Leftover Love

by Janet Dailey

  “I’d do it for nothing.” It was a heaven-sent opportunity to get to know this woman in all types of situations. She knew that Mattie was on the brink of agreeing to her wild plan and she held her breath.

  “I must be crazy too.” Mattie sighed and shook her head. She lifted her coffee cup in a saluting gesture. “Here’s to the new hired hand.” Triumphant laughter bubbled from Layne’s throat as she clinked her coffee cup against Mattie’s. “I just hope you don’t regret it,” Mattie added before sipping her coffee.

  “Not a chance.” Layne was beaming with confidence as she drank from her cup. “When do I start?”

  “As soon as you want. The sooner the better as far as we’re concerned,” Mattie said. “Normally, the hired help sleep in the bunkhouse. Since the accommodations there aren’t designed for coed living, you can have the spare bedroom upstairs.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” This additional windfall of luck robbed Layne of a reply.

  “Don’t worry. There’s a method behind my madness. You can help with the cooking for the men.” Mattie advised her that the arrangement was not without benefit on her side.

  “All my things are at the motel in Valentine. I can drive there, pack, and be back here by early evening,” Layne stated.

  “I hope you have some clothes and boots with you that you won’t mind getting dirty,” Mattie said with a skeptical glance at the expensive pullover sweater and silk blouse Layne was presently wearing.

  “What I don’t have, I can buy in town.” That was the least of her worries.

  Chapter 3

  The upstairs bedroom was small. The double bed took up half the floor space, leaving room for only a chest of drawers. A domed ceiling fixture provided the only light in the room. The clothes closet was small and narrow. By the time Layne had finished unpacking, she was glad for the drawer space. “Cozy” was the word that would have been used to describe the room in a newspaper advertisement. But Layne didn’t mind the cramped quarters. It reminded her of those campus days when she’d lived in the college dorm, sharing quarters not much larger than this with another girl.

  Besides, there was a homey feel to it, especially with the orange cat posed in a Sphinx-like attitude atop the quilted bed coverlet, surveying her activities with regal aloofness. The tomcat was his usual, unapproachable self, lashing his tail as if to silence her any time Layne attempted to address a comment to him.

  “I’m not supposed to speak unless I’m spoken to, is that it?” Layne murmured to the proud feline.

  The tail whipped the air again as the cat disinterestedly turned its head, bestowing its attention in another direction. Layne laughed softly to herself and finished arranging her underclothes in the top dresser drawer.

  A new pair of very ordinary and low-heeled cowboy boots sat on the floor of the closet along with a new pair of flat snow boots, lined for extra warmth. Three new flannel shirts were hanging in the closet; two insulated sweatshirts were folded in the second drawer of the dresser. In addition, Layne had bought several pairs of heavy woolen socks and a pair of jeans to go along with the two pairs she already had.

  This new venture had required almost a complete new wardrobe, but she was confident that she was prepared for anything. If she had tried to plan for all this to happen, it would never have gone this smoothly. When she thought about living in the same house with Mattie Gray, working with her and eating with her for the next couple months, it still didn’t seem quite real.

  Outside, the sunset, which had a habit of lingering for so long over these hills, had finally lost its yellow-rose color to the invading darkness. The single bedroom window now reflected the interior in its pane.

  From downstairs, Layne heard the front door open and subsequently close. The muffled sound of a man’s voice filtered through the walls and ductwork of the heat registers to drift into her room. Layne took only passing note of it as she finished her unpacking and stowed the suitcase on the upper shelf of the closet. Mattie had mentioned that her partner, Creed Dawson, would be by that evening, and Layne surmised that he had arrived.

  There was a small thump as the big cat jumped off the bed and strolled to the opened door onto the second-floor hallway. With a haughty turn of its head, it paused to look back at Layne. “Miaow!” It was a wearily imperious call. Layne almost laughed at the sound of it and the marked patience in its tone.

  “Am I supposed to come too?” she joked at the impression she was getting.

