by Lisa Bingham
P.D.’s expression became thoughtful. “Do you suppose you could leave out the egg and put the raw dough in ice cream?”
The buzzer signaled that one batch of cookies was done. With the ease of years of practice, Bronte removed the pans and replaced them with yet another batch.
“I don’t see why not.”
Since Annie didn’t have a cooling rack, Bronte placed folded newspapers on the Formica, then covered them with brown paper grocery sacks that had been stacked in her grandmother’s drawer for such a purpose.
“What are you doing now?” P.D. asked curiously.
Bronte laughed. “One of Annie’s tricks from her own mother. If you place the hot cookies on the brown paper and newspapers, it draws the heat out and lets them breathe like a cooling rack. When I was a teenager, I thought it was part of the recipe and insisted on doing it at home. Even after Annie explained it was simply a makeshift tool, I put them on the brown paper if I had it handy. Somehow, it seemed to intensify the scent of the cooling cookies for me.” She shrugged. “It’s probably in my head, but I do it anyway.”
“Mind if I try one?”
“Of course not. I’m about ready to finish the biscuits, so I’ll get you one of those as well.”
Using a large spoon, Bronte scooped up the glaze, then drizzled it over the biscuits in diagonal stripes. When she’d finished, she cut one from the corner and put it on a small plate then put the cookie to the side.
“Is that all you make? Cookies and biscuits?”
Bronte shook her head. “I’m one of those people who bakes to relieve stress. Bread, cake, cookies, pies.” She grimaced. “The last few years, my neighbors have loved me. I’ve been baking more than my family could ever consume.”
P.D. took a bite of the cookie and smiled, closing her eyes. “Mmm. This is what childhood should taste like.”
Bronte wondered at her odd turn of phrase: should taste like.
Then P.D. pinched off a corner of the biscuit. She took a bite, then made a silly, happy face. “To borrow a phrase from Elam … Wow!”
Bronte laughed. “I bet he says that a lot, with your cooking.”
P.D. put the plate on the counter and leaned back, peering at Bronte in a way that made it clear the wheels in her head were turning.
“You’ve done these from memory. Do you have other favorites?”
“Sure. I’ve got a whole recipe collection if you want to look at it. Jace said you were looking for new dishes for your restaurant.”
P.D. nodded. “I’m always looking for those, but … what I’m really looking for is a baker. Mine is quitting to have a baby.”
She waited expectantly, but Bronte wasn’t sure what help she could give in that regard. She didn’t know anyone in Bliss.
“How would you like the job, Bronte?”
For several long seconds, Bronte stared at her blankly.
“You’d have early hours, so you wouldn’t be able to see your kids off to school, but you’d be home well before they returned in the afternoon. Your shift will start around four in the morning and you could leave as soon as everything is ready, hopefully before the busy lunch hour. You’d be in charge of the fresh bread for the day. Each table is given a variety of three small loaves on a cutting board when the diners sit down. The buns for our burgers and sandwiches are already handled by an artisan group in Logan, so you won’t have to worry about those. But I’d like to do a rotation of desserts throughout the month: pies, tarts, cakes, homemade ice creams with unusual add-ins, cheesecakes, and cobblers. I’d need you to help with those. If you join us, I think we should add a selection of cookies as well. It would be a unique homey touch to the menu. I can’t pay a whole lot, but it would be over minimum wage and benefits would be included. There’s also some take-out and catering involved with Vern’s—something I’d like to build even more. So if the demand on your products is high, you’ll receive a portion of the sales as a bonus at the end of each project.”
Bronte stared at P.D., sure that she’d blacked out and this whole scenario was a hallucination brought on by her worry. But when P.D. lifted her brows questioningly, Bronte realized that there was a more logical explanation for the offer.
“Did Jace put you up to this?”
P.D. shook her head.
“Then why?”
“Honestly?” P.D. asked.
Bronte nodded.
