“Oh. My. Goodness.”
“What?” Brady asked, rounding the desk and trying to see the pages.
“Pa wasn’t kidding,” she said, turning a wild-eyed look toward her brother. “He really does mean to get married again. Maybe sooner than we think.”
“How do you know? What does it say?” Brady asked, craning his neck to get a better look.
“It’s a list of single ladies in town.”
“Who’s on there?” Brady yanked the pad from her grasp and studied it for a moment. Then he handed it back. “Wow.”
“Let’s go,” Cilla said, pushing the tablet back into the drawer.
“What about your note?”
“I’ll go see Mrs. Carson tomorrow. I need to go home and think.”
“Doesn’t seem to me there’s any sense in that,” Brady said as he and his sister headed outside. “You heard what Pa said, and it looked to me like he’s made up his mind.”
Cilla paused in front of the barbershop and pinned him with a sharp look. “How do you figure that? There’s no way you could have read that list so fast.”
“I didn’t have to,” he grumbled. “All the names were crossed out but one, so it was the only one that mattered. And it was Miss Grainger.”
* * *
It was nearing supper time when Colt rode back into town. Antioch Street was all but deserted, with most folks headed home for their evening meal. He hadn’t found Ace, but Nita said she was expecting him to stop by anytime. Colt knew that she would tell her son Colt was looking for him when he decided to rejoin civilization.
He dismounted in front of Ellie’s and tied his gelding to the hitching post. She and Bethany were both bustling around, serving plates of delicious-smelling food to a packed house.
“Hi, Colt!” she said as she passed him with a plate of roast beef and all the trimmings. “I’ll have your sandwiches ready in a jiffy.”
“No hurry. Will you add another one to the order, please?”
“Sure,” Ellie said, giving him a curious look. When she’d delivered another half-dozen plates, she preceded him to the back counter. “Is someone joining you?” she asked, casting a curious look over her shoulder.
“Yep.”
“Anyone I know?” She kept her tone casual.
“Yep.”
“Male or female?”
“Female.”
“Well,” she huffed. “Aren’t you going to tell me who she is?”
Feigning nonchalance, he shifted his weight to one leg and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “Nope.”
“Colt Garrett, if I didn’t like you so much, I’d bash you over the head with an iron skillet.”
“It’s your sister.”
“What?” Ellie screeched. Every head in the café turned their way. “Allie?” she said in a loud whisper.
Colt relented of his teasing. “It’s not what you think.”
“It’s not?” She sounded almost disappointed at his denial.
“You know Homer laid down the law about getting the kids straightened out by the time school starts. Allison is doing everything she can on her end. Since I need to spend more time with them, I’ve borrowed Gabe’s croquet set for this evening, and thought we’d have a picnic out back. I asked your sister to join us. Sort of as a buffer, you know?”
“Oh.” Looking let down by the news, Ellie slipped through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
Colt watched her go, pondering her disappointment. Was she hoping some sort of spark would ignite between him and her sister? Surely Ellie knew him well enough to realize that Allison wasn’t his type. But as he took his wax-paper-wrapped sandwiches, he couldn’t help noticing Ellie’s downturned mouth and thinking it looked exactly like Allison’s.
Chapter Six
He was nervous! Imagine that. A game of croquet and sandwiches with the kids and their teacher and he was as jumpy as a new student on the first day of school.
“Hurry up, Pa!” Brady said. “We’ve gotta get the game set up.”
“Right.” Colt took a final glance in the mottled shaving mirror, ran a hand through his damp hair and frowned, wondering why he’d bothered, since he’d be hot and sweaty by the game’s end. Instructing Brady and Cilla to help, he paced off a rough rectangle fifty feet long and twenty-five feet wide, marking it with a little sprinkle of flour. Then he estimated the approximate center and told Brady to place the first wicket there. Then it was a matter of stepping off the general spots for the remaining eight. No need for perfection. It was only a backyard game, after all.
Brady was just pounding in the last stake when a feminine voice said, “Looks like I’m just in time.”
The whole Garrett family turned to see Miss Grainger standing there, a cloth bag dangling from her wrist, a pie topped with golden-brown meringue in her hands. It looked delicious, Colt thought. Actually, so did she. He frowned at the inappropriate thought. Like the “cleaning lady” Allison, this was an Allison he’d never seen before.
She must have seen the look on his face because she tucked a wayward spiral behind her ear in a gesture that betrayed her own nervousness.
She was hatless and gloveless, and dressed in a simple pale green skirt that fell smooth and straight from the waistband, flared toward the hem from about her knees and brushed the grass with each step she took. Her white blouse was sewn of some soft-looking, lightweight fabric with narrow pin tucks marching down the front. As she had on cleaning day, she looked much slimmer. Her watch hung around her neck on a plain green ribbon, and her hair was tied at her nape with another, the shimmering curls flowing down her back in riotous rebellion.
“Hi, Miss Grainger!” Brady said at last.
“Hello, Brady,” she said, giving him one of the full-blown smiles Colt had heard about and never seen. A strangled breath of wonder whistled through his parted lips. What could Cilla possibly see in that smile to complain about? It was nothing short of astonishing, lighting Allison’s eyes and creating the merest hint of a dimple in her left cheek.
