Corbin's Bend Homecoming

by Ruth Staunton

  He should have bought a small spread of his own, a few acres, or at least a house in the country, but no. Angry and lost, he’d wanted to get as far from the Circle X—now one more cog in a faceless corporate machine—and everything in his old life as he could. Other ranches in the area had offered him employment, but who was to say he wouldn’t have ended up in the same position again? No, time for a fresh start. Before he was too old to make it happen.

  His former hobby turned career miraculously made enough to support him and then some. A blinking envelope at the bottom of the computer monitor let him know he had mail, likely from Suzy. But his editor would have to wait. He’d come right up against a deadline for the first time. He plugged away at it, word after word, but they didn’t flow like they had in his foreman’s cabin. The Legend of Circle X might be late.

  He hated the thought.

  Corbin’s Bend offered the advantage of a population accepting of his particular interests. Those outside of raising cattle, at least. But, after less than a month, he wanted to run back to the Texas Hill Country. Damn his agent for ever suggesting he take advantage of the opportunity to step away from the day to day of cattle ranching to write full-time.

  Having actually purchased the house, he felt compelled to give it a try. Six months. If nothing changed, if he didn’t settle down and step into life in some way, he’d slap a for sale sign on the door and move.

  Not too close to the old Circle X. It would hurt too much to see the changes.

  It had been five months.

  Restless, he paced to the window and looked out to see the pretty lady from next door pull into the driveway of her tidy home. She worked long hours, whatever she did, often coming home well after dark and sometimes leaving before dawn. Not that he was keeping track. Or that he sometimes lifted his head from his work to see her curled on her couch, watching television late at night, alone.

  Could someone so beautiful be as lonely as he was?

  She opened her car door and stepped out, petite and trim in her neat slacks and pale-blue button-down blouse. She wore her dark hair in a twist at the base of her neck. Wasn’t the weight of those glossy locks too much for her slender neck to bear? What would it look like if he freed it from its pins and stroked it out over her back? His breath harshened as he imagined wrapping her long hair around his fist and drawing her close, asking her desires. He could fulfill them, could make her cry out in pleasure with his hand or his flogger… Would she submit to him? Would she want a man at least ten—maybe fifteen, if he were honest—years her senior, weather-beaten, and coarse, to caress her soft skin with hands rough from decades of hard, manual labor? Neighbor lady looked like someone used to gentle living. She’d probably prefer someone like his brother the corporate attorney. Polished, successful, ready to escort her to the opera or a society dinner.

  Sometimes, when he looked from his window to hers, he saw her crying. Who could break the heart of someone so delicate and lovely? It was all he could do to keep from running over there and trying to fix things. If some guy were responsible, he’d kick his ass from here to Texas.

  But she might be dismayed he’d seen her pain. Heck, she might not like it that he’d been looking in her window. He wasn’t stalking her, just working at his desk. A man had the right to look out his own window and if the curtains on the one opposite were open…

  He shouldn’t be looking.

  I hardly know the woman! Sure, living in Corbin’s Bend meant it was darn likely she would share his interests in spanking or domestic discipline, but the pretty lady hadn’t come over to his house, handed him a fresh-baked pie, and bent over his couch begging for a good bottom warming. In his heart of hearts, he’d hoped to find a woman there to do that, and instead he seemed to be focused on a career gal who, so far as he could determine, didn’t cook any more than he did. Most nights she came home carrying some kind of bag or takeout container.

  What an attractive filly with those big blue eyes… Maybe he could ask her out, take a chance on getting to know her.

  Did she ride?

  How would her long brown hair look blowing out behind her on horseback? Of course, her sophisticated appearance and low-heeled, shiny leather shoes didn’t scream rider. Neighbor lady would be more comfortable at a country club fundraiser than eating a box lunch along the trail. He didn’t even know where he could rent a horse around here, anyway.

  After so many years on his own, what made him so interested in this woman?

