Summertime on the Ranch

by Carolyn Brown

  “Have a seat.” Dalton motioned toward the wooden table with four chairs around it. “Have a cookie while I pour coffee. Cream and sugar?”

  “Nope, just black, and thank you.” She felt very vulnerable wearing nothing but a robe that could be opened with only a tug on its belt.

  “Your stuff is all in the washer. The cycle will be done in a few minutes and we’ll throw them into the dryer. I’m not sure what to do about your sneakers. I sprayed them off in the sink, but…”

  “I’ve gone barefoot before.” She pulled out a chair and sat down.

  He brought two mugs of coffee to the table and sat down across from her. “Me too, but that was when I was a kid. If your feet weren’t so small, you could wear my rubber boots.”

  “Only little part of my whole body. I’ve been told lots of times that someone who’s six feet tall shouldn’t wear a size six shoe.” She picked up a cookie and bit into it. “Are these homemade?”

  “My nana believed that a boy should be just as at home in the kitchen as the barn. If I’d had a sister, she would have made her haul hay and work cattle, but I’m an only child,” he answered. “When I can’t sleep, I bake.”

  “So do I.” She took a sip of her coffee and then set the mug back on the table. “I like to cook, but I really love baking.”

  “We should have a cookie evening,” he suggested. “How about tonight?”

  “I’ve got plans for the next couple of nights,” she answered, “but Thursday is free. My place or yours?”

  “Mine,” he replied. “I’ll have everything ready. You bring a bottle of wine, and we’ll make sugar cookies. According to Austin and Rye, they go really good with watermelon wine.”

  “Grammie has an amazing recipe for sugar cookies. I’ll bring a copy with me,” she said.

  What am I doing? she scolded herself. A week ago, she wouldn’t have given Dalton the time of day, and she really didn’t like Tuff. How could things have changed so fast?

  “I’ve got one question before we do this,” she said.

  “Shoot.” He grinned. “But I assure you, I keep a full pantry, so when I’m in the mood to cook, I’ve got what I need.”

  “How many women have worn this robe?”

  “One, and that’s you. I don’t share my toys with others very well,” he answered.

  “Then why is there lavender-scented shampoo in your shower?” she asked.

  “My mama likes it, and last week she was down here helping me get my spring cleaning done,” he answered. “I don’t bring women to the ranch, Becca. I’m not a saint, and probably seventy percent of what you’ve heard about me is pure truth, but when I spend the night with a woman, it’s not at my place.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because someday I will settle down, and this will be my home until I can have enough saved for my own ranch. I wouldn’t want my wife to feel the ghosts of girlfriends past every time she turned a corner,” he answered.

  “That’s pretty nice of you,” she said and picked up a second cookie.

  * * *

  Dalton grinned as he pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’m just a nice cowboy. The washer just quit. I’ll throw your things over into the dryer.”

  He had just gotten her stuff into the dryer when his phone rang. He slipped it out of the hip pocket of his jeans, saw that it was Rye, and answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, how’s things in Florida?”

  “Hot and humid and the kids are loving every minute,” Rye answered.

  Dalton leaned his back against the washer. “How about you?”

  “I’d rather be ranching”—Rye chuckled—“but it’s not too bad. I love seeing the expressions on Austin and the kids’ faces, and the food is really good. Everything under control there?”

  “Yep, and you’ll never guess what happened today. Big John broke through the fence…” He went on to tell Rye the whole story, ending with “and I couldn’t believe that Becca did that. She’s sitting in my kitchen now while her clothes are drying.”

  “You’ve got a woman in your house?” Rye asked.

  “I told you before you left that it was love at first sight,” Dalton said.

  “I didn’t believe you,” Rye said. “I remember that feeling. I’ll just hope that you can convince her you’re ready to settle down. I can’t wait to tell Austin. Believe me, she’ll do all she can do to help you out. She and Becca have become good friends these past months.”