Feeling a bit off balance, he started toward her. “I’m glad you could come.”
“I’ve been looking forward to it.” She held out the pie. “For you.”
“What kind is it, Pa?” Brady asked, running toward them.
Colt took the pie and regarded her with raised eyebrows. “Chocolate?”
“As per your request.” She held up the fabric bag. “I stopped by Gabe’s and picked up some bread-and-butter pickles and Saratoga Chips. I haven’t tried them, but I understand from Mrs. VanSickle that they’re quite tasty.”
“So I hear. Let me take this inside, and we’ll start the game. Or would you rather eat first and let it cool off a bit?”
“I get lazy after I eat,” she confessed, placing her hands on her shapely hips. “And I’m sure the children would rather play.”
They agreed, and Colt carried Allison’s contributions to their meal inside. When he came back out, she was sitting on the edge of the porch. It looked as if she was taking off a shoe. When she heard the door slam, she made a quick, deft movement, peeling off her stocking and uncrossing her legs all in one smooth motion before wadding the sheer silk into a ball and stuffing it inside one of the white shoes whose needle toes were adorned with black patent leather. She looked up, clearly embarrassed.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his gaze moving from her scandalously bare ankle to the small feet and toes that were curled into the clover beneath her feet.
She jumped up and robbed him of the socially disapproved-of view, giving him a mischievous grin to cover the awkward moment. “I always play barefoot.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “So I can curl my toes around the ball when I need to whack it and send someone else’s ball far, far away. Besides, the grass fee
ls good on my feet.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll wallop your foot?” he asked, shocked by the announcement.
“I suppose it’s a possibility,” she called over her shoulder as she headed toward the children, who were arguing over who would go first. “But I never have.
“Okay, you two, stop arguing,” she told them with her schoolteacher’s voice and a sharp clap of her hands. To Colt’s amazement, they did. “There’s a proper way to determine who goes first.”
“Tell us!” Brady cried.
“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “We’ll all choose colors and then I’ll tell you. The colors you choose determine who your partner will be. Brady, you pick first, since you’re the youngest, then Cilla and then your dad.” She glanced over at Colt, who was still marveling at how easily the children obeyed her. “I’ll take what’s left, since I know the rules.”
“Blue,” Brady said without hesitation. “For boys.” He grinned. “Too bad there’s no pink for girls.”
Cilla glared at him. “Red.”
“I’ll take black,” Colt said before another argument could break out. “I don’t think I’m a yellow sort of guy.”
“That means I’m yellow,” Allison said. “Blue and black are paired up, and red and yellow. Brady, you and your dad are a team.”
Brady crowed with happiness and ran over to Colt, who ruffled his dark hair. Colt was a little surprised by how little it took to bring a smile to the kids’ faces.
“Blue goes first,” Allison said. “Then the order of play is red, black and yellow, which means that you and your opponents alternate play.” She looked from one to the other. “Does everyone understand?”
Colt and the kids said they did, and she explained how Brady was to start the game and what the objective was. As each turn came up, she gave them their options of play and let them decide what to do. Of course, Colt and Brady knocked Cilla’s and Allison’s balls as far from each other as possible.
For the next half hour or so, they romped and played, bandying about threats and warnings and laughing as their balls either made it through the wickets or were knocked off course.
With the game more than half over and Brady and Colt almost certain to win, Allison’s ball wound up touching Colt’s. He cut a startled glance in her direction. She was in perfect position to knock his ball away and deal him and Brady some serious damage. It hadn’t taken him long to learn that she was as competitive as he was, something most women would never admit to a man. He liked that she was willing to pit her wits and skill against his, whether or not it was acceptable ladies’ comportment.
She glanced over at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief, a playful half smile on her lips. “Cilla, what do you think about me putting your father’s ball over by the oak tree?” she asked her partner.
Cilla jumped up and down, chortling her approval. Brady stomped his foot. They both knew she could probably do it.
“Don’t do it, Allie,” Colt warned with a look of mock ferocity.
“You know what they say about croquet,” she told him, sauntering toward the balls, her intention clear. “It may look like an easygoing game, but it’s really very, very wicket.”
Colt was laughing at the pun and the children were looking at him and each other, trying to figure out what they’d missed, when Allison gave a little yelp of pain and began hopping around on one foot.
Colt was at her side in an instant, and the kids weren’t far behind, all asking some variation of “What’s the matter?”
Slipping his arm around her waist to steady her seemed like the natural thing to do. The sweet aroma of honeysuckle radiated from her body, soft and warm against his side. She sucked in a sharp breath, stiffened and tipped back her head, her pain-filled eyes finding his.
A wave of concern swept over him, and he tightened his hold on her waist so she wouldn’t pull away. “What’s wrong?”
“I—I s-stepped on s-something,” she stammered.
* * *
Allison gave another little gasp when he scooped her into his arms and headed toward the house. Since she couldn’t figure out what else to do with them, she looped her arms around his neck, fighting the urge to close her eyes and lean her forehead against his cheek. Instead, she gave the children, who trailed behind, a wavering smile of encouragement.