“I’m desperate. My baker is leaving in a couple of weeks. When Jace mentioned eating one of your cinnamon rolls, I thought I’d come by and talk to you about helping out temporarily.” She grinned, grabbing her biscuit and biting off another piece. “But after seeing and tasting your work, I knew I had a permanent candidate for the job. And,” she drawled temptingly, “come fall semester, you might even be able to squeeze in a class or two at Utah State after your shift.”
A tingling began in the tips of Bronte’s fingers, spreading out through her whole body, filling her with an effervescent joy—one that she hadn’t felt in oh so long.
“You’re sure about this?” she asked, just in case. The beeper on the stove began its insistent alarm, but she ignored it.
P.D. had closed her eyes to savor the rich, gooey center of the orange biscuit. But she opened them to say, “Oh, I’m sure. I know you need to get your kids settled in school and Annie will still need regular visits. I’ll give you some time to settle in, but be at Vern’s bright and early a week from Monday. That way, Marta can work with you for several days to make sure you’re settled.”
Bronte held out her hand. “It’s a deal.”
After the two of them sealed the arrangement, P.D. took a pan of biscuits in each hand and carried them outside.
Bronte waited until the screen slammed behind her. Then turning away, she uttered a squeal of delight and did a quick victory jig.
She had a job.
She had a job!
*
AS Jace had suspected, the lunch break became more of a party than a meal. He snagged a couple of lawn chairs for Bronte and him, then scooped a cold Pepsi from a plastic tub that had been filled with ice and assorted sodas. Although he stood with a group of friends and their wives, he kept one eye on the house until Bronte walked outside carrying plates of cookies. She was immediately surrounded by the younger kids. Clearly, they weren’t willing to wait with the adults, who were sidling down a long line of squat black pots filled with roasted chicken, Dutch oven potatoes, roasted vegetables, and Helen Henderson’s killer cherry chocolate cake. Sawhorses covered with lengths of plywood served as makeshift tables, and as the minutes ticked by, more cars appeared—primarily women this time—carrying picnic salads and Crock-Pots filled with baked beans.
As Bronte laughed and set the cookies with the rest of the food, a van pulled up next to the barn. Jace recognized the band that played at Vern’s on the weekend.
Bronte’s expression was bemused as she took in the activity around her. In the space of a few hours, the flower beds had been weeded, raked, and edged. The flaking trim on the house had been scraped away and repainted, the roof was repaired, and the new stoop was well on its way to completion. There would still be work to do inside, but a week’s worth of hard labor had been completed in a couple of hours.
“It’s looking pretty good, isn’t it?”
Bronte looked at him, wide-eyed, and for the first time he saw a spark of joy in her dark blue eyes.
“I can’t believe it. I thought I’d be spending most of the summer just getting the yard in shape.”
“Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”
Mindful of the way that Kari followed their every move with a none-too-subtle death glare, Jace made sure that he kept at least a foot of space between them as he began introducing Bronte to her neighbors. He figured the names would all run together after a while, but they’d all remember Bronte. Then, he led her down the line, introducing her to Helen and Syd. Helen immediately took Bronte under her wing. Before Bronte knew what had happened, Helen had o
rganized a group of women to come help her deep-clean the house the following weekend, filled up her plate, poured her a cold drink, and ushered her to the waiting lawn chairs.
Jace slid into the chair next to her, and when Helen moved on to help P.D. set up extra tables, he chuckled softly. “You have now experienced the full power of P.D. Raines and Helen Henderson. When the two of them put their heads together, there’s no stopping them.”
Bronte regarded her heaping plate with bemusement, then looked up to say, “Did you know she offered me a job?”
Jace twisted the lid off his drink and gulped the soda down, then said, “Who? Helen?”
“No. P.D.”
Jace’s brows rose. “Really? Doing what?”
“She wants me to take over as her baker.”
Jace laughed, realizing the source of her good mood. He was sure that having a job lined up was a huge relief.
