More Than a Rancher

by Claire McEwen

  It was just a dinner, he reminded himself. A dinner and a conversation because he needed her help with Paul. But he couldn’t fool himself—a heart-to-heart with Paul was not the part of the evening that he was looking forward to. He wanted this time with her.

  He watched as she said goodbye to the parents and crossed the dance floor, then disappeared into the staff dressing room. Yanking his unruly eyes away, he went to drag his little brother away from his teenage harem.

  * * *

  WHEN JENNA WALKED into the tiny dressing room, Nicole was there, running a brush through her long brown hair. She was surrounded by the typical detritus of a dance teacher—jazz shoes, a pair of strappy sandals, an enormous makeup bag half open and three different outfits laid out. She must have been deciding what to wear for her private lessons this evening.

  “Marlene has me teaching my own salsa class now,” Nicole informed her without even saying hello. “Thought you should hear it from me, you know, in case you felt concerned.”

  “Concerned?” Jenna prompted.

  “Well, you know, it must be hard, getting older and everything, with new dancers like me breathing down your neck.”

  Oh, jeez, really? This was where Nicole was taking it? “Nicole, one of the things that’s great about being older is you don’t feel quite as competitive as when you’re young. You feel more secure in who you are and what you do. It was me who suggested to Marlene that you get your own class.”

  Nicole’s face, stunned into silence, was incredibly satisfying. It was sad that in the competitive atmosphere of the Golden Gate Ballroom, an act of kindness or a gesture of support could leave someone speechless.

  “Really? How come?” Nicole blurted, pursing her lips in consternation. She seemed truly unable to comprehend why someone would do a good deed for another.

  “Because you want it so much, Nicole. You want success. And that’s going to take you a long way.”

  Still not understanding altruism, Nicole shook her head and changed the subject. “I heard you and Brent are getting ready for your next competition.”

  “Yeah, we’re excited about our routine,” Jenna said, reaching into her locker for her bag and street shoes.

  “Well, give me a few years and the right partner and I’ll give you a run for your money.”

  Jenna looked up to see if Nicole was joking, but there wasn’t a glint of humor on her face. Just pure determination. “I’m sure you will,” Jenna responded, suddenly feeling weary.

  What Nicole said was true, really. In the world of dance, or any sport, there was always someone right behind you, desperate to take your spot. Most of the time Jenna was able to ignore the competition and just focus on her own dancing, but lately the competitive spirit in the ballroom was beginning to wear on her. What would it be like, she often wondered, to work with people who were actually hoping for your success?

  Jenna kicked off her dance shoes. She pulled on her jeans and laced up her black Converse sneakers. She quickly traded her dress for a T-shirt and wished she had brought better civilian clothes to work. Though this dinner with Sandro was most definitely not a date, she wouldn’t mind looking a little more sexy—just to make sure he knew what he was missing.

  Maybe this grunge look was for the best, though. This outfit radiated “I don’t care what you think of me” and that was the message she needed to send tonight. Sandro might be able to melt her with one glance, but he was a player and she didn’t want to play. End of story.

  Remembering her promise to Marlene, Jenna forced herself to try one more time with Nicole. “If you’d like, I can give you my notes from our beginning salsa classes. And maybe we can get together and go over your plans together.”

  “Why?” Nicole gave her a searching look, obviously wondering what the catch was.

  “Because you’re new at this and I want to help,” Jenna told her.

  “Maybe.” Nicole furrowed her perfectly plucked brows and pulled a lipstick from her bag, then flipped open a compact and applied the plum shade. “But I think I can do it on my own.”

  Jenna swung her tote over her shoulder. “Have a good evening, Nicole.”

  “See you,” Nicole answered vaguely, without looking up.

  Jenna pushed her way out the double doors of the ballroom, thankful for a break from dancing for a night. That conversation hadn’t gone well, but at least she could tell Marlene she’d honestly tried to help Nicole.

