Colt

by Duncan Leigh

  “Don’t be nosy, Mom,” Colt said smoothly. “You’ll ruin the surprise.” He draped his arm around his mother’s shoulders and steered her back the way she’d come.

  “You’ll just have to wait and see. Now, can I get you anything? Some tea? A snack?”

  “Hold on just a minute.” Emma caught the merest glimpse of Doris peering up at her son. “I need to go over the shopping schedule with our new cook. Make sure she has the next supply order ready on time.”

  “We make the run to Okeechobee each Thursday,” Colt said as if reciting from a list. “To the big-box store over on the coast the first Tuesday of every month. The butcher delivers on Fridays. We call to place that order by Wednesday.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Luke and I went over everything last night. I’ll fill Emma in. It’s part of my job.”

  Doris patted her son’s arm. “Sounds like you’ll do just fine. Your dad would be so proud.”

  It was a good thing Colt snaked his arms around his mother and drew her close. Otherwise, a woman as sharp as Doris would have noticed the stricken look that formed on the tall man’s face.

  “I’m sure there’ll be some hiccups,” he said in a strangled tone that made Emma’s heart ache, “but you’re only a phone call away. I’ll get in touch if I need to.”

  Appeased, Doris started to leave. At the door, she hesitated and stepped back toward them. “Did I answer all your questions, Emma? Was there anything else you needed?”

  Know a good restoration specialist?

  She swallowed. “You don’t have a thing to worry about.” Though it pained her to lie to the older woman, she understood Colt’s decision to keep the damage under wraps. Or at least, she thought she did.

  The minute his mother’s footsteps faded down the hall, Colt turned to face her. Gone was the softness he’d shown Doris. Looking at features that were all hard angles and angry glints, Emma knew the time had come.

  From the second she’d lifted the waterlogged cookbook from its bath, she’d known her dreams of making a home on the Circle P had ended. No apologies would ever be enough. No amount of begging or pleading would earn her a second chance. The how or why wouldn’t matter. Nothing could change the fact that she’d destroyed a family heirloom. She’d have to leave.

  “I’ll go. First thing tomorrow. Tonight, if you’d rather.”

  Colt’s blank stare swam into focus. He shook his head. “Oh, no. You’re not getting off that easy. You made this mess. It’s up to you to stay and help fix it.”

  Emma quickly snuffed out a wisp of hope. She folded her arms across her chest. “How exactly do you propose I do that, Colt? I don’t even know what half those recipes were. Much less how to prepare them.”

  “I do. I grew up eating my mom’s cooking. I bet I’ve had every dish in that book a dozen times or more. You’re some kind of fancy New York chef.” He jabbed a finger in her direction. “I’ll describe what something looks like, how it tastes. You’ll fix it.”

  “If only it were that simple.” She sighed. “Re-creating those recipes will involve trial and error. Lots of it.” Mostly error, she imagined, unless Colt knew more about spices and seasoning than she thought he did.

  The big man raised his hands in a sign of surrender. “We have eight or nine months till I leave when Randy and Royce take over. That ought to be time enough.”

  Work together?

  “I don’t know…” Emma hedged.

  “Do we have any choice? It’s either that or tell my mom what really happened, and I think both of us know what’ll happen then.”

  Emma didn’t need him to spell it out for her. Instead of taking some much-needed time away from the ranch, Doris would insist on staying put. Garrett and Arlene wouldn’t get the help they needed. As for herself, she’d lose her job and, without references, any hope of giving her daughter a secure future.

  She scanned the huge kitchen with its wide counters and enormous center island. Not even a space this large was big enough to let her keep her distance from the man who threatened her equilibrium in ways no one ever had before. But it was up to her to make things right. If that meant spending night after night working with Colt, she had to do it.

  “Okay,” she agreed at last.

  Relief softened Colt’s hard edges. “Okay,” he repeated. “For now, we need to salvage what we can. I can’t take this mess to my room. Garrett’ll spot it in a heartbeat, and by the next one, the whole ranch will know what happened.” He grabbed a roll of paper towels and handed them to her. “Place several sheets between the wet pages. It’ll wick most of the water out.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  He kneaded his fist against his palm. “You and I will sit down tomorrow night and figure out what’s missing. Till then, we can’t let anyone find out what’s happened. Luke and Sarah are leaving in a little while. Mom and my brothers, in the morning. We only have to keep this a secret until then.”

