“It’s a nice offer, but I don’t want to butt in on a family affair.”
Dawson was saying the right words, but Sage could see the yearning in his eyes. He would so love to do this. And now that they’d finally put closure to their relationship, wasn’t it kind of mean of her not to let him?
“No, really, Callan’s right. You should come. It’ll be amazing.”
“You’re sure?”
She wasn’t. But she nodded anyway. Shortly after that, Dawson made an excuse to leave, cleared their tab, then said good-bye.
Sage stared at the bottle on the bar, rather than watch him leave. Her chest ached with sadness remembering the way he’d looked at her. Distant. Sad. This was what she’d asked for, and yet it felt terrible.
Callan bumped her shoulder. “Do you want to tell me what’s up with you two?”
“Nope.”
“I didn’t think so.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was a funny thing. Now that Dawson had backed off and agreed to leave her alone, Sage wasn’t nearly as mad at him anymore. It was actually kind of frustrating. Because that kiss he’d left her with had been off the charts and not so easy to forget.
That was why he’d done it of course. So he could drive her crazy with wanting him.
And then he’d chatted up her sister at the bar the other night, in another one of his devious plans...
But no. Sage didn’t really believe that.
He was being true to his word and leaving her alone. And it had been Callan who’d cornered him at the bar, not the other way around. She had that straight from sister’s mouth.
No, this wasn’t another stage in his strategy to win her over.
He’d truly given up. And she ought to be glad but she wasn’t.
About an hour after opening her shop on Monday morning, Sage was surprised by a visit from Dawson’s mother. Patricia was in tapered slacks and a button-up cardigan. Large sunglasses were perched on her head and she carried a clutch the same deep red color as her sweater.
“I’ve got a flight out of Bozeman this afternoon. Thought I’d pick up something sweet to take home with me.”
Tall and thin, Patricia looked like the kind of woman who ate salads and drank sparkling water—not one who purchased a box of chocolates for no special reason. Suspecting Dawson’s mother had something else on her agenda, Sage pointed out some of her customers’ favorites, then invited her to browse.
Patricia grabbed the closest box and took it to the cash.
“So, do you miss the rodeo life, Sage?”
Her smooth, pseudo-friendly voice had Sage immediately on guard. “Not at all.”
Sage could sense the older woman sizing her up, but she kept focused on completing the transaction, punching in the numbers, then handing the credit machine over so Patricia could insert her card.
“Ever since Dawson told me that he was moving here, I’ve been trying to figure out why. Marietta’s a nice enough place, but, well, frankly it’s small and in the middle of nowhere.”
Which was exactly why people liked it so much. But no point telling Patricia that. She wouldn’t get it.
“But when I met you,” Patricia continued, “I finally worked it out.”
Sage packaged the chocolates, slipped in the receipt. “I don’t get the connection, Mrs. O’Dell.”
“Anderson.” A note of annoyance crept into her voice. “My last name is Anderson. And of course you must realize that Dawson moved here because of you. The real reason I stopped in today—"
Ah...here it comes. Sage kept a blank expression on her face as she waited.
“—is to warn you. Dawson may think Marietta is the perfect place to raise a child. But I know my son. And he’s going to get bored here. Fast.”
It was possible she was right, Sage had to concede. But why would any mother feel compelled to warn a perfect stranger—because that’s what the two of them were—at the risk of hurting her own son?
Patricia wanted Dawson to be unhappy here. She wanted him to move. Her son was making choices that suggested Patricia’s own choices had been wrong.
And she couldn’t deal with that.
“You’re sweet to be concerned,” she said. “But I’m sure everything will work out the way it’s meant to.”
Patricia looked puzzled. Clearly her warning hadn’t engendered the response she’d been hoping for.
“Have a safe trip home,” Sage continued, her words a dismissal as she moved to help a middle-aged couple who’d just entered the store.
Business that week picked up as the days rolled by, but for Sage there was less satisfaction than usual in making and selling her own special confections. Even the autumn colors seemed less beautiful than before.
She thought about Dawson more than she should, and found herself looking forward to the round-up when she would be seeing him again.
True to his word, he didn’t “bother her” before that.
On Thursday night, she closed up the shop as usual, then rode her bike by Rose’s house to leave her the key. By special arrangement Rose and Dakota would be manning the store without her tomorrow.
With that job done, Sage cycled home, packed her overnight bag, then headed to the ranch for the night. They’d be getting up before dawn tomorrow and she wanted every extra minute of sleep that she could muster.
Sage’s father and Callan had just finished dinner when Sage arrived at the Circle C. First thing she noticed was how tired Hawksley looked. Callan was right. He was getting too old to work as hard as when he was younger.
She set a box of chocolate-covered gingers on the table, the kind her father loved, though he’d never admit it.
“Sorry we didn’t wait for you,” Callan said. “But there’s plenty of chili left in the pot. And corn bread and salad.”
Sage glanced at the big, gas stove. There were two pots—one with beef chili and the other vegetarian. She got out a bowl and tried a little of each. Settling down at her usual spot she asked, “Is everything set for tomorrow?”
