With One More Look At You

by Mary J. Williams

  Glancing over Sophie's shoulder, Joy shook her head. "My stuff has been unpacked, too. That housekeeper is quite the brownnoser."

  Sophie didn't like the thought of somebody going through her meager belongings. She didn't care that they were old and worn—except for the shorts. She couldn't do anything about the number of things she owned or how old they were.

  What she could control—and what she was fastidious about—was cleanliness. There hadn't been time to wash out her underwear. Since the three pairs of panties weren't to be found, she had to assume that Maeve had taken them.

  After all the places Joy had dragged her and all the things she had seen, not much could phase Sophie. However, the idea of a stranger having possession of her worn panties had the heat of embarrassment creeping up her neck.

  "I need to find Newt. Hopefully, he's finished speaking with his son." Joy paused at the door. "Remember, Sophie. Screw this up for me, and I'll make you pay."

  The empty threat fell on deaf ears. Sophie might be only fifteen, but she was a seasoned campaigner when it came to dealing with Joy. There was no point in worrying about the things that came out of her mother's mouth. Her moods—and convictions—had the staying power of a feather in the wind. If Sophie worried every time Joy shifted gears, her stomach would be in a state of constant turmoil.

  "Did you hear me?"

  "Of course," Sophie said with an innocent expression—one she had learned at Joy's knee.

  Joy, unaware that Sophie was playing her with one of her own well-worn tricks, nodded. "What are you going to do?"

  "Keep my head down and my mouth shut."

  Satisfied, Joy turned her thoughts to more important things—Newt to be specific. Shimmying, she carefully adjusted the fit of her dress. With practiced ease, she reached into the low neckline, tugging at one breast, then the other, until they were positioned right where she wanted them.

  Sophie shook her head as she watched Joy's swaying hips leave the room. She had to give Joy credit. She put a lot of time and effort into her seduction routine. If she focused that energy on one thing for a sustained period of time, the woman could rule the world—or at the very least, a good chunk of it.

  Sophie shuddered. Wasn't that a scary thought?

  Doing a slow twirl, she surveyed the room. It was huge. And for as long as Joy kept in Newt's good graces, it was all Sophie's. Hugging herself with disbelief, she jumped onto the bed. It had to be queen sized—maybe king. Laughing, she bounced on the mattress that didn't smell of stale cigarettes. She noticed no stains on the bedspread, ones that Sophie usually had to ignore if she wanted to get a halfway-decent night's sleep.

  Springing to the floor, Sophie rushed around, showing the enthusiasm she had tempered while Joy was watching. She opened every drawer, unconcerned that they were empty. Looking in the closet again, she was amazed by the size.

  Sophie turned on the light, peering from one side to the other. Amazing. More than once, she had slept in smaller spaces that weren't nearly as appealing.

  Crossing the room, Sophie opened another door. When she saw what it hid, her eyes almost popped from her head. Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap. A bathroom. And with no other way in or out save the window just above the toilet, it had to be hers.

  All hers. Feeling slightly lightheaded, Sophie gripped the edge of the marble sink. Everything was so shiny and clean. She opened the window, filling her lungs. No wonder she felt faint. After years of breathing in grunge and garbage, it would take a while for the oxygen in her bloodstream to purge itself of a lifetime full of toxins.

  Practically floating on a high of happiness and fresh air, Sophie turned toward the bathtub. It looked big enough to do laps in. Deciding to test the theory, she reached down, turning the taps on full force.

  Several pretty glass bottles lined the side. Sophie took the lid off the first. Nice, but too flowery. The second fragrance was highly perfumed and reminded her of Joy. Scrunching up her nose, she set it down with a decided thump.

  The last bottle claimed to smell like a summer rain. Not sure what that meant, Sophie took a tentative sniff. And smiled. It was lovely. She poured a generous amount into the steaming water, delighted when a mass of bubbles emerged, quickly taking over the surface.

  Making sure the door was locked, Sophie stripped off her clothes, easing her body into the tub. Even with her long legs stretched as far as possible, her wiggling toes didn't reach the end. Bliss. That's what it was. Oh, yes. She could get used to this. With a sigh, Sophie closed her eyes and sank beneath the bubbles.