  What kind of a job kept her so long—or maybe some of the time she enjoyed a social life. Sure. Women like her didn’t stay single long. But if she had a man in her life, wouldn’t he be picking her up for dates? If he was her man, he’d take her anywhere she wanted to go, show her a real good time, in the bedroom and out. Did her fella make her cry?

  Turning back to his computer, he caught sight of his lunch remains again and winced. His fictional cowboys were getting way better eats than him, and while the pizza parlor and Mexican place sounded good, he had a huge craving for cowboy stew and some of those biscuits. He could smell them now…

  From his bottom desk drawer, he pulled out a binder and opened the cover. A Christmas gift, one year. Everyone had laughed. To John Estrada, In case you meet Miss Right… Angela Carson. He’d laughed, too, insisting he’d never find another woman who could cook like the boss’s wife, so he’d stay single. The occasional night in town with a willing local girl satisfied most of his baser needs. He’d planned to stay at the Circle X until they buried him on Boot Hill. Eating Mrs. Carson’s food, riding the range, working a job a man could be proud of.

  Man plans and God laughs… wasn’t that the adage?

  He flipped the page and stared at the first recipe. Big Steve’s Sunday Chili. How typical of Mrs. Carson to begin with the single thing her husband cooked. And it was good! But he wasn’t looking for chili. Not today.

  Time to accept his bachelor status, no woman in sight to cook for him. He could hardly march next door, thrust the book into the hands of a perfect stranger, and demand she feed him… could he? Neighbors with benefits—hot meals and spanking—maybe a string of little cowhands tucked into bed at night. Now that carried things too far.

  When had he become so sentimental? Marriage and kids had never been on his radar before.

  Of course, he’d never been in a position to settle down before. Or had a woman take his fancy for more than a little fun.

  But neighbor lady was a real city girl. He’d be wasting his time looking in her direction.

  Sweeping the plastic tray of his leftovers into the wastebasket, John shoved to his feet and grabbed his keys. He would stop at the Mexican place and get something for tonight, but this time tomorrow he’d have something hot and rib-sticking in his kitchen. It might be good; it might be bad. No telling without trying.

  Wonder if the little lady next door might like to come to dinner?

  He didn’t know her well enough to ask. And she didn’t look like a stew-eating type anyway. Dammit. He, for sure, couldn’t take on anything harder his first time out in front of the stove.

  Felicity pulled into her driveway and turned off the engine. She scooped up her purse, briefcase, and the paper bag holding her submarine sandwich dinner and slid out of the car.

  Her back ached from standing while taking care of one patient after another, but everyone, even the young bride who’d nearly severed an artery in her hand trying to carve her first chicken and the passing driver who’d suffered steam burns from an overheated radiator he never should have uncapped were well on their way to recovery. Another long day, but a good one.

  And more satisfying than when she’d commuted to Denver. The position as head of emergency medicine at the new facility in Corbin’s Bend had allowed her to spend her working day with patients and a great staff instead of wasting a good chunk of it on the highway. The sun fell behind the white-capped mountain peaks with a flare of red as she clicked her car lock—a habit from years of city dwelling—and
headed for the house. Fumbling with everything she held and trying to fit the key into the lock, Felicity paused. A delicious fragrance carried on the breeze and she drew a big sniff, swiveling her head right to left. One of the neighbors was baking something, and her low-fat veggie and cheese sub didn’t sound as appealing as it had when she’d picked it up. How amazing would it be to come home to a hot meal after a long day?

  She’d done a little cooking, once upon a time, for Pierre. She’d not been good at it, but it had seemed her duty, so she’d given it a try, until he gently told her to stick to what she did well—being a doctor and sex kitten—and leave him to the gourmet cuisine he excelled at.

  And now… cooking for one? Nah. Still, she wouldn’t mind if a nice neighbor stopped by to drop off a little taste of whatever made her mouth water. Some of the ladies she knew from work or from the neighborhood took pity on her from time to time. Kirsten in particular, a friend she’d met through her next door neighbor Teri, had a gift for cooking and kept her in mind.