Callan chatted away, while Hawksley took a few candies, then set off for the adjoining family room and his favorite recliner. When Sage was done with the chili, she had some salad then helped her sister clean the kitchen.
When they were finished, she told Callan she’d take their father his cup of tea. She found her dad snoozing in front of a blaring television. When she switched it off, his eyes popped open.
She set the mug on the table next to his chair, then made herself comfy on the sofa.
“Eliza Bramble invited me for coffee this week.”
Up went her father’s eyebrows, but he kept staring at the screen even though it was now blank.
“She’s writing a book about her family’s history.”
Her father’s lips curled. “What’s she calling it? The Almighty Brambles of Marietta, Montana? Bet it’ll be a real bestseller.”
Her father’s disdain for the family that had refused to welcome him to their fold wasn’t news to Sage.
“I know. But I suppose it’s something for Eliza to do. Must be pretty boring running a small town bed and breakfast when she’s used to working for a big company.”
“Oh, she’s keeping busy all right. Making sure she gets what she wants from crazy old Mabel.”
“Do you really think Mabel has a lot of money? The house is looking run-down if you ask me.”
“That’s what they want us to think,” Hawksley insisted. “Not that I care. The Brambles never impressed me a bit and I sure as hell never needed their money.”
Sage had known this wouldn’t be easy. “Well, anyway, it can’t hurt to help Eliza with her research. She was just wondering if Mom had any old letters or—"
She got no further. Hawksley grabbed the armrests of his chair and pulled his body forward. “Stop right there. Nothing of your mother’s is leaving this house.”
After their mother’s death, Sage remembered her father going through Beverly’s closet, boxing clothing
and personal effects. He’d done this when she and her sisters were supposed to be sleeping, but they had known what was going on.
After, all that had been left was a bunch of cardboard boxes with their Mom’s name that their father kept at the back of the closet. Each of them had been given a box when they turned eighteen. Sage’s had contained a pearl necklace that her mother had been given by her parents, a book of poetry her mother had loved, and a handful of photos, mostly of her and her mother together.
She’d been touched at how carefully her father had made his selections, ensuring each of his daughters had something precious and meaningful to remember their mother by.
But there were still a couple of those boxes left in the closet—and she didn’t think any of her sisters had ever dared pry apart the packing tape to peer inside. “But, Dad. Couldn’t I just look—"
“Absolutely not, Sage. You got that?”
The sun hadn’t yet risen when Dawson pulled up to the Carrigan’s ranch house ten days after he’d scored the invitation from Callan—with Sage’s blessing, or he never would have come. Savannah woke up when the truck stopped. With their lifestyle she was used to hitting the road early. She was also good at meeting new people, it was something she had to do every time they pulled in to the next rodeo, so she didn’t make shy at all about going into this strange house to meet a whole new gang of folks.
He wished he could say the same.
The prospect of meeting Sage’s father had him a little trepidatious. In Sage’s stories he was always larger than life—a man who was almost impossible to please. Would Dawson stick out like the greenhorn he was? He was determined not to. His cowboy pride was on the line.
A stream of people were coming and going from a side entrance to the house. They smiled with mild curiosity, but no one stopped to chat. Everyone had a job to do—the goal being to be in the saddle when the sun broke over the horizon.
Turned out the side entrance led to a mud room, then through to the biggest kitchen he’d ever seen. There were five woman of various ages bustling around preparing sandwiches, and wrapping cookies and fruit for the cowboys to pack in their saddle bags. But they all paused in their work to say hi to Savannah. And his little girl won their hearts right after they invited her to join the other kids, sprawled on the comfy sofas in the attached family room, sleepily watching cartoons.
“Thank-you,” Savannah said politely. “I’ll do that. But if you need any help, let me know. I’m real good at making sandwiches.”
“You done good raising her,” one of the women told him when Savannah left the room. She looked to be in her late forties, a stocky woman with a square jaw and kind brown eyes.
He introduced himself and asked for her name.
“I’m Emma Flanagan—I’m the one in charge of this crew.”
“You sure it’s okay I leave Savannah in your care?”
“We’ll all keep an eye on her, ” Emma promised.
“Been doing this all our lives and haven’t lost a kid yet,” joked another one of the women.
He gave her a stern look, not appreciating the humor. She just laughed at him. “She’s in good hands, cowboy. Go out and enjoy your day.”
In front of the stable, Dawson found the horses saddled and ready to go. Hawksley was already mounted on a big black gelding, perched like a king on his throne, watching the proceedings impatiently. Dawson waited for the man’s gaze to settle on him, before introducing himself.
“Dawson O’Dell, sir. Met your daughter Callan the other day. “ Smarter, maybe, not to mention where. “She said you could use an extra hand.”
“Callan, huh? I thought you were the cowboy who came round the hospital the day after Sage injured her knee.”
How had he known that? “That’s me, too.”
Hawksley let out an unimpressed hrumph, then indicated a dappled gray, about a hand smaller than his own mount. “You can ride old Pinstripes here. Hopefully you’ll stick better today than you did at the rodeo on Saturday.”
