Texas Roots: The Gallaghers of Sweetgrass Springs

by Jean Brashear

  Stricken, she looked more closely at her grandmother. "But you didn't have anyone, did you?" The knowledge broke something inside her.

  "Don't you worry about me, child. I was fine. I was home." Suddenly, Ruby's composure cracked. She grabbed Scarlett and held her close, her frail body shaking. "I lost my child," she whispered. "And I will never stop missing her, but oh—" She hugged Scarlett hard. "If I couldn't be with her, I am so eternally happy she had you." She pulled back and framed Scarlett's face in her hands. "I would have waited longer than this for the joy of knowing you at last—but thank heaven I didn't have to." Tears spilled over her weathered cheeks. "I am so grateful you're here."

  Scarlett already felt horribly guilty and conflicted, but now…

  She desperately wanted to explain, but how could she? She thought she knew this woman well enough now to understand that Nana would insist that they tackle Scarlett's past head-on.

  And trouble would follow her to Texas.

  To these people she already cared about too much.

  So she kept quiet.

  And hugged her grandmother harder.

  * * *

  Ian had showed up promptly at one, and loaded her into his pickup.

  "So…Arnie stayed around," he noted.

  Her nerves steadied a little. "He cooked me breakfast."

  Ian's eyebrows rose. "And what did Ruby do to him?"

  "Chewed him out until I told her it was foolish to hide him. She blustered a little, but she didn't make him go."

  "Well, well, well, Miz Scarlett. You have effected a sea change in this town. First we don't have catfish on Friday, and now Arnie's out of the closet."

  Fresh on the heels of the clear evidence that her grandmother would be crushed if she left, his remark stung. "It would have been better if I'd never come."

  His head whipped around. "Why?"

  "Because—"

  "You can't stay," he completed the sentence for her. "Explain why not."

  "Because I have a life," she snapped. "Places to go. People to see."

  He stared out the windshield. "Like Paris."

  "Exactly." She braced for him to argue.

  "What was it like?"

  Was that wistfulness in his voice? A rancher wanted to go to France? "It was…amazing. So much to see that I'd only read about in books—of course, I mostly was working, but every chance I got, I explored."

  "The Louvre? Did you make it there?"

  Now she really was astonished. A cowboy longed to see the Louvre. "I did. It takes days to cover even a fraction of what's there."

  "I don't know a lot about art, but I always wondered what something like the Mona Lisa looks like in the flesh." He shrugged. "Not that a country boy would fit in over there."

  She studied him now. "The French aren't as unfriendly as is rumored." she grinned. "And they would be all over you, cowboy. Texas possesses a powerful charisma in so many places."

  He snorted. "No idea why." He glanced into the distance. "I always wanted to see where my ancestors came from."

  McLaren. "Scottish?"

  He nodded. "To the bone. A lot of Scots came to America after Culloden. The British left nothing for them. It was emigrate or starve." Another shrug. "It was lucky for my family that my great-great-great-granddad made his way here in time to fight in the Texas Revolution. That's how we got our land—a land grant for veterans."

  "Revolution against what?"

  He turned a shocked gaze on her. "And you with roots as deep as mine here. Don't know your Texas history?"

  "Never in my life did I once consider coming to Texas. I didn't even know my mother was born here."

  "Wow. When Georgia left, she left all the way."

  "Do you understand why?"

  "Sorry. I really don't. Nobody talked about her much when I was growing up, out of respect for Ruby, I guess. Oh, I grew up knowing she'd had a child who'd left, but…" A lift of the shoulder. "Kids don't pay much attention to that stuff. You really had no idea about Ruby or Sweetgrass?"

  "Not until two weeks ago. When my mother died, it was such a shock and I felt so lost, I just boxed up her things without looking through anything." She glanced over. "There were four founding families, right?"

  "Right. McLarens, Gallaghers, Butlers and Pattons. Four veterans with adjoining parcels. Each family donated land at the intersection to create the town."