When he reached the back porch and leaned over to set her down, his temple brushed the crest of her cheekbone. Wondering why he jerked back, she looked up at him. He was looking at her as if he’d never seen her before. She wasn’t aware that her arms still circled his neck until he closed his hands around her wrists and tugged them free.
Suddenly all business, he knelt on one knee in the grass and rested the heel of her bare foot on his other knee, giving it a close examination. Allison tried to ignore the way the lighter streaks in his hair trapped the sunlight and turned them into gleaming strands of gold. She leaned back on her elbows to keep from reaching up and threading her fingers through the soft thickness, and closed her eyes to block the image of his warm, calloused fingers circling her foot. His thumbs rested in her arch as he tilted her foot to see better. She was unable to stop the little catch in her breathing when one thumb moved ever-so-softly up to the ball of her foot.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, misunderstanding the reason for her shortness of breath. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Afraid to trust her voice, Allison only nodded.
“Looks like a honeybee stung you. The stinger is still in there, and it’s already getting red and puffy.”
“Are you all right, Miss Grainger?” Brady said, plopping down beside her.
“I’m fine, Brady,” she told him with a weak smile.
Colt lowered her foot to the ground and stood, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife. “Cilla, will you please go in and mix up some baking soda and water for Allison’s foot? And bring a clean hankie from my drawer.”
“Yes, sir.”
He opened the bone-handled knife, glanced at her and smiled. “Trust me, I’m not going to cut it out. I just need to get the stinger between my thumb and the knife blade to make sure I get a tight hold on it.”
“Oh.”
By the time he got the stinger out, Cilla had reappeared with the things he’d asked for. He applied a generous amount of the soda paste to her foot and tied the handkerchief around it. The pain eased almost immediately.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t think I can finish the game right now.”
“Aw, me and Pa were winning!” Brady said, clearly disappointed.
“Pa and I were winning.” Allison’s correction of his speech was as natural as breathing.
“Pa and I,” Brady repeated with a disgusted downturn of his mouth.
“That’s all right, Miss Grainger,” Cilla said. “We can play another day, right, Pa?”
Colt gave his daughter a look that said he wasn’t sure he believed what he was hearing. “Sure.”
“Well, I should probably go home now that I’ve ruined the evening.”
“It isn’t your fault,” Cilla said. “It’s that stupid old bee’s.”
“But you’re supposed to stay to eat with us,” Brady wailed.
“That was part of the deal,” Colt reminded her. “A game of croquet and supper. If,” he added, “your foot doesn’t hurt too much.”
“No, it’s just a dull throb. Just let me put my shoes on, and I’ll stay. I just hate that I’ve ruined the evening.”
“Not a problem,” Colt assured her. “You sit tight while the kids and I get things ready.”
“I can help.”
“Nope. You’re company,” Colt told her. “Come on, kids. Let’s set the food out.”
To her surprise, putting on her shoe was a bigger ordeal tha
n she’d expected, since her foot was already swelling.
“Are you okay?” Cilla asked, stepping out onto the porch. “Pa said you were taking a long time.”
“I’m sorry,” Allison told her, “but I’m having a hard time getting my shoe on.”
Cilla watched a moment as Allison tried to wriggle her heel into the soft leather slipper. She was surprised to see Cilla trying to bite back a smile.
“I’ll have you know, it isn’t funny, young lady,” Allison said with mock annoyance, which was accompanied by a smile of her own.
“But it is!” Cilla said with a giggle. “You look like Mrs. VanSickle trying to stuff her foot into some shoes that were way too small the other day!”
The mental image was so vivid that Allison burst out laughing. “I think I’ll just leave it off,” she said after a moment. “These stockings are old. I can go home with one shoe off and one shoe on.”
“Then you’ll be like Diddle Diddle Dumpling!” Cilla cried, her eyes alight with laughter. Allison began to laugh, too, and when Brady and Colt came to the door to see what was going on, they found both females wearing wide smiles.
“What’s so funny?” Brady asked.
“Miss Grainger can’t get her shoe on,” Cilla said. While Allison hobbled onto the porch, Cilla told her dad and brother what had been said. Colt laughed, but Brady only frowned, as if he didn’t understand what was so funny.
“You won’t have to walk home,” he said when things quieted down. “Pa can take you home in the wagon.”
“That’s a good idea,” Cilla added.
“That isn’t necessary,” Allison told him. “It isn’t that far, and I’m perfectly able to walk.”
“How about we discuss it after we eat?” Colt said, opening the screen door for the ladies to precede him.
“Let’s,” Cilla said. She smiled at Allison as if there had never been any animosity between them.
Considering their past, Allison was a trifle wary of Cilla’s sudden friendliness. History had taught her that if Colt’s children were behaving, it was because they had something up their sleeves. Their actions had been exemplary thus far, and she was happy that things were going so well, but she was still expecting the other shoe to drop. She followed them inside, suppressing a shudder at what it might be.
Wolf Creek Father (Wolf Creek, Arkansas Book 3) Page 10