  "IT'S A DISGRACE," Maeve whispered, furiously beating a bowl of cream into submission.

  "Maeve…"

  "A man of your father's age should have better sense. Bringing a stranger—and her sister—to your mother's home. It's all your fault."

  Startled by the accusation, Forbes paused in the middle of taking a stack of plates from the cupboard. His mother's second-best china, to be exact. They were the dishes they used every day. Nothing special. Maeve's words had him thinking twice. As if using them to feed his father's friend was some kind of betrayal.

  "What did I do?"

  "You encouraged him to go to that convention. Practically shoved him out the door. Told him to bring you home a souvenir."

  "I meant a t-shirt or a coffee mug." Forbes opened the silverware drawer. "Trust me, Dad wasn't thinking of me when he invited Joy Lipton to come home with him."

  "What about the girl?"

  "Sophie?" His voice squeaked, something that hadn't happened since he was thirteen. Carefully, Forbes set down the dishes, feeling the shock of Maeve's question tingle all the way to his fingertips. "Jesus, Maeve."

  "Watch the language, young man. Eighteen isn't too old for me to take a switch to you."

  Maeve had never taken anything to Forbes. Not even a swat to his backside. However, that had never stopped her from using it as a threat. And it still worked—more out of respect than the worry of actual physical pain.

  "Sorry." Figuring the cream was sufficiently whipped—a few more beats, and it would turn to butter—Forbes took the whisk from Maeve's hand. "Sophie is a kid. And Dad is not a pimp."

  "I misspoke." Maeve sighed, having the good grace to look embarrassed. "Aren't you concerned? I never thought of your father as a pushover for a pretty face. Or a big set of— well, you know."

  Of course, he was concerned. Forbes wanted his father to be happy, but this seemed like an extreme solution to a case of loneliness. All he had to guide him was his trust in his father. It had never steered him wrong before.

  "What did Dad tell you?"

  Maeve's voice took on a sing-song quality, the lowered pitch a poor imitation of Newt Branson. "Joy and Sophie are our guests for the next few days. Treat them accordingly."

  "There you go." Adding paper napkins to the pile of plates and silverware, Forbes shrugged. "Dad knows best."

  "This isn't a television show, Forbes."

  "Huh?"

  "Father Knows Best? Robert Young?" When Forbes simply shook his head, Maeve groaned. "Look it up on that fancy computer of yours. The point—and I had one before you sidetracked me—is that Newt isn't infallible. Even the smartest people make mistakes."

  "We don't know that Dad has made a mistake."

  "Yet."

  Maeve had a point. Since no one else was around to hear, Forbes conceded. "Yet," he said. Then added, "It might work out. Let's wait at least until after dinner to decide. Okay?"

  "Hmm."

  "For Dad's sake?"

  "All right." Maeve gave the bubbling pot of pasta a stir. "But I won't keep my mouth shut if I think that woman is trouble."

  "I wouldn't expect you to. Neither would Dad."

  As he set the table, Forbes wondered if what he told Maeve was true. His father was a man who appreciated the truth. Straight talk, was how Newt put it. This was different. When a woman was involved, the rules changed. Forbes knew that from personal
experience. He had tried to warn a friend—Donny Priest—about a certain girl from a nearby town. She was a ball buster. A heartbreaker. Not hearsay, but a fact proven by her actions.

  Donny hadn't listened. He accused Forbes of wanting the girl for himself. Jealousy. Spitefulness. Or something along those lines. When the inevitable happened, and Jerry paid the price with more of a bent ego than a broken heart, their once-easygoing relationship never recovered.

  Kill the messenger, kill the friendship.

  Forbes couldn't see his father going that far, but lesson learned. He wouldn't rock any boats unless necessary.

  Placing the last fork, Forbes added drinking glasses. The room just off the kitchen was technically for formal dining, but they used it for every occasion including daily meals.

  The table was oval, made from Brazilian cherry wood. It and the matching chairs had been a second-anniversary present. His father had it specially made with extra leaves they could add to accommodate what they planned to be a large family.

