by Hebby Roman
“Oh, that I’m not at liberty to tell.” There was a smug look to his face.
“But if they’re both dead—”
“I didn’t say that, did I?”
“Oh, come on. I won’t blab.”
“No. You won’t blab because you won’t know.”
“What are you talking about?” Tim piped up. He had a huge smile on his face but wanted to be part of the conversation.
“Oh, nothing,” the two adults said in unison.
Grayson pushed his hat back a bit and glanced across at her. “You’re riding with too short a stirrup, you know that, don’t you?”
“I learned English and this is what is comfortable to me.”
“Might be comfortable on an English saddle with some fancy dressage and jumping to do, but you spend all day in the saddle like these men out here and you’ll be leaving your legs long.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Welcome.”
Carrie looked across at the other two riders, a smile sneaking up on her face. “I don’t suppose you’d babysit, would you? I don’t know whom to ask. I have a hot date on Saturday.”
Grayson snorted. “Babysit,” he barked. “Ha.”
“I’ll pay you extra, of course, it’s just—”
“This hot date anyone I know?”
“Ummmm...Tate?”
A roar escaped Grayson and Tim flinched. “Well, that was quick work, lady. Two weeks in and you have a date with the apparently major catch of the Jackson Hole valley.” He rode a while, glanced down at Tim, and smiled a broad smile that almost wiggled his mustache. “All right. You’re on.”
* * *
Saturday, Tate was indecisive for the first time in his life. The question was where to take his date, a girl from New York now living on a ranch. Should it be a western evening out at the Cowboy Bar for dinner maybe, then the local dancehall, or a more elegant evening with a reservation at the fanciest restaurant in town and seeing where that led. Where would Steph be? Should he be avoiding her at all costs, or making her jealous? He settled on the western evening to see what Carrie would make of it, and he believed she’d like that. He wondered if she knew any western dancing at all—other than line dancing of course—and what she would think of the honky tonk bar.
So, a clean pair of pressed Wranglers, a nice button-down, his best 100x Stetson, and, of course, his finest caiman and full quill ostrich Lucchese boots. Tate glanced at himself in the mirror, decided he was about right for a New York gal, and headed off.
* * *
Grayson gave his usual rap on the door to which Carrie shouted from upstairs, “Hello! Come in.”
The television was blaring with Tim’s favorite Saturday evening program and she wondered whether Grayson could hear her, so pranced down the stairs jabbing at her ear with a dangly earring.
“Brought your mail.” His gritty voice always amused her, it seemed so western, so Sam Elliott.
“What do you think?” She twirled and stood in her little black dress, six inch heels making her feel like she might just be the right height for Tate.
Grayson rubbed the side of his nose and glanced at the floor. “I think you better hightail it on upstairs before Tate arrives and change into something denim. Only my guess of course, but he tends to be a man’s man, by which I mean ‘western’—not one of your soft banking types. Anyways, denim will get you admitted to just about any old place out here unless he said specifically he was taking you someplace fancy, like to one of them arty evenings.” He came to an abrupt halt as if such a long speech had worn him out.
Carrie gaped at him as her thoughts bounced from the lengthy speech to what the heck she was going to do now.
And then the doorbell rang.
Carrie froze.
Grayson stood with his arms crossed.
Tim came rushing out and yanked open the door.
Tate glanced from Tim across to Carrie, his huge smile fast fading into a pucker. “Guess I made the wrong decision.”
Carrie’s mouth hung open, her two arms outstretched as if to catch him before he fainted at the sight of her. Then she stood up tall, her own frown meeting his. “Wrong date?”
Tate removed his hat. “Heck no, that’s not what I meant. I meant I tried to decide where to take you and guess I made the wrong decision.”
Carrie glanced back at Grayson who had a look of such amusement on his face, she was sure he was suppressing a laugh. “I’m going to change. I’ll be a minute.”
“Mommy, can I go too?”
