Summer Rose

by Bonnie K. Winn

  At first his absence hadn’t concerned her. She knew his ranch kept him fully occupied. Then she started to worry. What if he were sick and alone? Or hurt? But a casual inquiry to Brady had assured her he was not sick or hurt. As the days turned into weeks, her concern turned into anger.

  Apparently he’s forgotten all about me. Millicent viciously snapped the dish cloth before adding it to the line. Ought to have more sense than to believe a man’s interested in me. My time for courting’s long past.

  But even while reprimanding herself, she couldn’t still the sharp pang of hurt that sliced through her at the thought of her barren life. She leaned her head wearily against the railing that supported the laundry line. Sometimes it seemed intolerably unfair. She thought about her sacrificed youth, her lost romance, and the babies she’d never had.

  Millicent’s mother had died when she was a child, and her dear papa had always tried to be both mother and father to her. And he’d made her childhood remarkably happy. It was only when she was eighteen and he’d had his stroke that their roles had been reversed.

  She would never forget the stricken look on his face when he’d realized he couldn’t move or speak—or the panic that ensued with his helplessness. She’d refused to leave his side, gentling his fears and seeing to his needs.

  At first her suitors still came to call, but as the weeks turned into months and months turned into years, her suitors married others, others who didn’t have a father to care for. Her father hadn’t wanted her to make the sacrifice. He’d made that painfully clear. But she couldn’t abandon him any more than he could have abandoned her when her mother died. And Millicent told herself that it didn’t matter, that she didn’t miss the dances and parties. As each girlhood chum became engaged and married, she donned her “best wishes” smile and almost convinced them she wasn’t desperately yearning for a husband and family of her own.

  But as the years passed, she was no longer greeted with looks of sympathy, because by then she was an established spinster with no hope of marriage in her future. And then Papa died, quietly in his sleep, causing little more trouble in death than he had in life. And with his death she’d resigned herself to a solitary life.

  A single tear escaped and cascaded down her cheek. Angrily she wiped it away. Millicent refused to cry over a thickheaded cowhand.

  With renewed vigor she clutched the red-checked tablecloth in the basket at her feet and pitched it over the line. As she straightened the folds of cloth, her hands stilled. A cloud of dust signaled an approaching rider.

  She felt an uncontrollable quickening of her heart as she wondered if it could be Ringer and then flushed with renewed anger. She bent down and grasped another piece of laundry, determined to ignore the incoming rider. As the hooves beat closer, Millicent relentlessly attacked the remaining laundry.

  Ringer pulled up near the wash lines and dismounted eagerly. He walked up to her confidently, doffing his hat as he approached.

  “Milly. You’re a sight for sore eyes. Damned if you’re not the prettiest thing I’ve laid eyes on in—well, I don’t know when.”

  Millicent leveled a furious glare at him. The nerve of the man! To not show up for weeks and then to appear when she was looking her absolute worst—and to add insult to injury by blatantly complimenting her. She could feel her already wilted, sweat-stained dress crumple further in the heat. And she knew her hair was straggling in helpless disrepair about her face.

  “How dare you?” she hissed.

  “How…?” Ringer’s face was a study in confusion. Finally he lowered his hat to his side. “I don’t know what it is, but I can tell you seem to be riled up about something…”

  “Oh, can you now?” Millicent’s fury was barely restrained.

  “Yes’m. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is. I ride in and tell you how pretty you are and—”

  “Ooohh!” Millicent’s face flushed, and her eyes flashed fire as if she were ready to explode. Ringer took an involuntary step backward.

  “Now, Milly,” he pleaded as she looked first at him and then at the laundry surrounding them.

  “Don’t you ‘Now, Milly’ me!” she fairly shouted, reaching into the wicker basket at her feet.

  Before Ringer could reply, he felt the cold, wet, stinging slap of laundry across his face. Stunned, he stood stock-still for a minute before finally pulling the offending garment from his face. When he did, Millicent threw another well-aimed cannonball of laundry at him. The second one only grazed his shoulder.