  As plans went, this one had some pretty big gaps. “I don’t know. I’m not sure any of this is a good idea.”

  “You have a better suggestion?” he challenged.

  Despite what had to be the world’s worst timing, desire shivered below her waist when he pinned her with an intense look. She shook her head, denying her attraction to the tall rancher while she admitted he was right.

  “I thought not,” he grumbled, looking away.

  Minutes later, her back pressed against her bedroom door’s hard wooden surface, Emma struggled to catch her breath while the implications of this latest disaster crashed around her shoulders. Her gaze swept over cedar-planked walls, photographs taken at various rodeos, the usual assortment of bedroom furniture. Tears gathered in her eyes.

  She’d planned to help secure the ranch’s reputation as a travel destination while her daughter thrived in Florida’s fresh air and sunshine. Instead, a rampaging bull had nearly trampled Bree. The cookbook the Circle P had staked its reputation on was in tatters. Even more disturbing, this latest run-in with Colt had shaken her opinion of the rancher.

  On the surface, he came across like every other Mr. Wrong she’d ever known—bold, arrogant, bossy. But during their talk this morning and later with his mom, she’d sensed a softer side lay beneath Colt’s gruff exterior. One he worked hard to keep hidden.

  Oh, he was angry with her, no doubt about that. And rightfully so. But rather than explode into a rage, he’d tempered his emotions. For his mother’s sake, he’d given her another chance.

  Determined to make it a good one, Emma wiped her eyes, ran a hand through her hair and peered down at the cookbook, hoping things weren’t as bad as she feared.

  No such luck.

  With frequent breaks to blot her cheeks lest her tears make things worse, she removed the loose pages and layered paper towels between the damp ones. At last, she spread more towels atop the desk and fanned what was left of the notebook wide open so it could dry. Having done all she could for the moment, Emma sat back.

  A soggy ball of pulp was all that was left of at least a dozen recipes. The writing on another third of the book had smeared, turning directions that were barely decipherable to begin with into incomprehensible gibberish. It was ludicrous to think she and Colt could carry out his plan, and she glanced toward the closet where she’d stashed her suitcases.

  Rapid footsteps on the stairs put any decisions on hold. Emma crossed to the door, just as her daughter bounded into the room. All thin arms and churning legs, Bree slammed into her.

  “Mommy, I brought you a flower.” Breathless, Bree held out her prize. “Miz Sarah, she grows them in a big house all of their own. She calls it a green house, but it isn’t green. It’s white. Why do they call it green when it isn’t, Mommy?” Bree’s head swung to the desk. “What’s that?”

  “My book got all wet,” Emma explained. “I’m trying to dry it.”

  Bree’s little fingers reached out to the wet paper. Damp edges smeared into nothingness at her touch.

  “Careful, baby.” Emma tu
cked Bree’s hand in hers. “We want to save as much as we can.”

  “You should get a new one,” her daughter declared with the surety of youth.

  “I wish I could,” Emma confessed. “But it’s the only one like it. I have to fix as much as I can before anyone finds out.”

  Bree’s head tilted up, her eyes widening. “Is it a secret, Mommy?” She brought one finger to her lips. “Shh. I won’t tell.”

  Emma’s eyes narrowed. A secret?

  She stared out the window. Eventually, the truth would come out. Probably sooner rather than later, she’d have to come clean about the ruined cookbook.

  But the delay would give Doris a chance to visit with her pregnant daughter-in-law. It would give Bree the opportunity to learn there was more to life than sidewalks and busy streets. In the meantime, she’d circulate her résumé against the day a certain hunky cowboy changed his mind about keeping her on at the Circle P.

  Her decision made, Emma gave Bree a hug. “What say we let this dry for now while we go make the apple cobbler for tonight’s dessert.” The recipe for that dish had been safely tucked in her pocket throughout the whole disastrous afternoon. She took her daughter’s hand.