“Timmy, you know very well Grayson is going to stay with you. He’s even going to eat with you, how’s that? And he’ll tell you all about horses and stuff.” She disappeared up the stairs to the sounds of Grayson’s splutter.
“I will?”
The deep, low key hum of the men’s voices reached her as she threw her clothes on the bed and stood in her underwear to peruse her wardrobe for a quick change. Jeans. Black turtleneck as she had no western shirt. Denim jacket. New boots. Some turquoise jewelry. She fluffed out her hair and looked in the mirror to the tune of Tim’s stretched out whine of “Mommmmmmmeeeeee.”
“Coming!”
As she started down the steps she could hear Tate say something about “ …big hips and a pretty face....” Carrie stopped in her tracks; her hands automatically ran from her waist to her thighs. Big hips, huh? Well, at least he said I had a pretty face. She went on down the stairs and faced the two men.
Tate’s brows raised and those lips, which she had already decided she’d like to kiss one day, turned up in a wide smile at her spring to the bottom step. “Well, now,” was all he said.
“This okay? For my big hips?” She couldn’t hide the slight snarkiness in her voice.
“I’ll say. Sorry about not warning you where we were going….Wait a minute! What did you say? Who said you had big hips?”
Carrie faltered a little. She didn’t want to be accused of eavesdropping but the comment had hurt her. “I just heard you say—”
As the realization hit the two men at the same time, rumbles of laughter filled the kitchen as they fell about.
Tim stood spellbound.
Carrie’s head pivoted from one to the other. “I couldn’t help but hear,” she started in a voice modulated with care.
Tate covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide as he glared at her, no doubt trying to get hold of himself. At long last, he gurgled a bit. “We were talking about—”
“—horse breeding,” Grayson finished for him. “He was talking about his breeding program. Good grief, woman.”
Carrie wished Yellowstone crater would erupt and consume her.
Tate was trying to get hold of himself and couldn’t stop the gurgles that wanted to explode again. At last he said, “Sorry... apologies again for not telling you where we were going.” Then he snorted.
“It’s fine. My fault. I should have asked.” She let out a long breath of embarrassment.
“All right, well, if you two want to stop lollygagging and get on off—where am I supposed to find this fabulous dinner you’ve cooked me and Tim? And did I mention I brought in your mail here?”
Carrie picked up the pile of mail on the kitchen counter, grateful for the change of topic. “Your dinner is in the oven; just pull it out and serve up. Stew. Please put any leftovers in the fridge, see he gets to bed by nine, and—Tim! There’s a letter from Santa for you here!” Her excitement almost surpassed Tim’s as he reached for the letter and snatched it out of her hand.
“Wow!” Tim gazed at the letter with wide eyes. “Santa wrote back!”
Tate shuffled a step or two while Grayson seemed to ponder this news.
“Can I read it with you? Do you want to wait until tomorrow?”
“No! It’s private!” And with that, Tim skipped off to his room.
Tate studied his boots very carefully it seemed.
Carrie guessed he was
still trying to recover from her colossal faux pas. She huffed out a sigh. “Right! Shall we?” She glanced up at Tate expectantly.
“I didn’t know Santa took the time to answer letters.” He extended his arm.
“Neither did I.” Carrie gave a glance back at Grayson who seemed to be wondering where to set his eyes. “We won’t be too late, Grayson. I don’t think.” She looked to Tate for confirmation.
“Yah. Well. Whatever you want.”
* * *
Tate still inwardly smirked from poor Carrie’s misinterpretation of what he had discussed with Grayson. City girl. He pondered how she’d manage the ranch if anything happened to her foreman, but it wasn’t his concern. Whether she’d ever settle into life in Wyoming seemed questionable, especially as the kid seemed to be unhappy.
“I feel like an idiot.” Her voice came suddenly into the evening dark as he drove toward town.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he offered. “And even if I had said you had big hips, I did say you had a pretty face.” If men could giggle, Tate thought as he snorted again.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.” There was some sort of cross between embarrassment and wonder in her tone. “Golly, what an idiot!” she blurted out.