  Jehoshaphat! She must be plumb crazy from the heat. He approached her cautiously, ducking the fusillade of laundry she was hurling at him. As she bent to grasp still more, he captured her arms and pulled her close.

  “Millicent!” he pleaded.

  “Don’t touch me, you cad!”

  “Cad?”

  “You ride in here after I haven’t seen you in weeks and you have the nerve to call me pretty!”

  The reason for her anger finally dawned on him. “Pretty dastardly calling you pretty, eh?”

  Millicent could see the laughter in his eyes, and it only renewed her fury. It was all right for him to laugh. He hadn’t lain awake nights worrying and crying only to be caught looking worse than sheep dip.

  Infuriated, she struggled to break his hold. As she struggled, he held her closer. Suddenly realizing the proximity of his body to hers, she ceased her struggle. And meeting his eyes, she felt her rage evaporate only to be replaced by a simmering heat that had nothing to do with the blazing midday sun.

  Millicent noticed from a great distance that the laughter in his eyes had faded only to be replaced by something darker, more promising. His face almost touched hers, and she could taste the freshness of his breath, the clean smell of horses and masculine aroma that clung to him.

  Hesitantly, she reached up to touch his face as she’d dreamed of doing a thousand times. A stubble greeted her work-roughened hands, and somewhere she registered the fact that he’d come to see her in such a hurry that he hadn’t shaved. At her touch, his eyes darkened further—an unfathomable blue that captured hers, holding her helpless in their gaze. When his lips touched hers, she experienced both the thrill and fulfillment of finally kissing him in reality as she had in her dreams.

  Her lips parted under his searching tongue, and she felt a bolt of sheer pleasure race up her spine at his touch. Hesitantly she responded and felt a similar shudder shake his body. Suddenly Millicent’s confidence bloomed with the thought that she could make him feel the same heat.

  Her heart swelled when he gently grasped the back of her neck and loosened the chignon of carrot-red hair she always tried so desperately to hide. As their bodies melded together, she felt his rough hands gently caress her hair.

  When he reluctantly released her lips, he gathered handfuls of her hair and pulled her closer. “If I’d have known a bout of bloating would’ve caused this, I’d have fed my cattle clover a long time ago.”

  “Your cattle were bloated?”

  “What else would have kept me away?”

  Millicent dropped her gaze and shook her head self-consciously as she tried to gather her free-flowing hair.

  “This awful hair,” Millicent began to mutter.

  He silenced her with another kiss. “See it shine in the sunlight, Milly? It’s the color of the sunset—blazing and proud.”

  She looked with wonder now at the hair she had hated for so many years. It did shine in the sunlight. Normally she covered it with a hat or a bonnet, and never had such lengths of it shone unbound in the sun.

  Ringer gently pulled her chin upward. “It’s beautiful, Milly—like you.”

  The simple sincerity of his compliment struck her heart with a crashing intensity. She glanced downward quickly, afraid the mist of tears suddenly clouding her vision would fall unchecked.

  Ringer tucked her head into his shoulder and stroked her blazing length of hair. It had been so long since he’d tenderly held a woman. His wife ha
d been dead for over ten years, and he’d never expected to feel the same way again. After his family had died during the big drought he’d closed his heart, he’d thought forever. But as he stroked the head of the gentle woman at his side, he wondered.

  21

  An unfamiliar wagon jounced over the dirt road leading to the Dalton house. Putting down the shearing belt, Cassie stepped into the yard, watching as Mr. Peabody brought his wagon to a halt. A boy in his early teens rode with him. Barely waiting for the wagon to stop, the boy jumped down and walked quickly to the back of the wagon.

  Mr. Peabody stayed firmly in his seat, staring straight ahead. Cassie watched in silence as the boy unceremoniously dumped her supplies on the ground, raising a cloud of dust. When the boy climbed back on board, Mr. Peabody snapped the reins sharply, but not before he’d sent Cassie a venomous glare. The entire exchange was silent, but what hadn’t been said was obvious.