  Managing to get the door open, she dropped her briefcase and purse on the hallway table and headed for the kitchen to get a plate and something to drink. On the way, she peeked out the window opposite the couch, but the man next door wasn’t at his computer. Funny how seeing him offered comfort. They’d never shared more than a friendly wave when they were both getting into or out of their cars in their side-by-side driveways. Such a mystery, sitting there until late at night, typing away. Maybe he was some sort of journalist or a professor from an online university? He looked outdoorsy but knowledgeable.

  What the hell does that mean, Felicity? She shifted as the type of knowledge she wanted him to have peaked her nipples. What would he think if he knew his tanned face and intent expression featured in her fantasies? Would he know where to touch her? How to warm her bottom until she burst into flame?

  She shivered, but not from cold, and turned away from the vacant desk across the yard.

  The refrigerator held a single can of iced tea and several takeout containers of suspicious age. She’d have to go shopping. At least for cereal and milk and maybe some eggs. The man next door would want a woman competent in the home, who could cook and keep a house and, if not for her once-a-week housekeeper, the dust bunnies would have chased her out long ago.

  Back in the living room, she set the plate and iced tea next to her PC and opened the window to allow in the early evening breeze. Booting the computer up, she sighed at the string of unanswered messages greeting her. Felicity opened the first one and took a bite of her sandwich. The shop next to the hospital made great subs, but compared to the scent of baking bread still pouring in her window…

  It had to be coming from somewhere close. Her neighbors on the right, Roy and Teri, were away on some spanking cruise they’d been super excited about—the lucky ducks—so it couldn’t be them. Could a guy who wore beat-up cowboy boots and smiled at her every time she passed also be a genius in the kitchen? A bachelor—at least she’d never seen a woman in his house. And his home had never emitted anything to indicate he baked. Or cooked. She should close her curtains and stop obsessing.

  Pierre’s familiar, beloved image swam before her eyes, the framed photo on her desk blurred by tears. “You cooked for me, darling, and you were older, too. But you died and left me and I cannot take a chance on losing another man even if I met someone who touched me as you did.”

  So… lonely it was.

  Chewing another bite, she tried to focus on the message from a Denver colleague, Eric Clarkson regarding a study they were conducting. Felicity and Eric had begun the project while they were still working at the same Denver hospital, and her job change had made most of their communications and sharing an Internet activity. Emergency medicine presented a constantly changing field and they hoped by the time they completed the process they would have significant results to report to the ER community.

  She read over a string of data in his attachment before reading his note.

  Eric mentioned looking forward to seeing her to discuss the subject. Perhaps they could grab a bite. They had often done so in the past, but he’d made no secret of his interest in taking their relationship beyond a professional level. On paper, they were the perfect match. Workaholics who loved both patient care and research, they understood the demands of their mutual profession and, best of all, he could make her laugh.

  All these things made him a great companion. But lover? Husband?

  She pictured the man, a little taller than her and about five years older, a leader in their field. His keen mind had always kept her hopping from the time he’d been her superior when she first arrived at the hospital

  Single. Never married before, so no baggage… unlike her.

  Every female nurse or doctor—and some males with an inclination—envied her his interest.

  So what was wrong with her? Why didn’t she jump on the opportunity of a lifetime? Maybe a girl got one shot at love, and this time companionship would have to do. Maybe she’d have to settle. But what if he couldn’t meet all her needs? And why did it matter? She had a fulfilling career in a nice place with good neighbors and great coworkers. And she’d had a great love. Asking for more would be greedy. Not many people could have a life as good as hers.

  As she typed a noncommittal but professional response, Felicity attempted to make it clear, yet again, their attention must stay focused on work.

  His reply: How about Saturday afternoon? We can throw some burgers on the grill and have a few drinks after we go over the numbers. The conference is coming soon and we need all our ducks in a row.

  Why protest so hard? They’d met many times before. And they had to eat. A few drinks in the evening could lead to a suggestion she stay overnight rather than make the drive back to Corbin’s Bend.

