And oh, God, it felt so good, she could cry.
Mike looked at her, and she belatedly noticed the sheer panic blooming over his face. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d know what Owen meant by that, since you’re out there, workin’ for the Crosses and all now. But I sure didn’t mean to offend—”
“No. No, no, no,” Cate said, shaking her head adamantly to make sure she got the message across. “It’s fine, Mike. I know exactly what Owen meant.”
“So, did you want me to get started, then?” The poor guy looked at her in the same manner one might reserve for rattlesnakes and raving lunatics.
But, for once, the tiptoeing didn’t bother Cate one whit. “That would be great. Why don’t you come on in?”
Owen had no sooner pulled away from the main house on Saturday afternoon when his cell phone made a bid for attention from the back pocket of his jeans.
Hey, you fucking workaholic! Everyone’s headed to The Bar tonight to celebrate the engagement. Stop making that face. You’re going.
Blanking his frown, Owen stuffed his phone back in his pocket without answering Hunter’s text. In his defense, he’d probably clocked a seventy-hour work-week, with a solid two-thirds of it being manual labor and the other third overseeing the biggest project they’d started in a decade. Anyone who wasn’t bulletproof or subhuman would’ve pulled a face at the prospect of heading out on the town after that.
Jesus. What was wrong with him? This was his brother’s engagement they were celebrating. He should be diving headfirst into the festivities along with everyone else.
Fuck, he felt so alone.
Owen’s chin hiked upward, his pulse kicking at the unexpected thought. Not that he could deny it, exactly—after all, he was alone. At thirty-three, he wasn’t totally on the shelf, but he wasn’t drowning in prospects, either. At some point, he’d have to focus on the family part of the family and farm legacy.
“Come here, sweet boy. Hop right on up here with me.” His mother leaned forward from the pillows stacked behind her and patted the blue and white quilt tucked around her frail body. Her eyes were startlingly clear, even though the aggressive chemo and radiation had taken whatever vitality the breast cancer had left behind. Her dark blond hair had long since fallen out, replaced by floral scarves brought by Clementine and Harley Martin’s wife, Louise, but even then, Owen had never thought her any less than beautiful.
“Hi, Momma.” Owen climbed up to the center of the four-poster bed. He wouldn’t admit that it was still a little hard for him to get up there without a step-stool. He wasn’t little like Hunter, and he definitely wasn’t a baby, like Eli. Plus, he knew his momma couldn’t lift him anymore, even though she looked like she wanted to, so he wouldn’t complain.
“I want to have a talk, just me and you,” she said. She looked so sad that he let her smooth his hair with one hand, even though that might normally make him feel like he wasn’t the oldest.
“Okay,” he replied. He was six now. He could have a grown-up talk with her if that’s what she wanted. And Owen could tell that she did, because her eyes got very serious, like they had when Hunter had fallen off the rocking chair last year and needed four stitches on the back of his head. “Is this about my chores? I did ’em just the way Pop asked, but”—he bit his lip before ultimately deciding to tell the truth—“I couldn’t lift all the watermelons to put them in the crates. And I dropped one outside the barn door. It made a big mess.”
To his surprise, his mother laughed. “Well, I reckon the bees will be right thankful to you for that.” She slid her fingers through his. “I know you’re working hard on your chores, Owen. I wanted to talk to you because your daddy’s going to need a lot of help around here soon, and not just with what needs done around the farm.”
His momma stopped for a second, like she was already tired. Just when he thought maybe he should say something, though, she kept going. “He’s probably going to be sad, and you might be sad, too. So I’m going to need you to look out for him and your brothers a little extra for me when that happens. Do you think you can do that?”
Owen nodded, even though he was a little confused. “I’ll be strong, Momma. Don’t you worry.”
And he would. He always drank his milk and ate his greens. Even the peas, which baby Eli hated. But Owen could hide them in the mashed potatoes, just like their momma did. He’d seen her do it. Even though he thought it was pretty gross, he could do it for Eli, too, if that’s what she needed.
