Summertime on the Ranch

by Carolyn Brown

  “Did that when I came in for a lunch break,” he admitted. “Today was the slowest day in history. I began to think it was like the preacher said about a thousand years being as one day.”

  She found a large cast-iron skillet under the cabinet and dumped the chicken she’d cooked the night before into it. “I agree. Do you know what wait is?”

  “It’s misery,” he said.

  “No, it’s a four-letter word.” She giggled.

  “Amen to that, and Nana would wash my mouth out with soap for saying those kinds of words.” He finished making salads in two small bowls and put them on the table. Then he got out a sharp knife and sliced half the loaf of bread.

  When he reached for two wineglasses, his hip bumped against hers. “Sorry about that.”

  “I’m not,” she muttered as she whipped around and laced her arms around his neck. “Did you feel some electricity between us?”

  “Honey, I feel the chemistry between us every time we’re in the same room,” he admitted as his lips found hers in a long, steamy kiss. “I’ve dreamed about kissing you all day,” he whispered when the kiss ended.

  “Did it live up to your expectations?” she asked.

  “One hundred and fifty percent.” He gave her a quick peck on the forehead, picked up the glasses, and took them to the table.

  Every nerve ending in her whole body hummed with desire. Good old common sense told her that more than sharing a few kisses was out of the question. That didn’t mean she didn’t want to forget about wine, vodka-infused watermelon, and even supper and slowly undress him on the way to the bedroom.

  The noodles took longer to cook than the sauce, but the Alfredo was ready in fifteen minutes. She carried the skillet to the table and set it on a hot pad. A fancy bowl would have gone better with the pretty table Dalton had set, but the cast iron would keep the food hot longer.

  He pulled out a chair for her and then poured the wine. “Are you going to say grace, or am I?”

  “It’s your house, so it’s your call,” she told him. “Do you always pray?”

  “Yep,” he answered as he took her hand in his. “I grew up in a household that said grace before every meal, and it just don’t seem right not to give thanks.”

  “Me too.” She bowed her head.

  He said a simple prayer and then held up his wineglass. “To us.”

  She picked up her glass and touched his. “To us.”

  By the time supper was over, they’d finished the first bottle of wine. As Becca had bragged earlier, she could hold her liquor as well as any good Irishwoman, but she’d never had good, aged watermelon wine. When she got up to help clear the table, the room did a couple of spins. She finally got it under control by holding on to the counter for just a minute.

  “All right,” Dalton said when he put the last plate in the dishwasher. “Great supper. Good wine. Amazing company. Now let’s make cookies and pop open that second bottle of wine. I’ve got a confession. I thought wine was for sissies until Rye introduced me to watermelon wine. I liked it from the beginning, but I like this stuff even better.” He thumped the watermelon on the counter, removed the empty vodka bottle, and put the plug he had cut out of the melon back in place. “And one more confession… I talk a lot when I get a good buzz going.”

  The door is open. Don’t lose the opportunity. Grammie’s voice was loud and clear in Becca’s mind even if she did have a little buzz going on in her own head. If he’s got a mind to talk, then ask questions.

  “So, you are a happy drunk, not a mean one?” she asked.

  He chuckled as he got out the ingredients to make sugar cookies. “I usually stop drinking after a little buzz. I don’t like to be drunk, and I hate hangovers.” He laid his phone on the counter and touched the screen. “A little music,” he said as Garth Brooks sang “The River.”

  The lyrics said something about standing on the shoreline and letting the waters run by. Becca nodded in agreement when Garth sang about rough waters. “What made you choose this song?”

  “I like that line that says I’ll never reach my destination if I don’t try,” he said. “I like you, Becca McKay.” He leaned over the container of flour and kissed her on the tip of the nose. “I have to try to make you like me back, even if I have to do what the song says and sail my vessel until the river runs dry.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have to try until the Red River is completely dry,” she whispered.

  “Good.” He grinned. “I was worried about that.”