  "Where is the Gallagher land?"

  He pointed off to the left. "Starts just up the road and goes west."

  She stared in the direction he'd indicated, wondering if she could get a tour.

  Just then he started to turn. "Here's our place, the Double Bar M." They began winding down a caliche road.

  Scarlett observed eagerly. Live oak trees dotted the pastures, but most of what she saw was open. On the left side of the truck, she spotted more cattle than she'd ever seen in her life. And horses.

  She'd always wished for a horse. "Are all these yours?"

  He nodded. "This isn't the best part of the state for cattle because much of the terrain is hilly and the soil is thin, but we have an advantage in this valley. We have our own spring plus a section of river cutting through our land. We also have deeper soil that's been improved by every generation."

  "You can improve soil? What, with dirt lessons?"

  He burst out laughing, and his already handsome face was transformed by the broad smile.

  Oh, she so did not need to be noticing that. "No dirt lessons, huh?"

  "I could explain how it works, but I'm not sure that's the most stimulating conversation we could be having." He placed his hand on hers.

  The heat of his skin made her fingers curl. Sex. They had an appointment for sex.

  When had sex last made her nervous?

  He laced their fingers together. "Relax, New York. I don't bite, and I gave up sacrificing virgins a long time ago. Your virtue is safe, if that's what you want. We're just having a picnic."

  She squeezed his hand. "I'm not scared."

  One eyebrow arched. He drew her hand up to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

  Then he turned their hands over and swirled his tongue in her palm.

  Sensual lightning arced through her body. "That is so not fair," she said more breathlessly than she'd intended.

  His single dimple flashed. "It wasn't meant to be." He held her hand to the front of his jeans. "You're killing me, honey. I'm holding on by my fingernails." His eyes were warm and teasing.

  Her hands itched to roam that big, hard body.

  He exhaled. "You keep looking at me like that, and we'll never make it."

  She raked her gaze over him. "I don't care."

  "Now who's unfair?" He laid her hand back in her lap and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. "I have someplace special I want to show you, but I promised my dad we'd stop by the house first so he could say hi."

  Right. She was supposed to be a cordial visitor when she desperately wanted to get this man naked. She inhaled. Straightened in her seat. "Okay."

  "I don't want to stop either, but my dad really likes you. I promise we won't take long."

  "I like your dad, too."

  He turned off into a grove of trees, and the road climbed a little. She spotted barns and pens and various pieces of equipment she had no idea how to use. "You have a lot of…stuff."

  He chuckled. "Next time I'll show you around the place and name everything."

  "Next time?"

  He looked at her very seriously. "I know you won't be around long, but while you are, I'd like to see more of you."

  "You're such a gentleman." So different from the edgy, competitive men she was accustomed to, so brittle and concerned about trends, always grasping for an advantage. "But this is—"

  "Just sex. So you say. But we can be friends, too, right? Any reason not to?"

  Because you're too attractive in more ways than the physical? Because knowing you better will only make leaving harder?

  She sh
rugged. "I guess not."

  He'd stopped the car in front of the house but didn't move to get out. "What the hell kind of men have you been around? Somebody needs to be better to you."

  Absurdly touched, she pulled the door handle and made her escape.

  Then she finally focused on his place. "This is...amazing."

  "In a good way?"

  A very good way. The house looked so…solid. So much like…home. A real home. It was two stories and built of rock weathered by time. The wood trim was faded to silver, a foil for the mixture of aged gray and brown stone. "I've never seen anyplace like it. It…fits." She glanced around her. "As though it's a piece of the hillside." Behind the house, a short distance away, the hill rose. When she revolved to put her back to the house, the vista stunned her. "Oh." Her mouth wouldn't quite close. "Oh, Ian…"

  He came to stand beside her. "The view is better on top of the hill, but there's a spring over there. The house was put here because of it."

  "You use water from a a spring?"