  “Thanks,” Dalton told him. “Anything you want me to do more than what we’re doing?”

  “Just be sure the rodeo stock gets down to Haskell on Friday. I’ll be home Sunday evening, so I’ll go pick them up on Monday,” Rye said.

  “I might take Becca with me to control Big John,” Dalton said, chuckling.

  “Tell her to take a couple of watermelons along.” Rye laughed. “It’s our turn to line up for a ride. Talk to you later. Austin says to tell Becca hello.”

  The call ended, and Dalton headed back to the kitchen. “Austin says to tell you hello.”

  “Are they having a good time?” Becca smiled up at him.

  He refilled their coffee mugs and sat down. “Yep, but Rye says he’d rather be ranchin’.”

  “I can understand that for sure,” Becca said. “Amusement parks are not my idea of a fun week. I’d rather stay home and make wine, or maybe go to a nice quiet beach and listen to the ocean waves coming in and going out.”

  Damn! This girl was really after his heart in every way. “Me too, or maybe take a trip up into the mountains when there’s snow on the ground, build a roaring blaze in a fireplace, and just sit in front of it with a good cold beer.”

  “That sounds pretty amazing too,” she agreed. “Put on some good slow country music in either one of those places, and I’d love it.”

  He made a mental note to have music playing while they made cookies on Thursday evening. “Was it a cultural shock to come home after spending ten years in Nashville?”

  “Not as much as it was going to Nashville after being raised in Ringgold,” she answered. “I got used to it after a while, and coming home, well…it’s home.” She raised a shoulder in half a shrug.

  “Reckon you’ll sing at local events?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” she answered. “Making the decision to give up on my dream wasn’t easy, but as time goes by, it’s becoming something of the past. Does that make sense?”

  “More than you’ll ever know.” He nodded in agreement.

  “What makes you say that?” she asked.

  “I wanted to be a champion bull rider as well as a rancher. It took about eight years and a few broken bones for me to realize that I’m just not that good,” he said. “Not that I’m sayin’ you’re not good enough to make it in country music, but when I finally figured out that I wasn’t cut out to ride bulls, I put that dream behind me and put my all into ranchin’.”

  “And chasin’ women?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Bull ridin’ gets more ladies than plain old ranchin’,” he replied. “I’ve sown my wild oats in both arenas—ranchin’ and rodeoin’. I’m lucky that I didn’t have to reap a harvest from that, but I’m thirty years old now, and I’m finding that all that glitters is not gold.”

  “Seems like there was an old song that said that same thing,” she said.

  Dalton nodded again. “Yep, and every word of it is true. The dryer just dinged.”

  “I’ll get my things and get dressed.” She pushed back her chair and headed out of the kitchen.

  His robe only came to her knees, and her hips curved out from her small waist where she’d roped the belt tightly. She whipped the towel from her hair, and just looking at her long legs, her bare feet, and all that tangled, damp hair made his heart throw in an extra beat. He’d love to untie that robe, watch it fall into a
puddle at her feet, and then scoop her up in his arms and carry her to his bed.

  If he was lucky, maybe that would happen someday.

  She carried her clothes straight to the bathroom and emerged five minutes later, fully dressed except for shoes. Her long hair had been brushed and drawn up into a still damp ponytail. She reminded him of one of those Greek goddesses that had stepped forward in time to the twenty-first century. He might not be able to untie the belt or slip the robe off her shoulders at the moment, but the muddy yard gave him every excuse to carry her to the truck.

  The rain had finally stopped. They stepped out onto the porch, and without asking permission, he took a step forward, picked her up like a new bride, and said, “No need for you to get your feet muddy.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been…” She gasped.

  “Then, darlin’, you’ve must have been dating the wrong guys.”

  Chapter 6

  On Tuesday Becca hit the ground running and didn’t stop until it was almost dark. She was dragging by the time she made it back home. She plopped down on the sofa the minute she got into the living room. Both kittens climbed the arm of the sofa like it was a tree and walked across the back until they reached her. Then they used her ponytail for a batting toy.