Tate reached across as he drove and patted her with a light touch on the shoulder. He thought of tapping her thigh but that might not be welcome. “It’s fine. It’s understandable. Really Carrie.”
“You’ll be dining out on it, won’t you, you and Grayson. The whole valley will know.”
“I won’t say a thing. Scout’s Honor.” He crossed his heart. “Listen,” he said hurriedly before she could dwell on it, “I thought you might enjoy dinner at the Cowboy Bar. It’s a bit hokey but it’s got a nice atmosphere and good food. Then maybe we’d head on to do a bit of dancing down at the hall if there’s time.”
“Sounds good. Very western.” When he didn’t respond to that comment, she hurried on with, “What I meant was—”
“It’s fine. It’s meant to be western. I could have taken you out to some fancy restaurant in town or something but I’m guessing you went to fancy restaurants in New York all the time and—”
“Not really.”
He swiveled from looking ahead as he pulled into a parking spot and glanced at her. “Not really?”
“No. Not really. Most men aren’t interested in single moms at our age.”
Tate put the car in park and sat for a moment. “It never occurred to me. I guess if you got serious with someone there might be complications.”
Carrie released her door and started to get out. “Might be. But there wouldn’t be.” She jumped out from the pickup and went around to meet Tate as he clicked the key to lock it. “Tim’s father left. About a week after Tim was born. He’s remarried now, with another family.”
Tate stopped dead in his tracks. “I…I’m so sorry. How awful for you.”
Carrie shrugged but pain was still written on her face. “It was pretty bad at the time. I thought I had come home to the perfect life, beautiful baby boy, loving husband, great apartment, enthralling job I loved...still do.”
A car honked as they stood in the street and Tate grabbed her hand to cross the road. “What was your job?”
“Still is, only now I work from Wyoming. I’m an editor. Books.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? You don’t sound too impressed.” She laughed.
“No, I’m impressed. Only that it seems a very ‘inside’ kind of occupation and now your life revolves around a ranch which is very outdoors kind of work.”
They started walking side by side, Carrie’s head bowed in thought. At last, she said, “I guess I’m counting on Grayson rather a lot at the moment. I sort of picked myself up with a backlog of work and moved here before it got any later into the school term, so I’m trying to clear that before I can give my full—or at least more full?—attention to the ranch. Not very smart, I know.”
“I’m thinking you’re doing what you believe best for Tim.”
“Yes, well. It’s only too bad Tim doesn’t believe this is all the best for him. He thinks I’ve yanked him away from friends and places he says he liked, family as well, though my parents live in some golfing retirement community down in Florida if you can fathom it. Pretty dreadful I think. I hate visiting.”
Tate reached out and swung open a saloon door for her, then led her to a table. “Well, no golfers here tonight. At least none I can see.” He pulled out a chair for her.
“Well, now. That’s something New York men have long forgotten how to do.”
“Pulling out a chair for a lady? Old habits die hard. I would have opened the truck door for you if you’d waited.”
“Old habits die hard!”
The waitress came over and dropped some menus on the table. “Anything to drink?”
Tate glanced across at Carrie with a questioning look.
“Uh. I usually just drink wine. A glass of Sauvignon Blanc?”
The waitress tilted her stance and gave Tate a smile. “We only have Pinot Grigio and Chardonnay by the glass in whites.”
“Then we’ll have a bottle. And I’ll have draft beer please.”
They watched as she strolled away.
“You didn’t have to do that. I could drink something else. I certainly won’t finish a bottle, or anything near.”
“It’s fine. No problem.”
“Then you’ll let me split the bill with you, right?”
Tate could feel his mouth widening as his jaw dropped. “You must be joking. Not on your life. I asked you out, I pay.”
She started to protest but his hand flew out and covered her mouth.
“Nope.” There was finality in his voice. He wasn’t going to stand for a woman paying.