  “You are a charmer,” she said.

  “Nana told me when I was just a little boy that good looks would take me far in life, but charm would get me whatever I wanted,” he told her.

  “And has it?” She measured out the flour and then cut a stick of butter into it.

  “Until you came into my life,” he said. “I thought you were immune to my sweet-talkin’.”

  “I had to get the past out of my system before I could…” She paused and locked eyes with him. “Are you just tryin’ to get me into bed, or are you serious about a long-term relationship?”

  “Darlin’, I’m as serious as a cowboy tryin’ to hang onto a buckin’ bull for eight seconds,” he said.

  That might not sound like a declaration to some women, but Becca sure understood what he was saying.

  “Okay, then,” she said. “I believe you.”

  “Thank you for that. I don’t lie, Becca. I will tell you the truth, even if it hurts me to do it,” he said as he put the first pan of cookies into the oven.

  She refilled their wineglasses and took a sip. “I’m pretty much the same. That might have been part of my problem in Nashville. I wasn’t willing to do anything for a contract. If I couldn’t get one with my singing, I damn sure didn’t want one if it meant I had to fall on my back or drop down on my knees.”

  Dalton chuckled. “You are pretty straightforward, aren’t you?”

  “Yep, it’s the only way to be,” she said. “And speaking of that, I’m tellin’ you right now, this is some damn fine wine, and it’s hittin’ me harder than whiskey usually does.”

  “This must be Austin’s good stuff. Did you get it from the top shelf?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did. I wanted to bring the best,” she answered.

  He removed the pan of cookies and slid the second batch into the oven. “Like ’em warm?”

  “Honey, I like ’em hot,” she said, giggling.

  “Let’s take them to the living room.” He lifted twenty cookies off the pan with a spatula and put them onto a plate. “You carry the wine, and I’ll bring this.”

  “Don’t you dare drop them on the floor,” Becca cautioned. “I’ve looked forward to warm cookies and cold wine all day.”

  “If I do, we’ll just sit down on the floor and eat them. You don’t have to worry. My floors are just that clean,” he told her.

  “Did you see that episode of Friends when Joey and Rachel and Chandler eat cheesecake off the floor? This reminds me of that night, only they were stone-cold sober.” She picked up the wine and took short steps all the way to the living room where she set the glasses on the coffee table and then sank down into the sofa.

  “And we are not.” Dalton sat down beside her and draped an arm around her shoulders. “I’m not sure if it’s the wine or if I’m slap happy because you’re here. After almost six months of wanting this to happen, now it is, and I could be drunk on that and not the wine.”

  “You are a charmer for sure.” Becca reached for a cookie, took a bite, and then sipped the wine. “Very good together. Do we really have to wait until tomorrow night to get into our vodka melon?”

  “It takes at least twelve hours for it to infuse, but if you want to have it earlier, you are welcome to spend the night,” he told her.

  Before she could answer, someone knocked on the door and then ca
me right in without being invited. Becca hoped like hell it wasn’t his mother or his grandmother. Either of them seeing her half-lit would not bode well.

  “Well, well, well? So, it’s true. You’re not pregnant. If you were, you wouldn’t be drinking wine.” Lacy stopped inside the door and popped her hands on her hips.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Dalton asked.

  “I came to tell you that you were having twins, only not by the same mama, but I guess you’ll only be getting one little dark-haired baby in about seven months.” She pointed down at her flat belly.

  “Oh, no!” he said loudly. “If you’re pregnant, it’s not mine. I haven’t been with you since before Christmas.”

  “Are you sure?” She raised both eyebrows. “Run along home, Becca McKay. He lives by the cowboy code, and he’ll marry me because it’s the right thing to do.”

  “She’s lying,” Dalton whispered. “She’s trying to cause trouble. I swear to God, I haven’t been with her since right after Thanksgiving.”

  Becca shook off his arm and stood up. “You clean up this mess before you text or call me again.”

  “You’re too drunk to drive,” he said.