  “Did you see Dalton today?” Greta asked.

  “Nope,” she answered. “He’s been in the hayfield all day. They got a second cutting on one of the big pastures. He texted me a few times. Grammie, I like him a lot, but…”

  “Honey, you listen to your heart. If it tells you to walk away, then do it. If your heart tells you to stick with it, then do that. Ain’t a one of us old ladies or any of your young friends can give you solid advice on love. I like the cowboy. He’s got a helluva bad reputation when it comes to lovin’ and leavin’, but…” Greta shrugged.

  “But what?” Becca pushed for more.

  “But he looks at you like my Seamus looked at me. It might sound crazy to you, but it means something to me. Now, get on in there and dip you up a plate full of corned beef and cabbage. You look like you’re on your last leg. A little nourishment will be good for you.” Greta pointed toward the kitchen.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Both kittens had already climbed to Becca’s shoulder and were curling up to take a nap. She set them on the floor and headed toward the kitchen. “Hey, did I tell you that Dalton can cook, and that he makes great cookies?”

  “My Seamus liked to help me in the kitchen. His meat pies were the best in the world. I never have been able to make pie crust as good as his.” Greta raised her voice.

  Becca dipped up a bowl full of food and carried it to the living room. “We’re making cookies on Thursday night.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Greta said. “You need to spend time with him, so your old heart knows what to tell you to do. How would it know whether this is a real thing or just a passin’ fancy if you avoid him like you’ve done since you got here?”

  “I needed time to figure out whether I was going to go back to Nashville to give it one more year,” she answered. “Besides, I’d heard that all he was interested in was a good time.”

  “You still yearnin’ after that dream of singin’?” Greta asked.

  “No, I’m pretty content now where I am,” Becca said. “Why? Are you wantin’ me to get out of your house so you can flirt with some old guy?”

  “Bloody hell, no!” Greta gasped. “I love havin’ you here, and I gave my Seamus my whole heart. Ain’t nothin’ left to give another man.”

  Becca wanted that kind of thing for her own—someday. She wasn’t in a hurry to find it by any means, but she didn’t intend to settle down to a permanent relationship with anything less than what Grammie had had with her Seamus.

  * * *

  Wednesday crawled by like a snail in a foot of snow on the way to a funeral. Every time Dalton looked at the clock, only thirty seconds had passed. Thursday was even worse. He helped the hired hands repair fence all day, and yet time seemed to stand still.

  Finally, the day ground to an end. He rushed home, took a quick shower, shaved, and then got into his truck and drove into town to pick up Becca. Without a doubt, he’d just spent the longest three days of his life, and if he could avoid it, he’d never go that long without seeing Becca again. He’d proven that out of sight, out of mind was a crock of bullshit.

  She was sitting on the porch when he arrived. She was wearing a cute little dress with strings for straps, and a pair of sandals. Strands of her hair had escaped the messy knot on top of her head. Just looking at her made his mouth go as dry as if he’d just bitten down on a green persimmon. She picked up her purse and a paper bag and started toward the truck. He jumped out of the truck and rushed around to open the door for her. A whiff of her perfume—something with a hint of vanilla—sent his senses reeling.

  “You sure are gorgeous tonight. Maybe we should forget all about cooking and go out to dinner at a fancy restaurant,” he suggested.

  She handed the paper bag to him. “I’m cooking tonight, and then we’re making cookies. My mouth has been watering for sugar cookies all day.”

  “What are you cooking?” He set the bag in the back seat.

  “Chicken Alfredo. And I’m making a salad and I’ve got a loaf of Grammie’s homemade bread to go with it,” she said.

  “And the wine?” he asked.

  “It’s in my purse. Two bottles. One for supper. One for dessert.” She smiled.

