Clay shrugged. “There are guys in prison who have women who write to them and propose. We’re better than a dating service.”
Randy shook his head but gave a wry chuckle. “You’re a regular a comedian, aren’t you? Or are you saying I should go rob a bank to improve my chances with women?”
“I’m just saying you shouldn’t give up,” Clay said, and then he looked over at Allie. “Isn’t that right?”
Allie smiled. “Leave me out of this one.”
Clay imagined she was smiling straight at him. She always had appreciated his joking around. It suddenly struck him that he was as bad off as poor Randy here, wishing for what he didn’t have.
“You won’t think this is so funny when you lose your job and it happens to you,” Randy said to Clay then, back to being glum.
“I didn’t mean to make light of it,” Clay said, sobering. “I know a man needs a job.”
“He sure does,” Randy said, giving Clay a defiant look before turning toward Mr. Nelson. His voice lost any belligerence it had and became subservient as he addressed the older man. “Just want you to know that if you need a ranch hand, you don’t need to rely on Clay there. My job taking care of those daffodils for the church is just until Easter. They don’t pay much. It’s not even really a job. I think they just have me doing it so they can give me some money, and I’ll take it. But it’s something so I can take partial wages until you get the ranch going again. I can still pay some rent to Sam if I live in the bunkhouse. We’ll work it out.”
Clay supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that one of the old ranch hands would be circling his new position like a hungry vulture waiting for its prey to stumble and die. Clay knew how to stop that, though. “I’m not getting any wages.”
Randy seemed taken back at that announcement. “Are they holding your money back until harvest or something?”
Clay shook his head as he walked over to the table. He still didn’t sit down. “It’s called victim reparations. I don’t get paid—ever.”
Randy looked like he was taking a minute to digest that information.
“So, if you want the job,” Clay said softly, “it’s all yours.”
Randy didn’t answer.
Clay walked over to the stove and held out his hand to Allie. “Can I help?”
She looked up at him in surprise before giving him the platter of eggs and bacon to take over to the table. A dish towel had been put under the plate like a pot holder, and he welcomed the warmth in his hands as he carried the food.
“I’ll bring the coffee,” Allie said as she lifted up the plate of toast, as well.
Clay nodded.
“Thanks for helping,” Allie murmured as they walked together.
Randy frowned over at Clay. “You wear an apron these days?”
Clay didn’t say anything as he started walking to the table. “I sure do if I can find one. Nothing wrong with a man helping in the kitchen. Especially if he wants to eat.”
Randy scowled even deeper.
Clay and Allie set their platters on the table and then each sat down.
* * *
Allie had to admit she’d been as surprised at Clay’s actions as Randy had been. Cooking was still considered women’s work in this ranching area. She didn’t remember Clay ever offering to help with kitchen chores when he’d been here before. Maybe he had learned a thing or two in prison.
“Let’s pray before we get to the eggs and bacon,” her father said then as a fully dressed Jeremy raced to the table and found his chair. Allie noted he’d found the blue shirt he’d been looking for. She looked closer and could see the cat hair on it.
Allie saw her father reach out his hand to her and then Jeremy. The boy held out his hand to Randy.
“After Grandpa prays,” Allie whispered to Jeremy, “you’ll need to go wash your hands. One of the rules of having a pet is to wash your hands before you eat anything.”
Jeremy nodded.
“We hold hands as we pray,” Allie then turned to her side and murmured to Clay. When he’d been here before, the ranch hands had their meals out in the bunkhouse. Her father had said it was too much work for Allie at her age to cook for eight working men in addition to the family. They had put in a full kitchen out there, and one of the older men had fixed the meals.
She offered Clay her hand.
For a minute, Allie thought he wasn’t going to take it.
“I hope it doesn’t offend you if we pray,” she whispered, feeling awkward with her hand still stretched out. She sometimes neglected going to church when she was working in Jackson Hole, but she never did in Dry Creek. She knew prayer worked; her mother had taught her that. She was grateful she could pray with her family.
“I wouldn’t say it offends me.” Clay finally reached out, as well. “I’m used to doing for myself so I sure don’t count on prayers to do much good, but I don’t mind folks asking for help.”
Before she knew it, he had her hand securely tucked inside one of his. She could feel the cold from him still even though he’d been inside for a while now.
“I think one hand is enough, though,” Clay said quietly with a smile at Randy. “No offense if I don’t take yours.”
“None taken,” Randy said with some relief in his voice.
“We need to pray for the mama kitty,” Jeremy said as he looked up at his grandfather with trust in his eyes. “So she knows I’m her friend and will feed her. I think she’s still a little scared.”
Allie smiled at her nephew. “You’ll need to be patient with her. Is she drinking the milk Grandpa gave you for her?”
Jeremy nodded.
Her father’s prayer was simple, and it calmed her. As she sat with her eyes closed and listened to him ask for God’s blessing on those animals he’d just bought, she prayed for her own strength. She could not blame her father for wanting his ranch to be active again. It’s just that she was paying those mortgage payments and she didn’t know how she’d stretch things to include more.