Carrie sat back in her chair as the waitress came with Tate’s beer, set it down in front of him, then went through the ritual of opening the wine bottle, pouring some out to be tasted, and subsequently filling Carrie’s glass.
“Ready to order?”
“We haven’t looked yet. Give us a minute?”
The waitress nodded as they each picked up their menus.
“Hmm,” Carrie mused. “I wouldn’t have thought there’d be oysters in the Rockies? Or do they fly them in?”
Tate bit his lip. He realized he was faced with a momentous decision here. Either he could let her order Rocky Mountain Oysters not knowing, apparently, what they were, or he could explain and possibly embarrass her.
She apparently caught the bemused expression on his face. “What now? What have I said?”
“Are you thinking of ordering the Rocky Mountain Oysters?”
“Not unless you want to share them with me. I can’t eat an appetizer and then a whole main course. Even if I do have ‘big hips.’”
Tate guffawed. “Well. Just to let you know. Rocky Mountain Oysters aren’t exactly oysters.”
“Ah. Some river version? Are there shellfish in rivers?” Carrie’s brow wrinkled.
“Not exactly. In fact, they’re not any kind of seafood at all.”
“Oh. I see. Well, what are they are then?”
Tate took a slow sip of his beer. “You know the difference between a bull and a steer?”
“Lesson Number One. First day with Grayson. He’s a mine of information though I’m not the best student.”
“Okay. Well. Rocky Mountain Oysters are what comprise the difference between that bull becoming a steer.”
Carrie gazed at him as if he had spoken Chinese. “Huh?” She raised her glass to Tate, said a quiet, “Cheers,” took a swallow and then choked and began spluttering. “Oh my gosh,” she eventually got out. “Bull’s balls!”
Tate blinked. “That’s one way of putting it.”
Chapter Four
Carrie tiptoed in to the rhythm of Grayson’s snores. She wasn’t exactly ecstatic at the way her ‘hot date’ had turned out, without so much as a kiss g
oodnight. When she stopped stock-still to see the foreman, sound asleep, head back, arms curled around a sleeping Tim, she was even less pleased. There was a book by his side on the sofa, spine open, face down, which she gingerly picked up: Storey’s Guide to Raising Beef Cattle. Well, that’s some bedtime story. That’s something I guess I should be reading. Is this a gentle hint? And what the hell is Tim doing out here?
She released Tim from the entangled arms of her top hand and grasped her son to carry to his bedroom and tuck him in. The letter from Santa lay on his bedside table; it poked out from a storybook he’d been reading. As Carrie bent to kiss the child goodnight and stroke his forehead, she pulled out the letter and tucked it in her pocket.
Back in the living room, she could almost hear the creak of Grayson’s bones as he rose and stretched at the sofa.
“Guess I fell asleep,” he greeted her in a voice so groggy, it reminded her of pebbles in a fast running stream. “You put Tim to bed?”
“Well, he didn’t walk up by himself!”
Grayson took a long, hard look at her, during which time Carrie felt like throwing something.
“Someone’s in a mood.” His hands rested on his hips as he continued his long stare. “How’d your date go?”
“How do you think!” She started fluffing up the sofa cushions as if their fullness was of national importance.
“Tate not a whole lot of fun?”
“No, no.” She collapsed against the carefully placed pillows. “We had a great time. At least I did. Until the end. We had a really good meal, then went to dance at this dancehall—”
“The Coach.”
“Whatever. I thought we were getting on great. And then some guys pranced over and they all started talking cattle and I stood there like a moron having been introduced as the new owner of The Lazy M and I could see…I could see in their faces the amazement that I don’t know a damn thing about ranching. And I tried to explain, but….”
“Well. You’ll learn.”
“And then Tate just sort of walked me to the door here, thanked me and left. It was mortifying.”
“Uh huh.” Grayson scratched his head. “Are you more upset about the lack of your knowledge, the reaction of the others, or the lack of a kiss goodnight—sounds like there wasn’t one from what you say.”