  “I don’t plan on getting behind the wheel. I’ll sleep it off in the watermelon shed,” she told him as she went to the kitchen, picked up her purse, and headed toward the door. “Forget about me going with you to deliver the rodeo animals tomorrow.”

  “I’ll swear on a Bible, take a DNA test, whatever it takes, Becca. Trust me,” he said.

  With tears running down her cheeks, she staggered down the lane and across the dirt road. She was almost to the watermelon shed when she heard a vehicle. Her hands knotted into fists. If it was Lacy, she might drown the bitch in a five-gallon bucket of watermelon juice and swear to God that she had nothing to do with it. The truck came to a stop and Dalton got out and tried to take her hands in his, but she wasn’t having any of it. She might be able to forget the past and her dreams, but evidently his wild oats were going to follow him around forever.

  “I’m so sorry, but I mean it. If she is pregnant, it’s not my baby,” he said.

  “We both need to sober up before we talk,” she said. “Go home, Dalton. You shouldn’t even be behind the wheel.”

  “Can I call you tomorrow?” he asked.

  “I suppose,” she nodded, “but not until you get back from Texas.”

  Chapter 7

  Greta came through the door like a Category 5 tornado. “Get your drunk arse up and go get in the car. You’re comin’ home with me right now, girl. There ain’t no way you are sleeping in a lawn chair all night.”

  “I’m not drunk. I’m barely buzzed, and I’m perfectly fine sleeping right here,” Becca argued.

  Greta pointed toward the door. The expression on her face said that she wasn’t about to repeat herself and she wasn’t taking no for an answer. Becca slowly got to her feet and stumbled that way. She didn’t have the energy to fight with her grandmother, especially when the odds were against her. Not once in all of her twenty-eight years had she won an argument with her grandmother.

  When they were in the car and on the way home, Greta glanced over at her and said, “What in the hell happened?”

  “Nothing,” Becca growled. “And I’m going home with you, so you win.”

  “Don’t you sass me, Rebecca McKay,” Greta told her. “I told you that spending time with that cowboy would prove if you should be with him or not, one way or the other. Evidently, it’s not.”

  “Yep,” Becca agreed.

  “If he can’t trust you, then you don’t have a foundation to build on anyway, so it’s best to end it before it even gets started,” Greta said as she parked in front of her house.

  “Yep,” Becca said a second time. “Whoa! Wait a minute. Him trust me? Evidently, he called you because you came to get me, but it wasn’t me who’s…” She paused and glared at her grandmother.

  “I know what I said, and it’s exactly what I meant. You should have stood up for him when Lacy came bursting in accusing him of something that he says couldn’t be true. Bloody hell, Becca. That woman’s like a doorknob on a public loo. Everyone has given it a turn with her, and if he said he hasn’t been with her in more than six months, then why didn’t you believe him?”

  Greta parked in the drive, got out of the car and marched up to the porch. She didn’t even turn around to see if Becca was all right. Becca sat there a couple of minutes, then she slung the door open, got out, slammed it shut, and stomped to the porch, carrying guilt on her shoulders like a heavy blanket in the middle of a July heat wave. She went straight to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and met Greta in the hallway when she came out.

  “You can be mad at me, but that don’t make me wrong.” Greta picked up the kittens and carried them to her bedroom.

  “No, but I don’t have to like it.” Becca muttered as she closed her bedroom door. She dropped her dress and underwear on the floor, kicked off her sandals, realized that her feet were dirty and padded back to the bathroom.

  She stood under the warm shower for several minutes, letting the spray beat down on her back. Her grandmother was right. Becca should have popped up on her feet, glared down at Lacy, and then showed her to the door. “Hindsight, and all that shit,” she said as she stepped out and picked up a towel.