  “I always wondered why women liked big purses.” He shut her door and rounded the front of the truck. When he was behind the wheel, he adjusted the AC and shifted the gear into reverse.

  “The bigger the purse, the more wine we can bring home,” she teased.

  “You think two bottles is enough?” he asked.

  “Depends on how much you drink. I’m Irish. I can hold my liquor, wine or even good beer. How about you?” she threw back at him.

  “Is that a challenge?” he asked. “Because if it is, honey, I’ve got about five kinds of whiskey, a bottle of coconut rum, one of tequila, and two of vodka, and a six-pack of cold beer in the refrigerator. We can do shots, or even make a vodka watermelon if we run out of wine.”

  “Oh, I do love a booze melon,” she said. “It’s crazy that I was raised right here in watermelon country and never had a vodka melon until I went to Nashville. Let’s stop by the watermelon field where the sugar baby melons are grown. They’re the best ones for wine and for vodka melons.”

  “What’s the prize for the one who’s still sober enough to drive you home at the end of the evening?” he asked.

  “A kiss good night.” She was definitely flirting.

  “I don’t shave for a second time in a day for less than at least a thirty-minute make-out session if I’m the winner,” he shot back at her.

  She stuck her hand across the console. “If I’m the winner, I get to name the time and place for that make-out session.”

  * * *

  Becca knew she was playing with fire, but Grammie had advised her to get to know him. What could be better than making out for thirty minutes? Besides, she’d missed him the past three days, and she’d never felt like that about any man in her past. With her work, time for dates was scarce, and there had only been one relationship—if six dates, one weekend in bed, and a couple of quick lunches could qualify as such.

  They stopped by the watermelon field closest to the wine shed on the way back to the ranch, and Dalton insisted that he knew the difference between a sugar baby and the other types of melons. “You sit right there, and I’ll put a couple in the back of the truck. You can decide which one you want to juice up with vodka.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He thumped around on a few melons. Each time he cocked his ear to listen for a hollow sound. When he was satisfied that a couple of smaller ones would be perfect, he cut the vine with
his pocketknife, tucked each one under an arm, and carried them out of the field. He gently laid them in the back of the truck and then crawled in behind the wheel. “Those should do the trick. After a bottle of wine, I bet we’ll be loosened up enough to dance.”

  “We’re not going to the Broken Bit, are we?” she asked.

  “No, darlin’.” He reached across the console and laid a hand on her shoulder. “We can dance in the living room and not have to bump into anyone else.”

  That fire she’d thought about earlier seemed to be getting hotter and hotter. He drove across the road, parked the truck, and helped her out of the passenger seat. Then he picked up the bag of groceries in one hand and one of the melons in the other. “I guess you’ll have to open the door for me this time, but you’ve got to promise not to tell my mama or my nana. They’d tack my hide to the smokehouse door if they found out I wasn’t a gentleman.”

  “My lips are sealed,” she said as she threw the door open and then followed him inside. She set her purse on the kitchen table and unloaded the things she needed to make supper from the bag. “I should have asked you whether you even like Alfredo.”

  “Love it.” He uncapped a bottle of vodka, set the lid on the side of the watermelon, and used it as a pattern to draw a circle. Then he carefully cut a plug from the melon and inverted the bottle into the hole without spilling a single drop. A few air bubbles floated up to the top of the bottle and the vodka began to slowly seep into the meat of the melon.

  “This is not your first rodeo, is it?” she asked.

  “Nope, and I really like for the vodka to infuse into the melon for twelve to twenty-four hours. If we decide the wine is enough for our bet, then we can have this tomorrow night.” He raised an eyebrow and grinned, “Or maybe for breakfast in the morning?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be around at breakfast, but you think there’s going to be a tomorrow night?” she asked.

  “I can always hope,” he answered. “Now, what can I do to help with supper? I’m starving.”

  “You can make a salad and slice the bread while I put the Alfredo together. The wine is chilled, and I see you’ve already set the table,” she replied.