“Thank you, sweet boy.” His mother wrapped her arms around him, her pretty white nightgown soft on his cheek as he snuggled against her shoulder. “There’s one other thing I want you to remember. Your brothers aren’t quite old enough to understand it yet, so this one will just belong to you and me, okay? But it’s very important, so listen carefully.”
“Okay,” Owen said, returning her squeeze as her fingers tightened over his hand.
“As you get bigger, there are going to be a lot of things that mean something to you. But two of those things are always going to matter most. Family and farm, Owen. Never forget how important they both are. Never forget…”
Owen pulled up in front of his cottage with his heart in his windpipe. The memory came back from time to time, and, with it, the reminder of what was important. Channeling all of his energy into the farm part of things had been easy. He loved working the land, the planting, the cultivating, the vitality—all of it. But he’d let the family part fall by the wayside. True, the friction that had existed between him and Eli had mostly eased, but things with Marley were still a hot mess, and while his brothers had both found happiness with women who were perfect for them, he was still alone.
“Screw it.”
Owen got out of his truck and headed for his cottage, his shoulders set and his mind made up. He wasn’t going to miraculously stumble over true love at The Bar, that was for damn sure. But for tonight, he could do the next best thing.
And that was drink.
After a hot shower and quick change of clothes, Owen shot off a text to Lane and grabbed the keys to his truck. Being Millhaven’s sheriff, Lane wasn’t much of a drinker even when he was off-duty, and, although it didn’t happen often, the guy had carted Owen’s drunk ass home on more than a few occasions over the last ten years. Better to make the get-home plan now, rather than after he couldn’t drive. He liked The Bar as much as the next person, but sleeping in one of the booths—or, worse yet, on the beer-stained floorboards—definitely wasn’t on his bucket list.
Owen cracked the window of his truck, catching a full handful of stubble as he scrubbed a palm over his face and pulled out onto the main road. In his haste to get out the door and get to sipping, he’d made the executive decision to skip shaving, just as he’d made the same judgment call last week on the haircut he needed but didn’t have time for. Guess it was a good thing he wasn’t lookin’ to fix his loneliness problem tonight, because other than the clean T-shirt and jeans he’d managed to rustle out of his dresser drawers, he wasn’t going to win any awards for impeccable grooming.
The trip to The Bar was a fast one, and Owen parked under a street lamp, surveying the gravel lot through the growing twilight on his trip toward the door. Hunter’s truck stood a few spots away, sandwiched between Billy Masterson’s pickup and Amber Cassidy’s cherry-red convertible. His jaw tightened involuntarily as he caught sight of Greyson Whittaker’s dented and dinged Silverado on the far side of the parking lot. God, he fucking hated that guy, and not just because he was the only son of the man who ran the farm that gave Cross Creek the most competition for business.
Healthy rivalry, he could handle. Arrogant, entitled douche bags with chips on their shoulder the size of the Grand Canyon? Not so much.
Owen shook his head, forcing the thought to go with it. He was here to blow off steam a different way, which meant he was already late for his date with a nice, cold pitcher of beer and a shot or three of Jack Daniels. Pivoting on his boot heels, he turned toward The Bar, wh
ere he could already hear the steady thump of music pulsing from behind the brightly lit windows and wide double doors. But then a slightly rusty, very familiar Toyota caught his attention, and damn it, he must be thicker than a brick not to have realized Cate might be working tonight.
He’d had his balls to the wall ever since they’d broken ground on the storefront three days ago, which meant he’d barely seen anyone in his family since then, let alone had time to go up to the main house to touch base with Cate. Owen did, however, know her oven was now in perfect working order, but it wasn’t the invoice Mike Porter had emailed him yesterday for the new heating coil he’d installed that had tipped him off. No, that little heads up had come courtesy of the box of cookies that had been left on the desk in the office with his name on it.
Oatmeal raisin. Not a walnut in sight.
Owen exhaled and finished crossing the parking lot, the soles of his boots crunching steadily over the gravel. He was here to loosen up, maybe have one drink too many. To forget everything that had been jammed on his plate, even if it was only for one night.
