by Joanna Sims
She reappeared with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses full to the rim with ice. She pushed the screen door open with her shoulder and carried the tray carefully over to where Wyatt was kicked back, his boots propped up on the porch railing.
“Here!” He jumped up. “Let me help you with that.”
“You’re just full of help today, aren’t you?”
Wyatt gave her one of his quick winks. “Yes, ma’am.”
Did he just ma’am me? Maybe he isn’t trying to hit on me.
She poured the lemonade for them, handed him his glass and then sat down. Her body thanked her for sitting down. She was worn-out. And the endorphin high that she had been riding for hours had disappeared, leaving her feeling a pain on the right side of her abdomen again.
“Thank you, Wyatt. Seriously. I was in over my head and didn’t know it.”
He gulped down the lemonade in one shot and then went back for more. He gulped down a second glass before he came up for air.
“That’s darn good lemonade.”
She nodded her agreement; when she looked over at the cowboy, she just couldn’t stop herself from clearing up any confusion she was feeling.
“Wyatt...I need to clear something up in my own mind. You aren’t...hitting on me, are you?”
Wyatt laughed an easy laugh. “I’ve been tryin’.”
Baffled, Casey asked, “Do you even know how old I am?”
He gave her a sheepish look. “I carried your aunt’s groceries in the other day. I might’ve accidentally seen your birthday candles. You’re either gonna be thirty-five or fifty-three.”
He was trying to make her laugh and it worked. To have such a good-looking cowboy paying attention to her, it was flattering. It really was.
“Just exactly how old are you, Wyatt?” She didn’t think that she was all that much older than him in years, but she was light-years older than him in maturity.
“Twenty-four next month.”
“I’m a decade older than you.” Casey took another sip of her lemonade. “Why do you think you want to go out with me?”
Wyatt looked at her face appreciatively. “I’m a sucker for a redhead.”
“And?” she prompted him when he didn’t say anything more.
“Does there have to be anything more than that?” Wyatt asked, and for the first time, he actually sounded serious. “I think you’re pretty and I want to take you out.”
He filled in the empty space in the conversation by adding, “And I personally think you should go out with me. I guarantee that you’d have one of the best nights of your life.”
“I’m flattered, Wyatt.” She smiled at him. “I really am. But I just think we’re the wrong age for each other.”
“I’m not asking to get married,” Wyatt bantered. “I just want to take you dancin’.”
It struck her as out of character that part of her wanted to go out with the cowboy. Yes, he was younger than her, but like he said, he wasn’t looking for marriage. He just wanted to take her out for the fun of it.
“I asked your aunt about you.” Wyatt stood up and leaned against the railing opposite her chair.
“You asked my aunt about me? How’d that go?”
“She told me that you aren’t fast.” Wyatt rested his hands on either side of his body. “But I don’t mind slow. As a matter of fact, I think I’d like to try out a new gear for a change.”
* * *
Wyatt helped her repack the shed so that there was an aisle in the middle. All of the furniture was organized now and easy to access. When Brock returned home that evening, he was shocked to see what she had managed to accomplish.
“You did all of this by yourself?”
There was a moment, right before she told him that Wyatt had helped her, that she felt nervous to tell him. No, she hadn’t been officially dating Brock, but they had been spending so much time together that it kind of felt like something might be building between them. But there was always the divorce hanging overhead like a nasty storm cloud.
“Wyatt was here again?” Brock’s heavy dark brows drew together severely. “I need to have a talk with that boy.”
“No.” Casey wanted to reassure him. “He’s not bothering me. Really. He’s harmless. And actually, he was a really big help.”
“So—did you find anything you wanted?” Brock asked her after he had cleaned his plate.
“Are you kidding?” She was in awe at the man’s talent. “Everything!”
“If you’ve got a place to keep it, you can have it.”
He was serious, too.
“No—I wouldn’t do that. It’s too much.”
She waited for a moment before she added, “You are going to get irritated with me for saying this, but you are so incredibly talented, Brock. I just wish you would do something with that gift—it’s such a waste if you don’t.”
“Are you done?” He pointed to her plate; she didn’t feel hungry. She would have thought she would be famished—but she wasn’t.
He took her plate when she nodded yes in response to his question.
“Why don’t you want to make furniture anymore?” She really wanted to know. God-given talent like that shouldn’t be squandered for no good reason.
Brock sighed—he had his hands resting on the edge of the kitchen sink, his head bowed down, his back to her.
“I just lost the desire,” he finally told her. “I didn’t have the heart for it anymore.”
His words struck a nerve in her, stirred up a painful memory of love lost from her college years. She used to write poetry—and she was pretty good at it, too—but after her first real boyfriend didn’t want to be with her anymore, she lost the desire, the heart, to write poetry, and she hadn’t written any poetry since. That was the last time she was going to pressure Brock about it. His heart was broken and she doubted he’d make another stick of furniture until that broken heart was mended.