“Are you going to take it?”
“I’ve already told her I will.”
“You’ll be great.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
Her smile spread over her face like sunshine, and Jace felt his breath catch. God, she was beautiful. More than ever, he wondered how difficult her life in Boston must have been the past few years, if the promise of a job and the help from a few neighbors could chase away the haunted expression in her eyes.
He gestured to her plate. “You’d better eat. You’re going to need your strength.”
*
THE rest of the afternoon passed quickly. Jace was pleased with the way that Bronte was welcomed into the crowd. He watched as she laughed and chatted. One of the women worked as a secretary at the high school and she told Bronte what she needed to do to get her kids enrolled. Another was an elementary teacher who reassured Bronte that the curriculum in Boston was similar to that in Bliss, so Lily should be able to ease into one of the current third-grade classes.
With each assurance, some of the emotional weight seemed to lift from her shoulders until he had a glimpse of the woman she must have been before a dissolving marriage and the pressures of shielding her children from the fallout had begun to weigh on her.
Jace tried to remind himself that they were simply friends. But the term had never really fit—and it certainly didn’t fit now. With each minute that he spent in her company, his attraction to her increased. More than anything, he longed to reach over and touch her. But Kari had taken a seat only a few yards away with some of the other teenagers. She watched him with the intensity of a nineteenth-century chaperone intent on guarding a virgin bride-to-be. Lily, who had been coaxed down by Barry to investigate the creek and the outbuildings, had alternately spent her time with Barry or clinging to her mother. But now, she was back up in the tree house again. Barry must have shoved some of his ranch toys into his pockets because the two of them had dragged a blanket up the ladder and were galloping plastic horses over the folds.
So he contented himself with watching Bronte, memorizing the brown and green flecks in her eyes and the slope of her cheek. He realized that she crossed her arms when she was nervous and unconsciously bit her lip when she was thinking.
When the crowd of people began to disperse, Jace knew that was his cue to leave as well. Kari’s steely gaze had eased from outright anger to suspicion, and he wasn’t about to push his luck. But as he scanned the area for his little brother, his gaze fell on the glider beneath the porch eaves.
Unable to resist the temptation, Jace took his phone from his pocket. As soon as he’d unlocked it, he tapped the texting icon and sent a message to Bronte.
What R U doing tonight 11:00?
He saw her straighten from where she was clearing the last of the food and utensils from one of the tables.
Why?
He turned away, afraid that the intensity of his need to be alone with her again would be telegraphed into the very air around them for everyone to see.
How about another ride on the glider?
There was no response. The urge to turn and look at her was nearly overpowering. Finally, her answer popped into view.
I’ll B there.
Jace nearly cheered aloud. But tamping down his joy—as well as the flood of longing that swept through his body—he typed one last message.
Bring jacket.
He chanced a look at her then, sure that she could see the need that rocked him to the very core. But rather than looking alarmed, she merely gazed at him, her cheeks growing pink before she looked away.
Nevertheless, she responded with: OK.
Sure that his grin was far too telling, Jace quickly schooled his features and slipped his phone back into his pocket. Crossing to where Barry was still holed up with Lily in the tree house, Jace called up, “Time to go, bud.”
But Barry didn’t respond. Sighing, Jace used the ladder bolted to the side of the tree to climb up far enough to see inside. He grabbed Barry’s empty paper plate and cup. But when he saw Lily’s uneaten food, Jace felt a twinge of concern.
“Lily? Aren’t you hungry?”
She shook her head, her eyes wide.
Barry frowned. “Maybe she’s got a tummyache. I put lots of good stuff on her plate, but she won’t even eat a cookie.”
Jace felt a twinge of guilt, realizing that he was probably the source of her loss of appetite.
“Maybe she’s tired, Barry.”
Barry shook his head, offering in a stage whisper, “I think she’s been crying. Her eyes are all red.”