His score that afternoon hadn’t been so bad that it prevented him from winning the big purse, but Dawson didn’t bother mentioning this. You proved yourself to men like Hawksley by working hard, being competent, and not talking too much.
He took a few minutes to acquaint himself with Pinstripes. Rubbing the spots under his eyes and scratching his withers, he spoke to the horse in a low, calm voice.
“We’re going to have us a good day, Pinstripes. Okay boy?”
The pattern of gray over the gelding’s white coat did kind of look like pinstripes in places. A boot in the stirrup, and then he was over, and seated. Pinstripes took a few steps back, then settled nicely. The air was still cool, most of the men were wearing jackets, or down vests over their shirts.
One of the men let out a low whistle and Dawson nudged Pinstripes over, so he could see what all the men were now staring at.
Sage and Callan were riding up from the other side of the barn, Sage on a bay filly with a copper coat, black markings and a chiseled face. They were an astonishingly pretty pair and his heart soared to see her on a horse again. Much as she’d hated the competitors’ ring, he could see why her father had pushed her into her rodeo career. She was such a damn natural.
With all the riders present, Hawksley started pairing them up. Dawson looked for Callan, certain that Sage wouldn’t want to ride with him. But she surprised him by coming up on his left and calling to her father, “I’ll ride with the new guy.”
Hawksley frowned, but didn’t waste time disagreeing. A band of orange and gold light was cresting the hills to the east. It was time to go.
At first all eight of them rode abreast. It must have been quite a sight but Dawson didn’t need a photograph. He knew he’d remember this all his life. Sage must have caught him grinning, because she smiled back.
“Nothing quite like it, is there?”
He rode horses almost every day, but this was a reminder of where it had all started and what it was about. Survival in the West had depended on these sorts of skills. Moving the cattle up to the high hills in the spring and summer. Then bringing them back home before the howling winds and snow of winter.
They crossed over a bridge and then through a gate. Now the riders were spreading out, but he noticed Sage still kept close to him. The sun was definitely over the mountains now, making the new snow on the peaks sparkle. The same light grazed over the trees down on the slopes, picking out the golden leaves of the cottonwoods and the reds in the lower growing shrubs. Dawson felt his throat thicken, it was all so damn beautiful. And the air. There was a special pine spice here in the valley that made his lungs feel clean and pure.
As they entered the upper range, Hawksley used hand gestures to break them into two parties. The concept was simple enough. One group would move to the left, the other to the right, working the perimeter and pushing the cows in, then meeting at the end and driving the herd forward and down to closer pastures.
“Search every coulee and thicket of woods,” Hawksley hollered out. “It’s easier to find the cows the first time then go back for them later.”
After that, the distances between the riders widened further, but Sage pulled her mount up beside his.
“We’ll head this way,” Sage pointed left. “I know a few favorite hiding places that Dad wants me to check.”
Rather than ride single-file, though, she kept her filly abreast of his.
“Thanks for letting me experience this.”
“Figured it was about time you put those riding skills of your to some practical use.”
“You sound just like your father when you say that.”
She laughed. “Oh my God. Don’t tell Callan.”
Twenty minutes went by of very comfortable silence. The more they pushed forward, the more Dawson felt as if they were sliding back in time, falling into the rhythm of being together in a nice and natural way.
Sage pointed out the lee side of a grassy hill. “Mattie and I saw a black bear th
ere once. Didn’t even notice us, thank goodness.”
“See a lot of bear?” He couldn’t help looking over both shoulders.
“We know they’re here. But we rarely actually see one. When we do, it makes for a good story.”
A few minutes later, he was the first to speak. “So why the chocolate shop? I never remember you saying you’d like to do something like that.”
“That was a twist of fate for sure. When my knee was still in a brace, Dani took me on a trip to New York City to cheer me up.”
He felt a twinge of guilt, suspecting he—and not her injured knee—was the reason she’d been depressed in the first place.
“We happened to walk into a specialty chocolate store that was doing tastings of single-origin beans.”
“Huh?”
“In some ways making chocolate is like producing wine. You can blend different varieties of grapes the way chocolatiers blend cacao beans from different varieties of cacao trees. But a purist will prefer a single varietal like a Shiraz, over a blend.
“That’s impressive.” Seeing her kitchen and the photos in her store, he already knew her business was a lot more complicated than it seemed from the outside.
“I wish my father thought so. He thinks I’m a chicken for giving up after just one injury.” She put a hand on her knee. “Maybe I am.”
“Bull.”
She twisted around in the saddle to check out his expression. “Why do you say that?”
“When you wake up every day for four years and do something that scares you to death?” Which is what she’d done during her career as a barrel-racer. “That’s called courage in my books.”
Dawson couldn’t have said anything nicer to her, Sage thought, mulling over his words as they continued to ride. She’d carried the burden of being a coward for a long time. But what he said, did make sense. And it was nice to know that he saw her, not as week and afraid, but strong and brave.
Promise Me, Cowboy (Copper Mountain Rodeo) Page 8