* * *
The family was gathered in the large kitchen of Bent Tree where a long table carved from one of the fallen trees on the property allowed seating for the entire family and guests. It was the room in the house that was always warm, no matter the season, because the ovens were always on. Aunt Barb was an avid cook and loved to make homemade meals and desserts for her family. That was one of the many ways her aunt showed everyone in the family how much she loved them. So, when her aunt insisted on hosting a “semi-surprise” birthday party for her and Taylor, she couldn’t refuse. It would hurt her Aunt Barb, and now that she was a regular visitor at Bent Tree, she was feeling less like a stranger and more like family.
Uncle Hank, who had a very nice singing voice, added after everyone else had stopped singing, “And many more!”
Aunt Barb clasped her hands together, her finely structured face lit up with joy because the family had gathered. She was such a family-focused woman—if she could, she would have all four of her living children living on the ranch so she could see them every day and spoil the living dickens out of her grandchildren.
“Make a wish!” everyone shouted at them. The cake had a three and a five on one side for her, and a four and a zero for Taylor on the other side.
“You go first,” she said to her sister. Taylor closed her eyes tightly, thought for a moment and then blew out her two candles. Everyone cheered when the candle flames were blown out.
“Your turn,” Taylor said. “Wish for something wonderful.”
Casey held her long ponytail close to her body so wayward strands wouldn’t get caught by the candle flames. She closed her eyes tightly and wished for what she had wished for the last several years: a family.
Casey opened her eyes and blew out the flames, first on the number 3 and then on the number 5. The family cheered for her; there was so much love in the room aimed
at her, it made her wonder how she would ever go back to her fairly solitary life in Chicago. Yes, she had friends. But most of her friends were married now with children. She was one of the last single friends from college; she didn’t blame her friends for not having much free time—if she had the family she wished for, she wouldn’t have time to go shopping or go out to eat downtown. She would be at home, with her husband, enjoying her children.
“Thank you, everyone!” Casey blew kisses to her family on the other side of the table. “Let’s eat cake!”
Aunt Barb, by her request, had baked a five-layer red velvet cake with thick, rich, buttery, cream cheese frosting. She had her first slice then immediately went back for a second slice.
“Am I too late for the party?” Wyatt came waltzing into the kitchen.
She had already said “no thank you” to the cowboy twice now, but he just kept on coming back for more rejection. At least he rebounded quickly.
Her uncle Hank and her cousin Luke greeted Wyatt without any reservations. They shook his hand and gave him a pat on the back.
“For the birthday girl.” Wyatt pulled a single red rose out from behind his back.
Casey’s eyes skirted around to her family to see their reaction. This was completely embarrassing. And yet, it was...nice.
She accepted the flower and smelled it right away. “Mmm. Thank you, Wyatt.”
“Sit down and have a piece of cake, Wyatt,” Barbara said to the new arrival. It was always the more the merrier for her.
Casey was glad to see Sophia and Luke sitting next to each other at the table, each holding one of their twin toddler girls, Annabelle and Abigail. Their son Danny had gone outside to play, and Casey thought that his parents would be glad that he was going to work off some of that rare sugar infusion before bedtime. But even though they were sitting next to each other, there was a weird tension between them. They didn’t exchange but a handful of words, and they hadn’t touched each other, not even when Sophia had first arrived with the children.
“Do you mind slidin’ over a bit?” Wyatt asked Taylor. “I really had my heart set on sittin’ next to the birthday girl.”
“Woman,” Casey corrected. “I’m the birthday woman.”
Taylor did the unexpected, at least in Casey’s opinion—she scooted over to make room for the cowboy.
“She thinks that I’m too young for her.” Wyatt grinned at the table full of friendly faces. “How’s the collarbone, Clint? I heard you banged it up but good down in Texas.”
Clint was sitting next to Taylor, holding a sleeping Penelope in his arms. “It’s knitting back together alright.”
Taylor didn’t say a word, but Casey knew from their conversations that her sister wished her husband’s professional bull riding days would soon be behind them.
“You thinkin’ about retiring?” Wyatt asked before he put a huge bite of cake in his mouth. He gave Casey a closed-mouth smile while he chewed with a wink.
Incorrigible.
Clint’s conflict about his career showed on his face. “It’s lookin’ that’away.”
“So...” Wyatt turned his attention on her. “You’ve turned me down twice. She’s turned me down twice,” he said louder to the whole table.
“That’s a record right there,” Luke, who was typically quiet in a crowd, said loudly with a sharp laugh.
“That’s got to sting,” Uncle Hank said before he took a sip of his coffee.
“That’s okay—that’s okay—there’s more than one way to lasso a calf.”
Casey peeked around Wyatt to her sister. “Did he just use a cow metaphor in relation to me?”
“I’ve decided to ask Ms. Barbara,” Wyatt continued loudly, “for her permission to take her lovely niece out dancing to celebrate her birthday.”
“That is playing dirty, my friend,” Casey said to the cowboy.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea, Casey.” Aunt Barb beamed at her. “I think you should go.”