  She typed: Let’s do it around lunchtime. I have plans later on.

  Plans? Like a date? Of course not. Maybe she’d give herself a pedicure. Read some journal articles. Better he thought she had a date, though.

  See you then! Maybe I’ll be able to convince you to change your plans.

  He wasn’t getting it, but when she saw him on Saturday, she’d make it clear they were colleagues and friends.

  Plans are set in concrete. See you Saturday at one.

  Without waiting for a further response, she clicked the email closed and stood. After a day shut up indoors, who wouldn’t need a little stroll for fresh air before settling in for an evening of paperwork?

  Felicity abandoned her dinner and her computer and slid her arms into a fuzzy cardigan hanging by the door then dropped her cell phone in her slacks pocket. She’d loop the block and be back in ten, maybe fifteen minutes and eat her yummy cold sandwich.

  Pausing at the sidewalk, she considered her direction and took a left. Then stopped and went in the other direction. Away from the glorious scent of food and the temptation of the neighbor she’d noticed a little more than she wanted to admit. Sandy hair graying at the temples, lines of good humor by his eyes and bracketing his mouth; the smile flashing across his face when he greeted her in the driveway. Tall, lean… but…

  Five steps away, she turned again and marched back down the sidewalk, mouth watering. If his way to torture a woman was by making her hungry for home cooking, fine. But she wasn’t going to indulge any of the other appetites he roused. Not now, not ever.

  Neighbor… time to say howdy.

  Chapter 2

  Evening brought a kind of peace to the encampment. Insects buzzing, horses shaking their bridles, cattle lowing, but nothing disturbing the serenity of night on the trail. Once the stew was gone, the last rich gravy slopped up with biscuits left from breakfast, the cowboys refilled their cups and wandered off to sit around the fire and talk, tell tall tales, and unwind before rolling up in their bedrolls on the hard ground.

  This time tomorrow, they’d have the cattle loaded on the train and then Friday and Saturday night in town, pay in hand, for a night of drinking, gambling, and mayb
e sating some of his needs upstairs in the saloon with one of the doves. The reward for a successful cattle drive.

  Yep, what more did a man need? Hard work and hard liquor.

  As he got older, the ground felt harder, every stray pebble irritating through his blankets, but the sea of sparkling stars overhead twinkled as bright and the breeze smelled as sweet.

  Everything a man could want out of life, and no complications. He should thank the man who stole his Audrey from him. Why, without him, he’d never have known the tiny, sweet woman with dark hair, big blue eyes, and rosebud lips was a money-grubbing female who wanted what they all did… money and society’s approbation. Every word of love falling from her lips nothing but a lie. Sure she might have married him, if she thought him the best she could do. She’d followed him out here to make his brother jealous, not out of any crazy devotion. And a woman like her didn’t belong in the rough West. She should be gracing the elegant home of a man of wealth and status.

  Lying back, he stared at the sky again, but instead of the constellations, he saw her face. He’d for sure want to take one of those saloon women upstairs and wipe that memory away for once and for good.

  John paused, the timer buzz filtering through his writer’s brain. He made his way to the kitchen and opened the oven door. Shiny on top and three inches high. The best thing in his kitchen since he moved to town. A moment later, he held the tray of fresh baked, golden biscuits between two potholders. The fragrance of warm bread filled his nose. Triumph! Setting his precious cargo on a bare spot of counter, he reached for a bowl, ready to ladle out some stew and have dinner.

  Brriingg. He jumped at the sound of the doorbell. Despite his pleasure at living in a “like-minded community,” he hadn’t connected with many people. In the months since his arrival, he’d been on a deadline for his third novel and had done no more than chat for a moment or two with the checker at the grocery store and other such helpful folks. Only the postman and UPS came to his door. Unlike on the ranch, where everyone sat down together to eat breakfast and dinner at the big, scrubbed wooden kitchen table, presided over by the friendly boss, Big Steve, and the benevolent dictatorship of Mrs. Carson. For the first time since he’d applied at the ranch at seventeen, he had no companions.