  After the wagon left, Cassie stared at the dust-covered sacks of flour and other staples. Her shoulders slumped in discouragement. Such hatred to overcome for a few foodstuffs. She dragged one of the sacks toward the larder, groaning a bit as the heavy weight dragged her down.

  Retrieving a second sack, she tugged at the cumbersome flour sack, finally dumping it in the larder. The heavy sack raised a wave of gritty dust. She sneezed and was startled by Shane’s voice just behind her. Defensively, she stood among the disarray.

  He handed her a handkerchief. She debated and then accepted the white cloth.

  “I came to see if Peabody was going to hold up his end of the deal. I see he did.” Shane glanced at the sacks that had been heaped on the ground without care.

  She nodded in agreement, watching his face.

  “And I see you’ve not dammed up the water.”

  “I keep my end of a bargain.”

  “So I see.” His eyes searched hers as though trying to see through to her soul. Wilbur had given Shane hell about the tongue-lashing he’d delivered to Cassie the day before. Wilbur had pointed out none too gently that Cassie wasn’t responsible for the past, and she didn’t understand yet what she’d gotten into.

  Wilbur had gone on to inform Shane that he wasn’t too old to have his rear end kicked into the next state. Shane had grown up under Wilbur’s rule, as well as his father’s. That guidance and force of habit had made him stop and take stock of what Wilbur said about Cassie. Wilbur was right. Cassie was the victim of what had taken place before her arrival.

  Respect for Wilbur’s good sense made Shane agree to come and apologize to Cassie. It would be a hell of a lot better to reason her out of the land rather than scare her away. He took the heavy sack from her hands and lifted it effortlessly to his shoulder.

  “Want to go on a picnic?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His request seemed to take her aback, but her response didn’t surprise him; his own invitation did.

  “You’ve got the food now,” he responded, hefting another sack onto his shoulder and depositing it in the larder.

  “A picnic?” she questioned in a disbelieving voice.

  “You know—that’s where you bring wonderful food and I provide a buggy, a blanket, and a hearty appetite.”

  Her lips twitched without warning. Even if he was playing her the way a virtuoso mastered a violin, his teasing was a welcome relief from the strain of the past few days. With a handsome man like Shane offering a respite, she was tempted to forget he was the one she should be running away from. For the moment she gave in to that temptation.

  The breeze ruffled through the changing grass and danced through the resisting wildflowers. Pricklepoppy, Indian paintbrush, and Apache plume battled with the thistle that ranged the meadow and eclipsed the pygmy forests of pinyon pine and juniper.

  Cassie breathed in the incredibly sweet aroma of dewy grass and crushed pine boughs. Gazing across the precise design of the dutch doll quilt that covered the small space between the wicker picnic basket and Shane’s long, outstretched legs, she breathed a silent prayer of thanks for the perfect day.

  “Don’t suppose there’s any food in that basket?” Shane questioned lazily as he contemplated the cloud-scattered blue sky overhead.

  “Perhaps,” she answered, whisking the fresh white napkin off the top. “But no help, no food.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t! I’ve done unspeakable things for you so you would take a day off.”

  Cassie grinned to herself as she thought of Shane helping her dip the last of her sheep. He’d taken one disgusted look at her trying to dip the sheep with one hand while holding a book in the other, and had stepped in and taken over. Fortunately he hadn’t run into Evan, who’d also been helping her earlier. She still didn’t understand why Shane was so touchy about his brother’s crush on her. Couldn’t he see that it was just puppy love?

  “And that, madam, is all I’m going to do. I’m going to lie here and let you cater to my every whim,” he finished, pushing his hat over his eyes and resting his folded hands across his stomach.

  “How gallant,” Cassie responded, uncapping the jar of lemonade.

  “Uh-huh,” he answered lazily, refusing to move.

  Cassie smiled as she laid out the fried chicken and feather-light biscuits. She didn’t mind a bit. She had always resisted taking even an hour away from the never-ending chores at her ranch, but she’d finally weakened. And now, enjoying the peaceful trees swaying to the orchestration of the mild wind, and the handsome man stretched out beside her, she was inordinately glad—even though she knew he planned to try to sweet-talk her out of her land.