  Long before dinner, the delicious odor of apples and cinnamon filled the house and spilled from the kitchen into the yard. Much to Bree’s delight, ravenous cowboys filed in soon after Emma rang the bell. While Bree watched, they devoured platters of bread and salad, and helped themselves to bowls of piping hot stew.

  In the dining room, where she and Bree joined the family, Emma kept her expression blank as Hank frowned down at his bowl.

  “What is this?” he asked, his nose wrinkling.

  She tried not to squirm as several pairs of eyes turned her way.

  “Now, don’t you boys start in on Emma. This isn’t hers.” Doris spooned some of the thin broth. “Stacy Gillmore sent it.”

  “Not as good as yours, Mom,” Garrett pronounced.

  “Yeah.” Royce swallowed a bite. “Yours is—”

  “—better,” Randy finished. “This is more like soup.”

  Emma caught Doris’s knowing glance.

  “Brunswick stew is a huge favorite on the cattle drives.” Doris sampled another bite. “Mine’s thicker,” she said after a bit. “The recipe’s in the book.”

  “Good to know.” Emma stared at her bowl. All that remained of the soups and stews section were a few pulpy scraps. “You know, I keep all my favorites on my laptop. Did you ever consider—”

  Across the table, Colt’s head rose expectantly.

  “A computer?” Doris fanned herself. “Mercy, no. Sarah’s a whiz with them, but I know just enough to get into trouble. Email’s about all I can manage. That’s how I stay in touch with these two.” She pointed to Royce and Randy.

  Colt slumped in his chair, refusing to meet her eyes. Emma stirred a fork through her bowl of watery stew. She and the rancher faced an impossible task. One that wasn’t going to get any easier if Colt couldn’t even bear to look at her.

  Chapter Five

  A low buzz of conversation drifted in from the kitchen.

  Colt caught the shuffle of boot heels against the tiled floor. He swirled his fork through a bowl of tasteless stew while someone in the other room rattled silverware in a drawer. Probably one of the ranch hands looking for a serving spoon. The way his luck was running, they’d polish off the pan of apple-whatever that had looked and smelled so tempting he’d nearly helped himself to a dish on his way to the dining room. He licked his lips. For once, he wished he’d skipped dinner and gone straight to dessert.

  The ice cubes in his glass shifted, their harsh clinks a reminder that wishes didn’t always come true. If they did, his dad would be seated at the head of the table. His mom wouldn’t be leaving her home of nearly forty years. The Circle P’s cookbook would still be intact. And his life would go back to the way it had always been.

  Except for the scrape of silverware against plates, the dining room remained depressingly silent. Garrett had spent hours on the phone with Arlene this afternoon. The worry lines etched into his brother’s forehead told Colt that the most recent doctor’s appointment hadn’t gone any better than the one before it.

  Hank had kept to himself all day. He claimed a real estate closing had kept him busy, but Colt had seen his brother take off on horseback around two. He’d returned wrapped in a sullen blanket of withdrawal, the same one he’d worn after he and the Tompkins girl called it quits their senior year of high school.

  As for Randy and Royce, the duo had walked around with glum expressions on their faces ever since their return from the little house.

  Colt fought the urge to scratch his head. His family deserved more than this for their last night together, though, so far, he hadn’t come up with a better plan. No more than he could figure out why his mom had insisted the new cook and her daughter join them at the dinner table. Emma had only been on the ranch for two days. Yet she’d already developed an irritating habit of getting under his skin.

  He should have fired her when he had the chance.

  She’d certainly given him plenty of reason to escort her to the end of the property and wave goodbye. Instead, he’d covered for her, all but guaranteeing he’d have to work with her to restore the Circle P’s collection of recipes before anyone found out it’d been damaged.

  He tried not to stare, but that proved even more difficult than looking interested in his food. A few tendrils had escaped Emma’s ponytail. They curled softly on her neck, framing a face that was more interesting than it was beautiful. Sooty lashes brushed her cheeks, but he knew beneath those lowered lids were the kind of eyes a man could get lost in. Something he’d nearly done in the kitchen this afternoon.