  When she got back to her bedroom, she pulled on a pair of underpants and her lucky sleep shirt, fell into bed, and practically passed out. When she opened her eyes, the sun coming through her window was attempting to burn holes in them. With a moan, she buried her face in the pillow. Her head felt like rock music was blasting away with the bass turned all the way up. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a hangover and vowed never to touch watermelon wine again if this was the price she had to pay for it.

  She crawled out of bed, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and stumbled into the kitchen with her hand over her forehead.

  Greta poured her a cup of hot tea and set it before her. “Drink this while I make you a good Irish breakfast to cure that wine hangover.”

  “I couldn’t eat a bite of food,” Becca groaned. “I don’t get drunk. I don’t have hangovers. And on wine, Grammie? Have I lost my Irish wings?”

  “No, darlin’, not until you have a morning like this after good Irish whiskey. Austin has figured out a few secrets, like how to make her top-shelf wine more potent. Did y’all drink a whole bottle?” Greta asked.

  Becca held up two fingers.

  “Bloody hell, Becca. No wonder you were fluthered! Me and the girls share a bottle and all four of us get downright giggly.” Greta set about making breakfast for two. “’Tis a good Irish breakfast you need, and another cup of tea, and then you’ll be ready to go to work.”

  “Grammie!” Becca groaned. “Not a full Irish breakfast. I’m just two steps away from heading for the bathroom right now.”

  “When you eat every bite of what I’m making, you will be cured. The black pudding, beans, and fried tomatoes are already done. Do you know how much trouble it is to get good black pudding in this part of the world? I have to go all the way to Saint Jo to get it, so you won’t be wastin’ a bite of it. Do you hear me?” Greta shook an egg turner at Becca.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Becca groaned.

  “I just need to finish up the bacon, sausage, and eggs. Then I’ll pop the toast in the machine, and you can begin to eat,” Greta said. “Besides, I’ve been starving for a breakfast like this. I love it even when I don’t have a watermelon wine hangover.”

  Becca sipped her tea and hoped that she would be able to get a few bites down. Black pudding wasn’t something she enjoyed even when she was sober, but if Grammie said it would cure her aching head, she would force it down.

  “Have you thought about what an opportunity you missed last night?” Greta asked as she put half a dozen pieces of bacon into
the skillet.

  “I can’t think at all,” Becca answered. “My head hurts too bad.”

  “Then drink some more tea,” Greta told her.

  “Why would Lacy do that?” Becca whispered.

  “Because Dalton is showing signs of being ready to settle down, and she wants him.” Greta turned the bacon and cracked two eggs into another skillet. “He’d be a good catch, and besides all that, she’s probably got a bet going about how long it will take her to get him in front of the preacher. She’ll make some money and have a good husband too.”

  “That’s just wrong!” Becca narrowed her eyes and set her jaw.

  “Sin is sin. One ain’t no more wrong than the other. You not letting him explain or believe him was just as wrong as what she is doing.” Greta finished making two plates and carried them to the table. “Eat and then you’ll feel all better.”

  “Do you think she’s really pregnant?” Becca cut up her eggs, dipped a corner of a piece of toast in the yellow, and put it in her mouth.

  “Maybe she is, but if she is, then it’s not Dalton’s. Think about it: why would he get careless after all these years. He said he hasn’t been with her in six months, and I believe him,” Greta cut off a piece of the black pudding. “Cowboys have a code. If she is pregnant and the baby is his, he will marry her, but if it’s not, then…” Greta shrugged. “Y’all need to talk.”

  * * *

  Those last four words were still rattling around in Becca’s mind when she reached the wine shed that morning. Just like Greta had promised, the tea and all that breakfast did make her feel much better. Her head still felt slightly like one of the round watermelons she sliced open to juice, but that was minor compared to the way she had felt when she first woke up.

  She gave the bottles of wine on the top shelf of the winery a dirty look as she flipped the strap of a bibbed apron over her head. The hired hands had already unloaded a pickup load of melons into the shed, and there would be at least that many more arriving after lunch. If she’d gone with Dalton on his stock delivery, she would have been working long hours over the weekend to catch up.