  "Not as much anymore. My grandfather dug a well, and my dad improved on it. The spring helps water the stock, though, as does the river."

  "River?"

  He pointed off to the east, and she caught the glitter of light on water. "This place is gorgeous, Ian."

  She couldn't quite read his look. "It's home. Everything is old, but there's history here."

  History. Something she could barely imagine possessing.

  And you with roots as deep as mine here.

  But they weren't. She had been transplanted, again and again. She felt like she'd been merely surviving for a long time, nothing more. She envied him this place. He'd never doubted where home was.

  But before she could respond, his father came out on the porch. "Son, I raised you with better manners. You ever gonna invite that girl inside?"

  Ian's face revealed his conflict.

  She felt the same way. She did like his dad a lot, but… The afternoon was young, she reminded herself. "Hi, Mr. McLaren."

  His face creased in a broad smile. "Nice to see you out in the fresh air, young lady. Come on inside, but I won't keep you two long. Ian planned a picnic—don't worry, though. I promise you he didn't cook."

  She grinned, but she noticed that he looked lonely. Eager for the company. "We're in no rush, are we, Ian?"

  His eyes were hot on her. "Speak for yourself," he muttered.

  She locked gazes with him and smiled her understanding.

  He sighed. "On our way, Dad."

  * * *

  She looked good in this house, surprisingly so. None of the furniture was new, and the wood floors were scarred by time and many pairs of boots. The rugs were worn. There wasn't one shiny thing in this whole house.

  Except her. She shone bright as a beacon, laughing and chatting with his dad as he showed her around.

  "Wow," she said, "A lot of books. Yours?" she asked his father as she studied the shelves.

  "Nope. Mostly Ian's. Boy has a fascination for learning."

  She gave him a quick glance, but Ian couldn't read it. He had the crazy urge to shuffle his feet.

  "A lot of reference books. History…geography," she noted. "Don't you have internet access out here?"

  "I like books," Ian muttered.

  "Yes, we have internet access," his dad replied. "Off and on. Not that I'm much good at using it, but Ian researches stocks and keeps up on all the latest trends in ranching."

  "Stocks?" Her eyebrows rose.

  "Boy's got a head for figures, so he started trying his hand at investing. Done good so far."

  Not good enough to do more than buy time, though, Dad. Especially not if you won't change your tune. "Anyone can get lucky."

  "I've had a lot of Wall Street traders eat at my last restaurant. I'm not sure they'd agree."

  He shrugged and turned away. "Want some water or something?"

  "I'd love to see the kitchen. Let me come with you."

  "It's just a kitchen."

  "I'll be the judge of—oh! Oh, will you look at that? A wood cook stove!"

  He and his dad exchanged puzzled glances.

  "Can't you just see her here, the woman who cooked in this kitchen a century or so ago?"

  For the first time since his mother abandoned them, Ian looked at the room without seeing only the disuse, the emptiness of a family fractured. "My grandmother rolled out pie crusts there—" He pointed to a section of countertop with an inset of marble.

  Scarlett's mouth literally dropped open. She crossed to the counter, her hand hovering over the slab. She glanced back. "May I?"

  "May you what?"

  "Touch it?" Her tone was filled with reverence.

  "Of course," his dad said. "It hasn't been used since my mother passed."

  Her hand stroked the slab, her fingers trailing over the top. "I would love to bake a pie here," she said so low Ian wondered if they were meant to hear. Her head rose. "You wouldn't happen to have her rolling pin, I guess."

  "Probably. Somewhere. We don't get rid of much." A lot of what was in this kitchen had long lain unused, but memories were returning as he opened the drawers beneath the section of counter where she was standing. In one of them, he found what he was looking for, his grandmother's old rolling pin with its painted red handles, the wood darkened with time and countless uses.

  He held it out, and you would have thought he was handing Scarlett the crown jewels.

  "Oh." She bit her lower lip. "Oh, this is amazing. I wonder how old it is?"

  "Older than me," his dad said.

