’s friends had already sat down on the other end of the pew, and like always, there was only room for two more people to sit comfortably. Adding a big, strapping cowboy like Dalton would squeeze them together, but there was nothing she could do but sit down.
Dalton wedged himself into the space that remained, but with the end of the pew on one side and Becca’s body on the other, there was very little room for him.
“There’s no sense in you two bein’ crowded up like this,” Greta whispered. “Go on and find yourselves a seat up closer to the front.”
“I’m fine.” Becca’s voice sounded a little high in her own ears, but then her heart was thumping and her pulse racing. Dalton looked like the cover model for a western romance novel in his tight jeans, plaid shirt, and polished boots. She took a deep breath, hoping to put out all the sparks dancing around them, but whatever shaving lotion he had used that morning sent her senses reeling.
“No problem here.” Dalton smiled.
“No leaning on each other and falling asleep,” Greta warned with a shake of her finger. “Or yawning, and if you snore, there will be no Sunday dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Becca and Dalton said in unison.
The congregation sang two songs, and since there was only one hymn book available, Becca had to share with Dalton. Their fingertips touched and the contact sent unholy pictures flashing through her mind of him in tangled sheets. She checked out the window on the south side to be sure there were no black clouds shooting lightning streaks toward the church.
The preacher took his place, adjusted the microphone, and said, “It’s been laid upon my heart to preach from Corinthians about love.”
Sweet Jesus! Becca rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
Greta elbowed her in the ribs and whispered, “Pay attention and stop checkin’ to see if there’s cobwebs on the ceiling fan.”
Somewhere between the part about love being kind and not seeking its own way, Becca’s eyes got heavy. She leaned on what she thought was the arm of the pew and planned to rest her eyes for a minute, but a movement startled her. Several folks around her chuckled, and for a split second she wondered if she had, indeed, snored. She jerked her arm away to find that she had really propped it on Dalton’s shoulder. Then she felt a weight in her lap and looked down to find Tuff had stretched his wiry body out across both Dalton’s and her laps. The dog had slipped into the church through the open doors and made himself comfortable.
“I guess we have a four-legged visitor.” The preacher laughed with the rest of the congregation. “I suppose if God knows the very hairs on our head and when every sparrow drops, then He surely won’t mind if Dalton’s dog attends the rest of the service—as long as he doesn’t snore.”
A few more chuckles echoed through the building. Becca was wide awake by then with a dog’s head planted in her lap. Tuff’s big, brown eyes were looking right at her face, and damned if it didn’t look like he was smiling.
* * *
Dalton was always welcome to Sunday dinner at his grandpa’s place in Fruitland. Nana Wilson usually fried up a mean batch of chicken after church, and her biscuits were the best in the whole world. He had a standing invitation, and if he wasn’t there by noon, Nana put a plate back for him. Very seldom did he miss at least running by to say hello to them on Sunday. He figured they would understand his absence if it had to do with him going to church and dinner with a woman, but he still planned to give them a quick call on his way to Greta’s place. They’d be elated since they had gone past throwing out hints and were making serious comments about how it was time for him to hang up his wild ways and settle down. They wanted to see a
few great-grandchildren before the end of their time, and since Dalton was their only grandchild, that responsibility fell on him.
The preacher finally asked Eli White to deliver the benediction. Mr. Eli stood to his feet, bowed his head, and began to thank God for everything from the good watermelon crop that was coming in to the ladies who cleaned the church. He spoke slowly in a monotone, and if it hadn’t been for Dalton’s growling stomach, he might have really snored by the time Eli finally said, “Amen.”
“Thank God that’s over,” Greta muttered as she stood to her feet. “Another minute on this hard pew and my hips and knees would have rebelled.”
“I’d carry you out to the car if that happened.” Dalton grinned.
Tuff must have realized the service was over because he jumped down and meandered down the center aisle toward the door.
“Poor thing must’ve been worn out,” Greta said. “It’s four miles out to the ranch, and that’s a long way for him to walk just to get to church. He’s a good dog to feel his need to be here.”
Dalton didn’t tell them that Tuff had hitched a ride in the back of his truck like he did every Sunday morning. Lots of times, he just curled up and took an hour-long nap, or else ran around the town, checking out the female mutts and hiking his leg on every bush he could find.
“His fur is kind of soft. I figured it would feel like steel wool,” Becca admitted as she got to her feet. “You’re not going to make him walk all the way back to the ranch, are you?”
“Naw,” Dalton drawled. “I’ll park under that big old pecan tree in Miss Greta’s yard, and he can sleep in the truck bed. I thought you hated him.”
“I don’t hate Tuff,” Becca protested. “I just don’t want any of his hair to get loose and taint my wine.”
Greta hung back and talked to her friends. Dalton ushered Becca outside with a hand on the small of her back. She could feel the burn all the way through her body, and her palms were sweaty when it was her turn to shake with the preacher.
“I’m glad to see y’all sitting together this mornin’,” the preacher said and then dropped her hand. “And Tuff was such a good boy. You can tell him he’s welcome at services anytime. I shook hands with him a few minutes ago, and I believe he’s headed out to your truck.”