And that’s just what he intended to do.
Palming the handle on the sturdy wooden door leading in to The Bar, he made his way over the threshold. The country music that had been a muted thump in the parking lot became a full-bodied blast of bass and twang, backed up by the ambient buzz of at least a dozen nearby conversations. The place was more full than not, with a handful of couples already on the wood-planked dance floor and nearly every seat at the bar occupied. Rather than zeroing in on the section of bar tables where he and his family and friends usually threw a few back, though, Owen found his stare traveling to the far side of the room—specifically, to the spot where Cate stood behind the bar.
Her head was tilted to the side, her long, dark hair piled on top of her head in a knot that would probably look messy on anyone else. But not on her. Nope. On Cate, it looked unvarnished and naturally pretty, putting the long line of her neck on display and showing off just enough of her collarbones to make his pulse sit up and take note. A few defiant wisps had broken free from where she’d pinned the rest at the crown of her head, framing her face in a way that, for a stupid split-second, made Owen’s fingers jealous, and a sinking feeling took root in his gut.
This was going to be a long-ass night.
“Hey, you showed!”
Owen slapped together a smile before turning toward his brother’s voice. “With an invitation like yours, how could I say no?”
“Okay, okay. Maybe I could’ve been a little more cordial,” Hunter said, clapping his brother on the shoulder in greeting. “But then you wouldn’t have come, and I’d have had to drag you off the farm kickin’ and hollerin’, and everyone would talk for weeks about how your younger, better-looking brother outmuscled you. Figured this way, at least I’d save you a little face.”
Ah, hell. The guy looked so happy, it was impossible not to take one for the team. “Well, that’s damn nice of you, man.”
“What can I say?” Hunter grinned and opened his arms wide. “I’m a giver.”
“You are somethin’,” Owen agreed, and Hunter let out a laugh.
“Well, I’m glad you came out, because actually, there’s something I wanted to ask you, and I thought it’d be best done face-to-face.”
Concern sparked in Owen’s chest. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” his brother said, tucking his hands in the pockets of his jeans and giving up a sheepish smile. “Except I’m getting married in four weeks, and I don’t have a best man, so I was kinda hoping maybe you’d help me out and do the honors.”
Jaw, meet kneecaps. “You want me to be your best man?”
“You look surprised.”
“I am. I mean”—Owen cranked his eyes shut, and God, would he ever say the right thing at the right time?—“Don’t get me wrong. I’m flattered, but I assumed you’d ask Eli. You two have always been closer.”
Hunter nodded, stepping a little closer to keep their conversation personal despite the din and bustle of the crowded bar around them. “Eli and I are close. But I don’t know anybody who holds family more important than you, O. I’d be honored to have you stand beside me at my wedding.”
Damn. Owen swallowed past the rare shot of emotion tightening his throat. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about that you’ll do it?” Hunter asked with a laugh that loosened the mood perfectly. “Because you’re leaving me hanging a little bit here, and…”
“Jesus, Hunt.” Owen rolled his eyes, although he couldn’t help but let his laugh creep in and have its way with him. “Of course, I’ll do it.”
“Thanks, man. Now, what do you say we grab a couple of beers and get to celebrating?”
“I say that sounds like one hell of a plan.”
9
Cate really needed to stop watching Owen from across the damn bar. The place had been packed, as usual, for a Saturday night, and even though she had help from the manager, Brett, and the crowd was beginning to thin out, she had to be on her toes. She didn’t have time to be sneaking covert glances at Owen, his biceps, or the overly sexy stubble he’d let grow over the last few days.
Which was kind of ironic, seeing as how she’d unlocked expert-level Owen-scoping skills over the past three hours.
Her sneakers squeaked over the thick black mats behind the bar as she turned to grab a box of straws she couldn’t justify needing. Okay, fine. So Owen was attractive, and he’d done an unexpected thing that had made the last two days of her life exponentially easier. This was still Millhaven, and he was still her boss, whose birthright was an entire farm. A family-run farm. No matter how much a dark and dirty part of her wanted to throw caution out the window and discover all the dark and dirty parts of him, Cate needed to keep herself in check.