  The large part hadn't worked out. Though his parents tried, they were never able to conceive after Forbes. Just one of those things, the doctors said. Ella and Newt considered fertility treatments. In-vitro fertilization. Surrogates. Even adoption was discussed. The reason none of the options were pursued was between them. His parents never discussed it. The result was that Forbes was an only child.

  Forbes found it sad. Not for him. For his parents. Ella and Newt had so much love to go around. It seemed a shame that they hadn't been able to fill the chairs at the large dining room table.

  Then again, maybe it was for the best. When Ella died, Forbes wasn't yet a teenager. His father would have been left with a houseful of small children and no wife.

  "That's a mighty pensive look. What's the problem, Josephine? Water spots on the silverware?"

  Mike Phillips laughed as if the joke was new—or funny. Forbes had heard it a hundred times. Josephine was the name Mike had assigned him the first time he caught him doing chores around the house. The long-time Branson ranch hand believed there was men's work and women's work. Washing dishes and setting the table fell into the latter category.

  Forbes wasn't offended. The ribbing was good natured. In that vein, he gave as good as he got.

  "Here," Forbes handed Mike a fork. "Shove that where the sun don't shine, old man."

  "He's had stranger things than a fork up there."

  "Fuck you," Mike gave Jerry Weber—his oldest friend, fellow cowboy, and bunkmate—a shove.

  "I have a bar of soap in here, and I'm not afraid to use it."

  Mike and Jerry exchanged pained, contrite looks. They didn't want to get on Maeve's bad side. Not only did they respect her as a woman, they didn't want to do anything that might cut off their main source of sustenance. With only a small cooktop stove and microwave oven in the bunkhouse that were only used in case of emergency, they took almost all of their meals at the main house.

  Like Maeve, Mike and Jerry weren't just employees. They were family.

  "Sorry, Maeve," Mike called out. "It won't happen again."

  "Yes, it will." Maeve entered with a cloth-covered basket in each hand. The smell of garlic bread filled the air, making mouths water in anticipation. "You will curse again. And again. All I ask is that you refrain from doing so inside this house."

  "Yes, ma'am." Mike and Jerry said simultaneously.

  "You say that now. With the promise of spaghetti and meatballs moments away." Maeve laughed. For all her stern words, she was as fond of the men as they were of her. "Looks like you cleaned up nicely. At least I don't have to nag you to wash your hands."

  Mike and Jerry had showered before leaving the bunkhouse. Slicked-back hair. Clean button-down shirts and jeans straight from the dryer. They did their own laundry by necessity. Which meant—Mike's opinion that tended to bend to the situation—it wasn't women's work.

  "Forbes, call your father and his guests. Dinner in five."

  "Guests?" Jerry asked Forbes. A good half foot shorter than Mike, his height, and slighter build didn't keep him from taking the lead on the range and off. He motioned for his friend to sit before taking his usual seat. "What kind of guests?"

  "The human kind. Two mouths. Four feet. Hands. Heads."

  "Funny kid." Mike eyed the bread, deciding to do the right thing and wait for everybody else. "Who are they? Anybody we know?"

  "No. Dad will introduce you."

  "But—"

  "It's a woman. And her sister," Forbes said, exiting the room to carry out Maeve's instructions.

  "A woman?" Jerry asked his question to empty air. He turned to Mike. "What do you think about that?"

  "Can't be nothing romantic? Right?"

  "Newt?" Jerry shook his head, a bit of the dark hair he so carefully combed back falling across his forehead. "Doesn't seem likely. Forbes said a woman and her sister. Why the distinction?"

  "It's a mystery," Mike agreed.

  "Hey, Holmes. Watson." Maeve set a large bowl on the table filled with greens, tomatoes, and various vegetables from her garden. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The woman is a special friend. The sister is… To tell the truth, I don't know about the sister. It's the older one I'm worried about."

  "Worried how?"

  "She's after more than a few days of rest and relaxation. Keep your eyes peeled. And off her cleavage," Maeve added as a warning.

  "Cleavage?" Jerry said in a lowered voice as soon as Maeve was out of earshot. "How much do you think we're talking about? I'm only human."

  "Newt has always liked them classy. Maeve is probably overreacting."

  "Mike. Jerry. I want you to meet somebody. This is Joy Lipton."