“And we thank You for Your bounty to us.” Her father’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Amen.” Allie joined him in saying the word.
The smell of bacon and fried eggs hung in the air until breakfast was finished.
“I appreciate the meal,” Clay said as he pushed back his chair and rose. “I’d like to take a look around the barn and see what’s what, though, before too much time passes.”
“You’ll want to look at the bunkhouse, too,” Mr. Nelson said, looking up to meet Clay’s eyes. “It’ll make you want to sleep in the house tonight. You can take Mark’s old room. Jeremy’s using it now, but he can sleep on the couch. I didn’t get anything out there straightened up.”
“The bunkhouse is fine for me,” Clay said as he walked over to the rack and lifted the sheepskin coat off it. “It looks like this storm isn’t going away, so I’d like to get settled in out there anyway.”
Allie watched as he stood there a moment. Then he turned toward her and her father.
“I never did hear who this sheepskin coat belongs to,” Clay said.
Allie noticed he didn’t ask outright, but he was clearly curious.
“Oh, I forgot,” Mr. Nelson said. “I was supposed to tell you that the coat belonged to Mrs. Hargrove’s first husband. He’s been dead for a long time now, and she thought you might need a warm coat. Told me to have it sent over with the pickup. You know Mrs. Hargrove, don’t you? Well, a few years ago she married my cousin, Charley Nelson, but she keeps her old name.”
“She didn’t want to confuse all the little kids in Dry Creek,” Allie added. “She’ll always be Mrs. Hargrove to them.”
“She’s a good woman all right,” Clay agreed as he stood looking at the coat in his hands. “She wrote to me in prison, and I appreciate tha
t. Which is all the more reason for me to borrow something else to wear while I clean out the barn. I’ll save the coat to wear to church tomorrow.”
“It’d look nice with a good tie,” Allie teased.
Clay grinned back at her. “Ties are not real popular in prison. Neither are belts or shoelaces. I do have a good shirt, though.”
Allie couldn’t manage a smile in return. She suddenly didn’t like the thought of Clay being in a prison. There was nothing amusing about that.
“We have some things in the spare closet,” she said as she led Clay into the hallway.
Allie remembered that her mother had always complained that the hallway was too small and too dark. They’d done what they could by painting the walls a mint green that her mother claimed would remind everyone of spring. Several pencil drawings were framed and lined up between two doorways. She noticed Clay studying the artwork, but he didn’t say anything.
“Some cousin drew them,” she finally mumbled as she slid the closet doors open and reached inside. “My mother liked them.”
“They’re good,” Clay said sincerely.
“Here are a couple of the extra work coats.” Allie held up a red parka and a brown wool coat. Both were a little ragged. She held the parka higher. “Mark wore this one in high school. Said it was warm enough for skiing—not that he ever got a chance to go. My dad uses it some now.”
Allie almost put the jacket back in the closet. It wasn’t fair that her brother never even had a chance to ski down a mountain.
Clay reached for the jacket, though, and she let it go.
“Let’s see if it fits,” he said. “It looks like the bigger of the two, but—”
Clay started to shrug his shoulders into it. He didn’t have it all the way on when Allie heard the sound of fabric tearing.
“Oops,” she said as Clay froze in position.
“Here, let me see what’s wrong,” Allie said as she hung the brown coat back on a hook in the closet. The light in the hallway might be dim, but she could see a pucker in the back of the red parka, and she reached her hand out to feel along the seam of the coat.
“It’s the lining, I think,” Allie said as she lifted the back of the coat up as far as she could. That left a broad expanse of gray plaid flannel shirt covering Clay’s back. Frayed threads from a tear in the red nylon lining of the coat stuck to the shirt. Allie laid one hand on Clay’s back to steady herself while she picked the few threads off Clay’s shirt. It was a mistake. The heat coming from him made her pull her hand away.
Suddenly, the hallway seemed even darker than it had been. It was all in her mind, she told herself. She was more than eight inches from Clay West’s back, and she needed to collect her wits.
“I’ll be able to mend that for you,” Allie said, hoping her voice didn’t give away her agitation. She supposed she was having a temporary flashback to her teenage years. She certainly felt like the love-struck sixteen-year-old girl who had a crush on Clay.
“You’ve grown,” she said without thinking as she smoothed the coat down over his back. Even with all of the padding in the coat, she could feel the strength of his muscles. She let her hands drop when she realized she was almost caressing him.
He turned around. She hoped he didn’t see the pink in her face.
“You don’t need to fix the coat on my account,” Clay said, his voice low and uneven. “I just need it to clean the barn. The tear isn’t very big.”
Allie thought Clay sounded rattled. She hoped he hadn’t wondered what she was doing leaving her palm against his back like that. She didn’t know if she could explain it.
“You’ll need a scarf, too,” she said, leaving the closet door open. “On the hook to the right. There are a bunch of them.”
She could see Clay nod.
Allie hurried back into the kitchen. Randy was standing beside the table.