A man like Owen Cross wasn’t for her. Even if he was right there in front of her with an empty glass and she was the only person behind the bar while Brett closed down the kitchen.
Tucking a strand of wayward hair behind her ear, she pulled together a smile and covered the few steps to the spot where Owen stood next to Lane, one of them looking a whole lot happier than the other.
And here Cate had thought Owen’s scowl was sexy. “What can I get you, boys?” she asked, trying to think of something—God, anything—that would erase the heat on her face at the very unusual sight of his smile.
“Owen needs a glass of water and a slap upside the head,” Lane groused, which turned Owen’s smile into a laugh and Cate’s panties into a hot zone.
“I’ll have another beer, actually. And Lane needs a shot of courage. Or tequila.”
“They’re not the same thing?” Cate asked, pouring both a glass of water and a beer for Owen and another Coke for Lane, since that’s what he’d been drinking all night.
“No.” Lane nodded in thanks as she passed his drink over the bar. “And I have plenty of courage, thank you very much.”
Owen snorted. “He’s trying to work up the nerve to ask Daisy Halstead to dance,” he said.
Lane’s hand connected with Owen’s bicep in a solid thump that wasn’t at all shocking since Lane was built like a Sherman tank and Owen’s reflexes were probably a little rusty from the four shots of Jack Daniels she’d watched him chase with just as many beers over the last few hours. Smack to the arm notwithstanding, no wonder Owen was full of smiles.
“I already told you,” Lane bit out. “I don’t need any courage to ask Daisy to dance.”
Before she could think better of it, Cate said, “Actually, I’m going to side with you on this one. You probably don’t.”
Both men blinked at her in a nonverbal equivalent of “huh?”, and she tucked her smile between her lips before continuing. “Look, you’re a nice guy, Lane, so I’m going to give it to you straight. Daisy’s been sneaking looks at you all night. If you don’t ask her to dance, then Billy Masterson’s going to, because he’s been sneaking looks at her all night. Dais
y will probably say yes, since she knows Billy and he’s a decent enough guy and all. But then she might actually have fun with him. In fact, she might even let him walk her to her car and kiss her goodnight.”
Cate paused to let the words sink in, but only for a beat of the song filtering down from the overhead sound system. “And since that’s really what you want to be doing and what I’d also guess she wants you to be doing, since she just looked over at you again—don’t look, Owen,” she warned, stopping him mid-swivel before capping the whole thing off with, “maybe you should just cut to the chase and ask her to dance before Billy does. Courage optional, of course.”
After a pause, during which Cate was certain she’d overstepped her bounds in pretty much every direction, Lane pushed back from the bar with a nod. “Fine. But now I’m not just going to ask her to dance.”
“Okay,” Owen said, his brows lifting up to his tousled hairline. “What else did you have in mind?”
“Now, I’m going to ask her to dance and go out to dinner with me next week.”
For a guy who rarely smiled, Owen was doing a bang-up job making up for lost time. Thank you, Jack Daniels. “Are you sure? Because you’ve only been talking about her for like, six weeks straight, and—”
“Owen?” Cate interrupted, making certain her smile was as sweet as possible before she added, “Shut up and let Lane have his moment.”
“Thanks, Cate. I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Lane replied, tipping his chin at her and turning toward the jukebox, where Daisy stood next to Emerson and Hunter. He blew out a breath. “Here goes nothing.”
Owen waited until Lane was out of earshot before appraising her with a warm gray stare. “Okay. I’ve been harassing that big baby to ask Daisy out forever. How did you just manage to get him to do it in less than two minutes?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Billy Masterson’s harmless, but he’s kind of a tool. I’d way rather see Daisy end up with Lane, especially since she really has been making eyes at him all night—and by all night, I really mean for the past six months. So I guess all I did was tell Lane the truth.”
Crossing Promises Page 8