Damn, damn, damn. He might have taken a step forward with Kari, but Jace worried he’d taken three steps back with Lily.
“Maybe she needs some time alone with her mom. Once you’ve come home with me, then Bronte can talk to her.”
Barry considered that idea. Clearly, he didn’t want to leave a friend who was in distress, but somewhere, way back in his memory, perhaps he tapped into the image of their own mother scooping him up to comfort him.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, Lily.”
Barry stubbornly waited until Lily offered, “ ’Kay.”
“But you can call me if you need me before then. We have a phone, don’t we, Jace?”
“Yes. We do. The number is pinned to the refrigerator with a magnet.”
“Hear that, Lily? You can find the number if you need it. I can run right over. Or saddle a horse and ride. I can come if you need me.”
Jace’s gaze narrowed. His brother had used the little girl’s real name.
So he wasn’t mixing her up with his twin. Right?
Lily’s smile was tremulous, not quite reaching her eyes.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Barry reluctantly backed toward the ladder.
Jace dropped to the ground and waited until Barry did the same. But before Jace knew what Barry meant to do, he ran toward Bronte.
“Lily needs you to hug her,” Barry said baldly.
Jace hurried to interpret, but Bronte glanced up at the tree house, then set down the stack of plates she’d been gathering.
“Thanks, Barry. I think you’re right.”
Knowing that they would only be in the way, Jace nodded to Bronte, then steered Barry toward the truck.
Once inside, Barry clicked his seat belt, then asked, “What if a hug isn’t enough, Jace?”
Jace turned the key in the ignition. “Then we keep being her friend until we find out what we can do to help her feel happy again.”
Barry nodded, his brow furrowing as the wheels began turning in his head.
Jace realized—now more than ever—the emotional landmine he would have to walk in order to pursue a relationship with Bronte. As much as they might think that the feelings they shared were between the two of them, everything they did could have far-reaching consequences with the children under their care.
Putting the truck in gear, Jace forced himself to turn the wheel and head toward the ranch—even though it was the last place he wanted to go.
*
&nb
sp; THE yard was inky and filled with shadows as Bronte eased outside, carefully closing the screen behind her. Despite the full moon that hung heavy on the horizon, the grass was thick with shadows. A cool breeze was blowing, but she left the door ajar so that she could hear if her children called out.
She’d spent most of the evening doting on Lily. She’d washed and plaited her hair, cuddled her on the couch, and colored pictures of princesses with crayons they’d found in one of Annie’s cupboards. Through it all, Bronte had tried to gently draw her daughter into conversation. Lily had always been a daddy’s girl, and Bronte tried to reassure her that she would still see her father for holidays and summer vacations.
But rather than talking, Lily kept changing the subject. What little interaction Bronte was able to inspire revolved around Barry and toy horses and whether princesses ever wore lemon-lime gowns instead of cotton-candy pink.
Padding toward the glider, Bronte was alerted halfway by the soft snuffle of a horse.
She glanced in the direction of the noise, then altered her course when she realized that, this time, Jace was still atop the animal.
With each step closer, her heart pounded more audibly in her ears. The tingling awareness that she’d felt each time in his presence grew even more pronounced—so much so, that she seemed to flash hot, then cold.
Sweet heaven above. What was it about a man on horseback that aroused a response in the average red-blooded woman? Was it a reaction encoded in her DNA after hundreds of years of survival? Was it that a male astride an animal represented the warrior that the female sex had gravitated toward for countless generations?
Or was it the sheer show of strength and dominance.
Whatever the reason, with each step she took, Bronte felt as if she were walking into her own private fantasy. A shadowed clearing. An enormous steed. A powerful man.
In the darkness, Jace’s physique was even more pronounced. The moonlight that filtered through the trees silvered the shape of his hat and cast his eyes into darkness before limning the jutting shape of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, the strength of his arms. He sat effortlessly in the saddle, the reins held loosely in one hand.