  She unlocked her bike, put her helmet on, and forced all her doubts about Nicole and the ballroom to be quiet. She pushed all her strange excitement at the prospect of dinner with Sandro back into the unruly corners of her mind. It was time to focus on one thing only—navigating the hazardous streets of San Francisco during rush hour.

  Hefting the canvas messenger bag that served as her purse onto her back, she pushed off the sidewalk and pedaled between the traffic and the line of parked cars that bordered Brannan Street. Biking through San Francisco involved running a daily gauntlet of threats and today was no exception. Jenna swerved out of the way of a taxi that snuck up behind her on its silent hybrid engine. A pedestrian stepped out from between two parked cars and she skidded to a halt to avoid hitting him.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. She watched him cross the street, dodging cars and curses from irate drivers. At least her ride to and from work was never boring.

  Jenna liked the idea of biking, though not always the reality. San Francisco was such a green city. It seemed as if everyone was involved in some sort of environmental activism. But between teaching and rehearsing, there wasn’t a lot of time for Jenna to jump on the eco-friendly bandwagon. So biking to work was her small contribution. And it helped to keep her in shape when she taught all day and couldn’t fit in a workout.

  Sighing, she pushed off and started pedaling again, keeping a wary eye on the sidewalk for more unexpected pedestrians. She was watching so carefully that she didn’t see the car change lanes toward her until its door was inches from her leg. “No!” she heard herself scream and she jerked the bike away from the car.

  The sedan hit her back wheel instead of her leg and sent her careening sideways into a parked delivery truck. Jenna threw her arm up to protect her face. The impact pushed her arm down, but at least she turned and hit the truck with her shoulder instead. Then her head smacked into the metal with a resounding thump to her helmet, but as she went down, she knew that somehow she was going to be okay. Then it was asphalt grating on hands and knees as she sprawled forward, her bike landing awkwardly on top of her.

  Chaos ensued as Jenna lay facedown, trying to calm her racing heart and give thanks to the universe that she was still alive. Her shoulder pulsed and her cuts stung, but that was the extent of her injuries as far as she could tell. Footsteps skidded to a halt by her head and she felt someone lift the bike off her, asking if she was all right.

  Another voice interrupted. “Here, let me. I know her.”

  She looked up and saw people crowding around and Sandro kneeling over, tousled hair haloing his face, his normally olive skin pale, his expression contorted with worry. “Jenna, are you all right? I saw you go down. Help’s on the way. Where are you hurt?”

  Jenna closed her eyes for a moment. It was ungrateful to curse her luck when she’d just escaped what could have been a horrific accident, but it did seem a little unfair that Sandro was witnessing one of her least graceful moments. But he sounded so traumatized that she looked up again to reassure him.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “I don’t know how, but I am.”

  “Can you sit up?” he asked. He helped her as she stiffly pushed herself away from the pavement. She turned over to sit on the asphalt, arched her back to stretch a little, felt her muscles coming back to life. “Who hit me?” she asked.

  Sandro’s eyes darkened in anger. “The guy took off. We were driving right behi
nd him. Paul jumped out of the truck and ran after him to try to get a license plate number.” Sandro’s hands came up and gently took hers, turning them over carefully to inspect her torn palms. “Jenna,” he said hoarsely, looking from the scrapes to her face. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  She was stunned by the raw relief in his expression. This was a very different man than the one she’d met in Benson and the one who’d charmed Marlene so easily today.

  Sirens that had been background noise grew suddenly louder. Cars pulled away and spectators left as the police pulled up, followed by an ambulance. Sandro moved back so the paramedics could look her over. They asked her question after question and she assured them over and over that she was fine. Finally, they agreed with her and cleaned her cuts and put bandages over them. Then a couple of police officers sat down next to her on the curb and interviewed her about what had happened.

  Paul came back without the license plate number, much to Sandro’s very vocal frustration, which included a wish that he’d gone after the driver himself and throttled him with his own two hands. Then the police had to explain to Sandro why that would have been a very bad idea. Once they were finished, and everyone left, it was just Jenna, Paul and Sandro, sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall of an old brick warehouse, with Jenna’s mangled bike by their side.