* * *
Brock heard Casey come in from her night out on the town with Wyatt because he had been awake, on the couch, waiting for her to come home. It was inconceivable to him that he had let that smooth-talking cowboy get the better of him with Casey. Not that he had an agreement with the pretty redhead. He didn’t. But the minute she’d come home from her birthday party, flushed in the cheeks and telling him in a rush that she had to find something to wear for a night out on the town with Wyatt, he knew that what he had been feeling, and concealing, was more than just a passing fancy. He had real feelings for Casey. He had deep, genuine, impossible-to-shake feelings that he had kept hidden because he was legally married. It didn’t matter to him that they were separated; it didn’t matter that he knew Shannon had already moved on. It mattered that in the eyes of the law and God, he was a married man.
Oblivious to the anguish he felt at the thought of her getting dolled up for anyone but him, Casey had burst through the screen door to ask him his opinion on her dress. Her beautiful hair had been washed and blow-dried; when she walked, the ends of her hair swished enticingly just above her derriere. He had thought about touching her hair—so many times. She had spun in a circle, in her pretty forest green dress.
“Please be honest...” She looked down at her dress self-consciously. “Does it look like I’m trying too hard?”
“No.” He had to tell her the truth. She looked like a genuine cowgirl with that flouncy skirt that ended just above the knees and a new pair of boots. “That dress suits you.”
She had hugged him then. It was a spontaneous hug that had nearly bowled him over—he could still feel her arms around his body. They hadn’t been that close—not since the first day he had rescued her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and not let her go. She shouldn’t be getting gussied up to go out with any man, unless that man was him.
“You’ll watch Hercules, won’t you?” she had asked him. “I can’t leave him alone up there. He’ll be too scared.”
Casey had asked him to watch her most beloved thing in the world—Hercules the micro-poodle. So he understood that it meant something that she had entrusted Hercules into his care. But, and this was a huge but—any scenario where he ended up on his couch holding a teacup poodle while Wyatt damn Williams got the girl—was a bad night.
So, no—he wasn’t really asleep when Casey tiptoed into the house at 2:00 a.m., slightly tipsy and humming a popular country tune.
Of course Wyatt tried to kiss Casey. That was the whole point of the pursuit. But the question that had been running around in his mind, over and over, like a skipping record, was: Did she let him?
Did Casey let Wyatt kiss her? And, even more important—did she kiss him back?
Casey tried to be very quiet when Wyatt dropped her off, but she was a little wobbly from a couple of celebratory drinks, so she wasn’t as quiet as she had planned.
In the foyer, she took two steps forward and then two steps back. She spun around, which made her lose her balance.
“Shhhh.” She laughed at her near fall into the wall.
On her tiptoes, she went to the couch where Brock always slept, knowing that Hercules would have found a comfortable place to sleep somewhere on that giant expanse of the ranch foreman’s body.
“Hi, puppy face!” Casey found Hercules tangled up in Brock’s unruly beard.
“Shhhh,” she chastised herself. “People are sleeping.”
She scooped up her poodle and, after bumping into an end table, she opened the screen door very, very slowly in an attempt to keep the squeaking to a minimum. However, once through the door, she forgot to shut it gently and it slammed back into place, making a loud racket.
“Oh! Shoot!” Casey froze in her tracks. “Darn it! That was not quiet at all.”
Chapter Eleven
On the way ba
ck to the loft, Casey hummed and twirled and kissed her poodle on the head happily. What a night! What an incredible, fun, unexpected night! Wyatt hadn’t lied—he had shown her one of the best times she’d ever had. He was full of life and he was popular and he was so much fun to hang out with. And the boy could dance. He really could. In fact, he showed her quite a few moves.
They had laughed and talked about nothing important or serious. Wyatt wasn’t serious—he didn’t follow politics or the economy. He wasn’t the kind of guy a woman of her age should allow too far into her life—but for a whopping good time, no strings attached, no commitment required, he was a total blast!
She continued to hum as she opened the door to her loft. Casey put Hercules down and then twirled her way to the bed. She was just about to flop onto the bed when she noticed a present on her bed.
“Ah!” she exclaimed. “A present!”
It was wrapped haphazardly by hands unaccustomed to that sort of activity; there was a giant silver bow on the present and a note card that merely said “Happy Birthday, Casey” in scratchy handwriting.
“What could this be, puppy face?” Casey ripped the wrapping off the present, balled it up and threw it over her shoulder.
In the low light, and looking through wobbly beer-goggle eyes, Casey couldn’t immediately tell what she had just unwrapped. But then it hit her—Brock had made something just for her. Something that he knew would touch her heart the most.
“Oh, Brock.” Her hand went to her heart. “You dear, sweet, complicated man.”
* * *
The morning after her birthday, Casey woke up with her first hangover in years. She hadn’t “partied” in ages. She was a career woman—she was an educator. Her life didn’t involve late nights or drinking more than a couple glasses of wine on the weekend. Last night, in the spirit of letting down her hair and kicking up her heels, she’d had several drinks past her limit. It had been a good time that didn’t feel so good the next morning.