  A small sound came from the cat’s throat that seemed affirmative in nature. Then the large and sleek pumpkin-colored cat turned and walked with stately and unhurried grace into the hallway. Out of curiosity, Layne followed. The tomcat stopped once to look back, as if to make sure she was coming, then continued to the enclosed stairwell.

  Totally bemused by the animal’s almost human behavior, Layne was halfway down the stairs before she heard the rumble of anger in the man’s voice, coming from the living room. She caught something that was oddly familiar about that voice, and it puzzled her.

  “You did what?” The deep voice rolled into a clap of thunder.

  Mattie responded to the demand in a calm, rational tone. “I hired a young woman this afternoon to—”

  “A woman! What the hell was going through your mind, Mattie?” That husky edge to the man’s voice sparked a flare of recognition. It sounded remarkably similar to the voice of that big brute of a man she’d seen in town. Layne faltered at the possibility, remembering how brusque he had been with her in those previous meetings. “You know the kind of work that has to be done around here! It’s physically hard—”

  “I know,” Mattie cut in. “I’ve been doing it for twenty-some years myself. The girl is young and strong. I think she can handle it.”

  There was a lengthy pause. Layne had the impression that the man was attempting to control his anger. She hesitated, debating whether to descend the last two steps and let her presence be known before she was discovered eavesdropping.

  “Which ranch is she from?” There was some semblance of calm in the question, however tautly held. “Is it one of Faber’s girls? They’re good on a horse.” He seemed prepared to accept the situation, but Layne was aware that he didn’t know all of it. Instinctively she shut her eyes in anticipation of an explosion when Mattie began her reply.

  “No, it isn’t. She’s a newspaper reporter from Omaha. She wants to gather some firsthand information about working ranches so—”

  “Of all the—” The rest was bitten off before it could be completed. Then he tried again to express himself in a voice that sounded like a contained growl. “It’s bad enough that you saddled us with a woman, Mattie, but a green one on top of that! Whatever possessed you to do such a thing? We haven’t got time to be leading her around by the hand, in the first place. And if she’s used to sitting behind a desk, she won’t be able to handle the kind of labor we’ll need done.”

  “So? If the job’s too tough for her, she’ll quit in a couple of days. And if she can handle it, that’s what we’re looking for anyway. It doesn’t seem to me there’s any harm done on either side, except maybe a little aggravation in the beginning,” Mattie reasoned.

  “Hell, it’s done,” he muttered. “But this is one damned time I wish you would have talked to me before you hired this woman.”

  On that disgruntled but conciliatory note, it seemed a propitious time for Layne to enter. The high heels of her fawn-colored boots made hardly any sound on the carpet runner covering the stairs as she descended the last two steps to the ground floor.

  When she rounded the opened stairwell door, her gaze automatically sought the man in the room. It was the first time she’d seen him with that bulky winter jacket unbuttoned. His hands had pushed the front open to rest themselves on his hips. Even though he was a big, wide-shouldered man, there was a lean, flat look to his muscled chest and stomach. A pair of faded jeans hugged his narrow, male hips and lean, hard flanks. But the whipped-in toughness of his build wa
s deceptive. He could still make two of her.

  The dark brown Stetson was pulled low on his forehead, where he typically seemed to wear it so the brim constantly shadowed his blunt, flat features. At the moment his head was pulled back, his chin tipped slightly up. It gave the angle of light from the ceiling a better play over his face and highlighted his too dominant cheekbones. His attention was centered on Mattie, so far unaware of Layne’s presence.

  Layne took a step into the living room. “Hello.”

  Although he didn’t turn his head, she saw the shift of his gaze to her. A visible jolt of recognition stiffened him. Then there was nothing. All expression was erased from that roughly unattractive male face.

  “Come here, Layne.” Mattie was oblivious to the byplay between them, treating the situation in her usual matter-of-fact way. “I want you to meet my partner, Creed Dawson.” She waited until Layne had crossed the room before supplying her full name. “Layne MacDonald.”