  For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why every time he came within ten feet of the woman, he wanted to sling a protective arm around her shoulders. And then there was her daughter.

  He didn’t have much experience with youngsters. Back when he was on the rodeo circuit, most of the riders weren’t much more than kids themselves. Lately, he’d had even less interaction with the preschool set. Oh, occasionally one interrupted his meal in a restaurant. Or he spotted a harried mother and her brood when he stopped to pick up supplies. But it didn’t happen often enough to rub the edge off his curiosity.

  At Emma’s side, Bree speared a carrot, which she lifted, wet and dripping, from her bowl. She plunked it down on her bread plate. Without looking up, she carefully scraped off every drop of brown sauce. Only then did she take a tentative bite. Her elfin face scrunched. Her nose wrinkled. With obvious distaste, she slid the offending vegetable back in the bowl.

  Colt swallowed a chuckle. He didn’t care much for the dish himself. He rubbed his midsection, where the few bites he’d managed to force down refused to settle.

  With her long curly hair and big dark eyes, he thought Bree might look a lot like her mom when she got older. Not that he’d ever know. He didn’t plan to stick around long enough to see the child start first grade, much less graduate from high school. When a lump rose in his throat, he cleared it and snagged a roll from the overflowing basket Emma had placed on the table.

  “It’s good that Luke and Sarah went ahead with their trip.” The owners had said their goodbyes earlier. He spread a liberal helping of butter across soft dough. “What about everyone else? When are you taking off?”

  “Five?” Garrett suggested while Doris’s gaze drifted beyond the suitcases piled by the front door. “Maybe six? I’d like to be home before dark.”

  Emma glanced up from her dish. “Do you want breakfast before you go?” she asked, her voice a mere whisper.

  “Just coffee.” Garrett checked the cell phone he’d kept at his side all afternoon. “We’ll hit a drive-through when we stop for gas.” He paused as if he suddenly remembered his traveling companion. “If that’s okay with you, Mom.”

  “What?” With visible effort, Doris steered her attention back to the conversation.
“Oh, sure. Fine. Whatever you want.” She traced each twist of her thick braid the way a supplicant fingered rosary beads.

  Colt tracked his mom’s wandering interest. When he realized she’d been staring down the hall toward the bedroom she and his dad had shared, the tasty roll lost its flavor. He lowered the uneaten half to a plate. “Hank?” He swallowed. “How ’bout you?”

  The younger Judd swiped a finger across the calendar on his smartphone. “The rest of us fly out of West Palm. We’ll leave the same time as Garrett.” He glanced at Emma. “Randy, Royce and me’ll grab a bite at the airport.”

  “You’ll need a driver. I’ll send Josh.” The ranch hand had to be good for something besides reading while he held up the side of a barn. “If you need anything from the grocery store—” Colt gave Emma a pointed look “—let him know. He can stop and pick things up on his way home.”

  “More paper towels.” Emma took a bite without meeting his eyes.

  Beside her, Bree’s head lifted. A breathless anticipation filling her voice, she whispered, “Mommy…”

  “Shh, baby.” Emma wrapped one arm around her daughter’s waist. “Remember what we talked about upstairs.”

  Colt’s gaze shifted from daughter to mother. Even a novice at handling kids could tell the little girl had a secret—their secret—and wasn’t doing an especially good job of keeping it.

  He speared a chunk of meat from his bowl and chomped down on a piece of beef that tasted like old leather and took just as much effort to chew. He made a face just as Bree looked up from the vegetables she’d been chasing around her plate without managing to catch a single one. Her giggles broke the heavy silence.

  “Bree.” Emma whispered a warning, and Bree clapped a hand over her mouth.

  The lines on Doris’s face softened. “I miss that sound—children laughing at the table. Nothing else does a body that much good.”

  Sensing he was onto something, Colt stood his half-eaten roll on end and, using his forefinger, pretended to kick it through an invisible goal post. His brothers smiled when Bree laughed out loud. One by one, they got in on the act, each trying to outdo the other in their efforts to put a smile on their mom’s face.