  Jenna stared at the traffic going by on the street. The evening fog was blowing in and tiny droplets of water misted her face. She ached, but she was so glad to be here to feel the cool air.

  Sandro had his head tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed. Jenna nudged him just a little with her elbow. “You know, you and your brother seem to have this thing for coming to my rescue.”

  Sandro opened his eyes and looked down at her. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but now that you mention it, I think maybe you should be buying us dinner tonight.”

  Laughing made Jenna’s shoulder hurt but she didn’t care. She was sitting here, alive, and aches and pains were just more evidence of that.

  Sandro put his arm carefully around her and Jenna leaned into him without thinking. She could feel the strength of him underneath his leather jacket, and she nestled just a little closer. She felt surprisingly good—being close to Sandro, with Paul nearby, having just cheated disaster. Then the image of herself facedown and tangled in her bike invaded her peace and reawakened all the fear and adrenaline of the accident. She took a long, shaky breath.

  With his free hand, Sandro reached into his coat pocket and handed her a paper bag. “Drink this.”

  Jenna opened it. There was a fifth of Jack Daniel’s inside. “Where’d you get it?” She knew Sandro was supposed to be a bit of a bad boy, but did he really carry whiskey?

  “Bob.”

  “Who?” Jenna tried to remember if she had a student by that name.

  “Bob. The homeless guy you give money to every day? He came by when you were with the paramedics. I almost had to hold him back, he was so worried about you. He couldn’t stick around—he was on his way to get in line for a shelter—but he told me to give you this.”

  “Wow.” Jenna shook her head, thinking about the ragged man who usually sat on the steps of an empty building a few doors down from the ballroom. “I’m kind of honored, in a weird way. But, no offense to Bob, I’m not sure I want—”

  “I checked it.” Sandro grinned. “It’s unopened. Guess he’d just bought it.”

  Jenna sighed. “Well, now I know where all my spare change has been going.” She cracked the label, unscrewed the cap and took a sip. The fiery taste was just what she hadn’t known she needed. She took another. “Not quite how I pictured this evening,” she said, motioning to their surroundings, the gray of the pavement blending with the fog as the sky darkened.

  Paul laughed. “I think sitting here makes me a real city kid. Though I’m trying not to think about the nasty stuff on this sidewalk.”

  Sandro laughed. “For a kid who shovels manure every day, I’m not sure what you’re worried about.”

  Jenna knew they really should get up off the grimy sidewalk, but that would mean getting out from under Sandro’s arm and she liked it there. But drinking out of a paper bag on a filthy sidewalk wasn’t really a good example for Paul.

  “Maybe it is time to get moving,” she gasped as the whiskey burned its way down her throat. She offered the bottle to Sandro. He didn’t take a drink, just screwed the top on and tucked it back into his jacket pocket. “San Francisco doesn’t usually enforce its loitering laws, but this hasn’t exactly been my lucky night.”

  “That could change,” Sandro murmured.

  “Dude!” Paul admonished.

  Jenna felt her cheeks get hot and glanced up at Sandro in alarm.

  “That is not what I meant.” Sandro was looking down at her now and his skin was flushed. He was embarrassed—something Jenna hadn’t thought possible. And it was endearing. “What I meant is that we can still go to Oliva and get amazing food. If you’re still up for it?”

  Jenna tried to get some control over her thoughts, which kept drifting to the other meaning of lucky night. “Are you kidding? Dinner at Oliva? Meeting the chef? It would take more than getting up close and personal with the pavement to keep me away.”

  The smile Sandro gave her should have required a license. Crashing into a delivery truck might have been worth it just to be with him like this. He leaned down and for a moment Jenna thought he was going to kiss her. It worried her how much she wanted him to. Instead he looked at her, eyes serious and still, and brushed her cheek with the knuckles of one hand.