  “It’s you, is it?” It was a flat statement, condemning in its lack of expression.

  “Yes, it is.” Layne was rather glad she hadn’t extended her hand. She had the feeling he would have ignored the friendly gesture. His attitude puzzled her, because she could think of nothing she’d done that could have led him to dislike her. And he was giving her every impression that he didn’t care for her at all.

  “You two have met?” Mattie’s eyes were sharp with question.

  “Not really. We just ran into each other a couple of times in town.” The pun was completely unintentional. Layne had meant it only as a figure of speech, but his mouth tightened with some form of displeasure. It irritated her slightly the way he kept making her feel she was somehow in the wrong. She thrust her hand forward in a kind of challenge. “How do you do, Mr. Dawson.”

  There was the smallest hesitation before there was a slow swing of his hand off his hip. Large callused fingers folded briefly around her hand, exerting hardly any pressure, but the implication of powerful strength was still there.

  “Miss MacDonald.” The contact was broken almost as soon as it began, and she was subjected to the study of his dark gaze. “I thought you were in the area to trace your family roots. That’s what you told Dorothy in the newspaper office.”

  It was a direct challenge of the story she had given Mattie. Somehow Layne knew she had to come up with some plausible explanation for the differing reasons for coming to the Sand Hills. Maybe Mattie would never suspect in a thousand years that Layne was her daughter, but Layne didn’t want anything to turn her thoughts in that direction.

  “That isn’t quite true. You see, when my aunt found out I was coming here, she asked me to check the records to see if I could fill in some of the missing details about her husband’s family.” She was talking fast, a sure sign that she was lying. “She’s having an elaborate family tree made for him as a birthday present, and there were some dates she didn’t have. So I promised her I’d look to see if I could find them. It didn’t take much of my time to go through the old records and files.”

  Her explanation seemed to satisfy Mattie, but Mattie had no reason not to believe her. Layne had the uneasy feeling that Creed Dawson was reserving judgment. Or maybe her own sense of guilt was prompting her to read things into his reaction that didn’t exist. It was entirely possible that he disapproved of her being there simply because she was inexperienced at the job, and a woman. She was probably taking it all too personally.

  “I see,” he murmured, then seemed to rouse himself like a great bear, shrugging aside an item that had lost his interest. “Your day starts at six in the morning,” he informed Layne, then briefly swung his gaze to the older woman. “See you tomorrow, Mattie.”

  For a man of his size, he moved with cat-footed ease to the front door and walked out into the night. There were a lot of questions Layne would have liked to ask about Creed Dawson, but it didn’t seem wise to question Mattie about her partner’s seemingly odd behavior.

  “Are you all settled in?” Mattie inquired with mild interest.

  “Yes, I am,” she confirmed.

  “You might want to have an early night tonight,” Mattie advised. “The day starts at six, but that means breakfast at five thirty.”

  Which was a good deal earlier than Layne was used to getting up in the morning. “You get a head start on the sun, don’t you?”

  “In the summer the day begins earlier than that. There’s a lot of work to be done. I have a stack of paperwork waiting for me, so I’ll see you in the morning.” Mattie left her to walk to the door of the side parlor, which had been turned into an office.

  Deprived of the chance to become better acquainted with Mattie that evening, Layne eventually returned to her room and took Mattie’s advice about getting an early night.

  The alarm clock went off at four thirty the next morning. The harsh, clanging noise drove Layne out of the bed and into the darkness of the unfamiliar room. She groped for the wall switch. The overhead light nearly blinded her with its sudden glare, but she spied the clock on the dresser and finally silenced its dreadful clatter. Half asleep, she scooped up her toothbrush and cosmetic case and padded down the hallway to the bathroom. She absently noticed that there were lights on downstairs and realized she wasn’t the first one up.