“I’ll be going,” the ranch hand said when he saw her. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“Come back later if you want to work a few hours today,” Allie said impulsively. “We’ll have work for a couple of days next week, too. We’re going to need help getting the barn and corrals ready for all the animals. An extra pair of hands will help. Especially with Sunday coming up tomorrow. It won’t be long, but we can pay an hourly wage.”
“Great,” Randy said, a smile splitting his face. “I’ll go back to my cousin’s and get some work clothes. I have a few other things to take care of for the church, but I’ll be back by noon.”
Randy had his hand on the outside door as Clay walked back into the kitchen from the hallway. He had a mud-colored wool scarf twisted around his neck.
Clay walked out of the door behind Randy and closed it. Allie could still see his shape through the screen door, and she watched him head toward the bunkhouse.
“I wonder if he realizes that he picked that pink scarf,” her father said, a smile on his face. “At least the wool was pink before you dyed it. I believe you knitted that the winter when you were twelve.”
Allie nodded and scrunched up her nose. “That was when I decided pink was for girls and I wanted to be more...” She shrugged.
“You wanted to be one of the guys.” Her father supplied the rest of her words.
“It seemed to work back then,” Allie said.
It was odd that Clay had chosen that scarf. She generally kept it as far back in the closet as she could. It was the ugliest scarf she’d ever seen.
“And now?” her father asked quietly.
Allie looked up in surprise. Her father never wanted to talk about feelings and things like that. She wondered suddenly if he had seen her standing in the hallway with her hand on Clay’s back. She’d no sooner asked herself if that could have happened before she decided it was meaningless anyway. It wasn’t like they had kissed or anything.
“I could wear pink now,” Allie answered her father.
He nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
She didn’t say anything else as she put on her own coat and scarf. “I best go help. Keep an eye on Jeremy.”
“We’ll come out in an hour or so,” her father added.
“Randy might be back by then,” Allie said as she headed for the door. “You and Jeremy might as well spend the morning inside. The boy doesn’t need all this cold.”
Her father nodded. She couldn’t help but wonder if he was giving her some time alone with Clay.
Her father’s color was beginning to look normal again. The temperatures were too low for him out there, so she hoped he would be content to stay with Jeremy.
Chapter Six
The sky was still overcast when Clay walked out of the house and headed to the bunkhouse. He noticed a small drift building in front of the pickup as he walked by. Damp air chilled him as he breathed it in, but the cold helped settle him. He told himself he needed to call a halt to the feelings he was starting to have. The one thing Randy had gotten right this morning was that they were both workers on this ranch. Allie was the owner’s daughter. He and Allie had always had a certain something between them, but that didn’t mean she was interested in him as anything more than a ranch hand.
The snow was deep on the steps to the bunkhouse, and Clay used his boots to open up a wide pathway. When he tried to open the door, it would not budge. The knob turned, but the door was stuck.
“I’m guessing the latch is frozen. Ice,” Clay muttered to himself. Nothing happened easily around here, and that was fine with him.
He put his shoulder to the door and pushed. It opened.
Light came into the bunkhouse through the side windows. He barely noticed the layer of dust on the plank floor of the long room. Everything was brown in the shadows. Seven metal cots lined the north wall, nails sticking out of the raw wood boards above each short headboard. An old shirt that
used to be white and was now gray hung from one of the nails, and the other homemade hooks looked ready to hold more belongings. The cots were still neatly made with the top of the white sheets folded back over khaki blankets. There were no pillows.
Clay eyed the last bunk in the lineup. That one had been his. No nails had been hammered into the wood above that cot, which made him realize that his cot had been added later than the others. He had squeezed the other ranch hands when he moved in. None of them had said anything, though. He wondered now what other cues he’d missed back then.
Like with the other cots, the top blanket on his went to the floor on both sides, so he couldn’t see under it. He did wonder briefly if his old suitcase was still there. No one had mentioned his belongings when they sent him off to jail. He had never heard what had happened to that suitcase. Someone had probably thrown it out by now. It had been with him for all twelve of his years in the foster care system, but it didn’t look like much so he didn’t think anyone would hesitate to toss it. It had been where he’d kept his drawings, though.
By now he could see through the window that Allie was walking over here, picking up her feet in the packed snow like she was walking through a layer of thick sand. That meant the snow must be melting a little. Clay would look under his old cot, but he didn’t want to be going through those drawings when she was around. Too many of his drawings had been of her. The thought of her seeing them made him hope someone had thrown that suitcase away without bothering to open it. Not that there was anything improper in the drawings; they were just starry-eyed. As he remembered, he’d even drawn roses around the border of one of her portraits.
He shook his head just thinking about it. He supposed every man had a sentimental streak when he was young. That didn’t mean he wanted anyone to know about it, though.
Clay moved deeper into the room. A rock fireplace dominated the wall by the outside door. There were still ashes in the grate and a glass canning jar on the simple pine mantel. Three brown leather sofas were gathered in front of the fireplace. A scarred coffee table stood in the middle of them, and a pole lamp stood to the side.
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