  Ian had never thought to woo a woman with ancient cooking utensils, but the rapture on her features told him to go for it. "Here." He opened one of the cabinets above and pulled out a big white pottery bowl, then fished in another drawer for a set of old, dented measuring cups with small rounded handles.

  "Ian, this is amazing." Scarlett ran her hands over every last piece.

  "She had a drawer especially for flour." He reached around her and opened the handle to the right of her, showing her a bin lined with metal.

  Her smile was bright as the sun and her eyes were glittering when she looked at him. She clutched the pottery bowl to her like a baby. "Ian, I know you have a picnic ready, but afterward would you let me cook here? Please?"

  He goggled. "You want to cook here? In this old place?"

  "I do. I want to make bread. Do you have any flour?"

  "Some. I think."

  "But not yeast, I bet."

  "Um…"

  "Never mind." He could see her brain firing. "I'll get ingredients from the cafe and pay Nana back. Is that okay, Mr. McLaren?"

  "Do I look stupid? And call me Gordon." His dad's face was alight. "We'd be honored, wouldn't we, son?" Then he frowned. "But it's your only day off."

  "I love to cook, and this kitchen…may I look around to see what supplies there are?"

  "Knock yourself out," Ian said, trying not to mind that his plans for the afternoon were evaporating before his eyes.

  But she looked so damn happy.

  And his dad's face bore more hope than he'd seen there in a long time.

  This kitchen had been used with love by four generations of women until his mother had snapped the links of the chain. Now another woman would treat the space with affection. Use it as it was meant to be.

  Things were not going to be simple with Scarlett Ross.

  And she was going to break his heart. He might as well get used to that.

  Still, he wondered if she would enjoy this kitchen enough that, along with her growing bond with Ruby, she might find reason to stay.

  "Okay," she said after poring through cabinets and drawers. "I know what I need." She approached and held out her hand to him. "Let's go have a picnic."

  Hallelujah.

  He didn't fool around and give her time to change her mind.

  * * *

  They drove across his land in silence. With every yard they traveled, she began to see a different
man than the sexy cowboy she'd first met, different even than the man others looked to for solving problems. Ian McLaren was those things, but he was more. When they stopped the pickup and emerged, Ian carried the picnic basket and two blankets tossed over his shoulder, every step proclaiming his connection to this land. He belonged here, was solidly grounded in this earth and sky and hills.

  But there were all those books, all those windows into other places. He'd wanted to see the Louvre. The Mona Lisa.

  Who was this man? The more she learned of him, the more she was confused.

  And fascinated.

  And fearful.

  He, like her grandmother, would not be easy to leave.

  But how could she possibly stay and not—at a minimum—expose them to embarrassment, if not outright danger?

  She desperately wished the DA could make the case without her testimony and leave her to go on with her life. Still, though, she would have to be honest with these people, and she wasn't proud of how she'd been so ambitious and blind and foolish, so focused on gaining acclaim as a chef that she missed all the signs.

  She sure wasn't proud of the pictures in the paper of her in handcuffs.

  But it could get so much worse. If she went back and testified, would Kostov's men haunt her forever? The DA had once mentioned the witness protection program, and at the time, it had seemed like a good idea.

  But when you went into witness protection, you had to cut all ties. Forever.

  She had ties now.

  She should cut them. Leave immediately and spare these people—

  "Regretting your impulse?" Ian asked. "You don't really have to cook for us tonight." His brows snapped together. "You work too hard already. You should rest."

  Incomprehensibly, his pique made her cheerful. "If you think you can retract your permission for me to cook in that wonderful old kitchen, you better think again."

  He looked back at her and shook his head. "You are insane."

  "Will you ever be able to travel?" She couldn't get those books off her mind.

  "What?"

  She drew up beside him. "No one has that many books about other places and doesn't want to see some of them in the flesh."

  "Not gonna happen." He shook his head brusquely and reached for her, pulling her up the last incline. "We're here."