  “I’m glad you’re okay.” He paused, studying her face, and Jenna reminded herself to breathe. His voice went quiet, almost to a whisper. “You’re beautiful, you know.”

  Jenna was locked into place by his words and the feather touch of his hand, gently tucking a piece of her unruly hair behind her ear.

  Sandro suddenly looked as stunned as she felt. As if his own words had only just sunk in. He removed his arm, pushed himself off the wall and stood. Then held out a hand to help her clamber to her feet.

  “Let’s get your bike loaded up. And then we’re going to eat at Oliva, bandages and all.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT WAS FUN to be a VIP. One word from Sandro, and the hostess at Oliva promptly marched them past the waiting crowds, through the packed restaurant and out onto a tiny back patio. Paved in mossy brick, with the jasmine climbing up the walls giving off a sweet smell, the patio at Oliva lived up to its mythical reputation.

  “This is magical!” Jenna exclaimed. “How in the world did you get the patio?”

  “Connections, baby, connections.” A voice she didn’t recognize answered for Sandro. Jenna turned toward it in time to see a small stocky man striding out of the building. “Salazar!” He yelled it as if it were a battle cry and launched himself at Sandro. He landed with his arms around the larger man’s shoulders, laughing with a wild, high-pitched cackle.

  He jumped back down, punched Sandro in the shoulder and turned to Jenna. “You must be Sandro’s gorgeous date! What the hell is a goddess like you doing with this loser?” He had pale blue eyes so wide-open they almost bulged. They made him look amazed and frantic all at once. Light brown hair stood up on end above his round face. With the heat lamp behind him it looked like a halo, but one look at his lived-in face and it was clear he was no angel. “I’m Gavin. Gavin Lawton. Welcome to my restaurant.”

  Wild. Jenna couldn’t think of any other adjective to describe the energy that radiated off of Sandro’s friend and Oliva’s famous chef. Gavin shook her hand vigorously, looked her up and down appreciatively and then was on to Paul.

  “Baby Sandro!” He pulled Paul into a bear hug and gave him what was apparently his signature sock on the shoulder. Jenna was glad she’d been spared that particular sign of affection.
Paul managed to keep his feet and shook Gavin’s hand, laughing. How could you not laugh? Gavin was an elf on steroids—tiny, bulky, moving everywhere at once.

  He clapped his short fingers together. “Sit down!” He pulled out a chair for Jenna, sat down next to her and then turned to Sandro. “It’s amazing to see you again, my old friend. Now, are you ordering? Or trusting me to send you out some of the best of my recent creations?”

  “We may regret it, if some of your creations are as creative as they used to be.” Sandro grinned at his friend. “What do you think?” he said to Jenna and Paul. “Should we try your luck with whatever Gavin here decides to feed us?”

  “You sure I can’t just get a burger?” Paul asked, obviously bent on tormenting his older brother.

  “Say that word here again, Baby Sandro, and I’ll have you back in the kitchen scrubbing pots,” Gavin told him with a delighted grin.

  “Right. No burgers. Got it.” Paul said, shaking his head. “Sheesh. You’re just like my brother.”

  “I will take that as a compliment. Your big brother is one of the finest cooks I’ve ever come across. It was a pleasure to train with him and even more of a pleasure to steal his ideas.”

  Sandro laughed at that. “Back atcha.”

  Gavin ran his fingers through his hair, staring at the wall somewhere beyond Paul’s head, obviously deep in thought. “I’ve got it!” he announced after a few moments. “You, my friends, are in for the meal of a lifetime.” He bounced out of his seat and turned to the waiter who was standing nearby. “Raul? Olives and bread, please? And...” his brow wrinkled in concentration “...a rich red, I think, to accompany this feast.” He clapped his small plump hand on Sandro’s shoulder. “I’ve got a new one I want you to try. A blend of Monastrell and Syrah.” He glanced at Jenna and Paul. “Grapes,” he clarified. “You’ll love it.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Paul enthused.

  “Not you, bro.” Sandro glared at him. “A Coke for this guy,” he told Raul.