  By the time she had dressed in her new workclothes and boots, the aroma of frying bacon was permeating the house. When she walked into the kitchen, Layne noticed that the table was set for five. Mattie was at the stove, deftly turning the strips of thick bacon sizzling on the grill. She spared one glance over her shoulder at the sound of Layne’s approach.

  “Good morning,” Layne said, although she wasn’t sure she was fully awake yet.

  “Morning. Check the oven and see if those biscuits are done,” Mattie instructed.

  Bending, Layne opened the oven door to peer inside. A long sheetpan of biscuits sat on the middle rack of the hot oven. The dough had risen, but the tops hadn’t started to brown.

  “Not quite.” She carefully closed the door.

  “There’s jam and honey in the refrigerator.” With the bacon turned, Mattie started breaking eggs into a mixing bowl with pancake meal. As Layne walked past her to the refrigerator, Mattie’s glance made a skimming sweep of Layne. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to be young.” Her mouth quirked briefly in a wry line. Layne gave her a curious look, wondering what had prompted that remark. “There you are with lipstick and mascara, and most of the time I don’t do more than run a brush through my hair. Of course, it would take a ton of makeup to cover all these freckles.” She sent another glance at Layne. “You’re lucky you don’t have any, even though you’ve got that hint of red in your hair.”

  “I like your freckles. They make you look young.” With her hands full of jars of preserves and honey, Layne pushed the refrigerator door shut with her hip.

  “That’s nice to hear. Inside you always feel young, but it’s the outside that gives you away,” Mattie declared while she vigorously beat the pancake batter. “In another couple of years I’ll be fifty. Life seems to be over before it’s begun.”

  “Do you have any children?” The atmosphere in the kitchen seemed to lend itself to personal questions.

  “No.” Mattie set the bowl on the counter and began to scoop up the strips of crisp bacon. “John couldn’t have any.”

  “Were you ever sorry?” Layne pretended a mild interest while she studied the woman closely. It didn’t surprise her that Mattie had made no mention of the child she’d given up.

  “Sorry? I don’t know.” She shrugged vaguely. “Does it ever do any good to be sorry about something in the past? It’s over and there’s nothing you can do to change it, so why make yourself miserable with regret and forget all the good things that did come your way?”

  “I guess that’s true.” But Layne experienced a twinge of disappointment. She realized she was clinging to a girlhood wish that her natural mother regretted giving her up for adoption. It had nothing to do with
what was wise or practical. It was strictly emotional.

  There was the clump of boots on the steps outside the back door just as Mattie began to ladle the pancake batter onto the greased grill. “I timed that right.”

  Two men filed into the kitchen ahead of Creed Dawson. The first was an older, heavyset man in his fifties with iron-gray hair. The weight of his big torso seemed to be carried on the big trophy buckle of his belt. Coats and hats were peeled off and hung on wall pegs by the door.

  “Mornings” chorused around the kitchen in an exchange of greetings. The second man self-consciously combed a hand through his hair, flattened by his hat, and grinned widely at Layne. In his middle twenties, he was slim and sandy-haired. Layne smiled back as she stopped at the oven to remove the biscuits, baked to a toasty golden brown.

  Creed pulled out a chair at the table. Layne had never seen him when he was not wearing his hat. The springing thickness of his hair was the rich brown color of roasted coffee. Its wayward order seemed to invite a hand to smooth it into place. Layne smiled to herself at such a fanciful idea and piled the hot biscuits onto a plate.

  When she approached the table, Creed made very brief introductions. “Stoney Bates,” he said, first indicating the older man to her. “Hoyt Weber, Layne MacDonald.”

  The older man, Stoney Bates, merely nodded to her as he scooted his chair up to the table, but the young cowboy was not the silent type. “After looking at these two characters every day,” he said with a gesture at Creed and Stoney, “your face is going to be a welcome addition.”

  “Thanks.” She laughed at the compliment.

  There had been a moment when she wondered what the reaction of these two co-workers would be. They could easily have shared Creed’s opposition to her sex. But it appeared that Hoyt Weber, at least, had no such hang-up about working with a woman.