  Refusing to dwell on what she knew was his true purpose, Cassie arranged their meal invitingly on the precious china plates she’d packed in the basket. Watching Shane relax, she plucked a long, feather-tipped wildflower from amidst the grass and crept over to his side. Whisking the errant bud beneath his nose, she announced, “Dinner is served.”

  Shane opened a lazy eye. “Is this how you always announce your dinners, Miss Dalton? Remind me not to ask you to host my next formal affair.”

  “I’m not accustomed to hosting a gentleman’s affair, Mr. Lancer,” she replied.

  “Perhaps we should change that,” he suggested, his eyes heating in a familiar fashion.

  She whacked his knuckles lightly with the wooden spoon she’d used to stir the lemonade. “Now, now, Mr. Lancer. You wouldn’t be trying to lead me astray, sir?”

  “I’m trying, but I don’t think I’m succeeding,” he muttered, rubbing his offended knuckles as he rose to a sitting position.

  Cassie offered him a dazzling smile, gleefully aware she was gloating. “That’s right.”

  He bit into the mouth-watering chicken and was glad he did. Content to sit by her side, Shane finished off his lunch, surprised that he enjoyed their quiet rapport as much as their blazes of passion.

  She squinted at the clouds, and Shane smiled lazily at her intense concentration.

  “Hoping to conjure up some rain?”

  “No, I was trying to read the cloud formations. The cirrus and cumulus—”

  “Whoa—don’t tell me. More book learning.”

  Two dots of bright pink stained Cassie’s cheeks. “Book learning isn’t all that awful. Perhaps there’d be more law and order if—”

  “Hold on—there’s nothing wrong with book learning. Tell me about something else, though. I already know how to read the weather.”

  Cassie searched his face to see if he was making fun of her. He seemed to be serious. Mollified, Cassie continued.

  “I’ve been reading an interesting book on rotation grazing.”

  Shane cocked his eyebrows inquisitively.

  “According to the studies I’ve read, ranchers have had a lot of success in areas with limited water resources by grazing cattle first, then sheep. Then they rest the land and repeat the whole process. It allows the grass to restore itself so that both species can benefit from the same land.”

  “What? You don’t mean t
o tell me somebody’s fool enough to believe cattle and sheep can graze the same patch of land?”

  Her exasperation grew. “I just said,” she repeated slowly, “the studies I’ve read indicate—”

  “Studies by dried-up old kernels who’ve never set a foot out of their laboratories, you mean. Cattle won’t drink out of water that sheep have used.”

  “Not according to Dr. Warren’s study. He says it’s a common folk legend with no basis. Cattle will drink from the same water.”

  “Not in this part of the country they won’t.”

  “Well, they have to have the opportunity to prove—”

  “Speaking of opportunities…”

  “Would you, by any chance, be trying to change the subject?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I certainly am. I don’t plan to ruin a perfect day with an argument about whether cattle and sheep will drink…” He shook his head in mock horror.

  Cassie laughed in spite of herself. But her laughter died, and she found herself trying to stay calm as she read the desire in his eyes. It was the first time they’d been alone since his touch had revealed desires she’d not known she possessed.

  Remembering the way his hands had moved over her, she found her throat growing dry, her breathing deepening. She looked at his strong hands, remembering the feel of them on her skin, the taste of his mouth on hers. Her skin flushed as the heat she read in his eyes transmitted itself to her.

  She should pack up the food and dishes, laugh lightly, and ask to be taken home. Instead she found herself wondering if the touch of his skin against hers would make her as fevered as she remembered, and if the hair she could see at the opening of his shirt was as silky as she remembered.

  Blood seemed to thunder through her veins, filling her head with an echo, weighing down her limbs with a thickness that refused to allow her to move. She lowered her gaze to his throat where she spotted his pulse beating as rapidly as her own.