  Mike and Jerry surged to their feet. One look was all it took for the men to realize Maeve hadn't exaggerated. And Newt's taste had taken a drastic detour. Joy wasn't trashy. She was flashy. From her hair to her makeup to her clothes. This woman would be noticed wherever she went.

  Cleavage. Mike and Jerry did their best to keep from looking. But damn. They found it impossible not to sneak a side glance or two. Or three.

  "Nice to meet you, ma'am." Jerry took Joy's hand, conscious of how soft it felt next to the roughness of his own.

  "Pleasure." Mike simply nodded.

  Joy's smile sparkled, her voice pitched somewhere between friendly and sultry. "Believe me, gentlemen. The honor is all mine."

  "HEY." FORBES POUNDED on Sophie's door for the third time. "Are you deaf? Dinner. Is. Ready."

  "I said just a minute. Are you deaf?"

  Frowning as Sophie pushed past, Forbes wondered if this was how it would be as long as this little twit was in his house. For the second time, she came at him with an unjustifiably surly attitude. He hadn't done anything but deliver a message.

  "My hearing is perfect. Better than." Forbes used his longer legs to catch up. "You didn't answer me."

  "Yes, I did."

  "It isn't necessary to lie. Just admit—"

  Halfway down the stairs, Sophie rounded on Forbes. Caught by surprise, he stumbled backward.

  "I never lie," she said, jabbing him in the chest with a pointy index finger.

  Forbes didn't know anybody who told the truth one hundred percent of the time. No matter how inherently honest the person, it simply wasn't possible.

  "Never? Come on."

  Sophie met his gaze, the color of her eyes darkening to a deep caramel. "I keep my opinions to myself—mostly. That saves a lot of lying. So when I speak, the words that come out are the truth."

  A blush rose to Sophie's cheeks. Combined with the way the focus of her eyes shifted off him, told Forbes that she had said more than she meant to.

  "It doesn't matter." For some reason he couldn't pinpoint, Forbes felt the need to reassure her. "Maeve is the best cook in the world. Bar none. Tonight, it's all you can eat spaghetti and meatballs. Are you hungry?"

  Sophie shrugged as if when it came
to food, she could take it or leave it. But her stomach had other ideas, choosing that moment to growl with the ferocity of a bear searching for his first meal after a long hibernation.

  Forbes laughed good naturedly. "I guess that's my answer."

  Red suffused Sophie's face. Not a subtle blush but full-on heat. "Up yours, Forbes Branson.

  Before Forbes could ask what the hell had crawled up her ass, Sophie zipped away. She took the rest of the steps two at a time, the skirt of the dress she wore—a garment that could have moonlighted as a circus tent—swirling around her skinny legs.

  Odd. That's what the girl was, Forbes thought, following at a more leisurely pace.

  "There he is." Maeve was just setting the steaming bowl of pasta and sauce on the table. "Are you hungry?"

  "Starving."

  Unable to help himself, Forbes looked for Sophie. Pulling out his chair, he found her where she sat quietly near the far end of the table. Her eyes and expression were neutral. Completely blank. The bright red was gone from her face. She held his gaze for a second, but he saw no sign of the feisty pain in the ass from just moments ago.

  What the hell? Odd? Was that what he had thought? It didn't begin to describe Sophie Lipton. From hellion to zombie at the snap of the fingers. Who was she really? It was a freaking mystery that quite frankly, he had no desire to solve. Whatever her problem, hopefully, it wouldn't affect him—or anybody he knew—for long.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SOPHIE CHEWED EVERY bite slowly even though she wanted to shovel the plate of food into her mouth as quickly as possible.

  This was her first experience with a sit-down family dinner. But she was pretty certain a modicum of manners was expected.

  There was so much to eat. Mounds of it. Almost too much for Sophie's eyes, mind, and stomach to take in. It didn't seem possible, but according to Maeve, she had more in the kitchen, so they shouldn't worry about eating their fill.

  The problem was, Sophie didn't know what that was. She had never been full. Not even close. One time she spent all of her money on junk food and proceeded to eat every bit until she was ready to burst. But it had come back up so quickly, she didn't think it counted.