Her Midnight Cowboy (Keeper's Kin Book 1)

by Beth Alvarez

  “Ah. All right.” Emmett nodded. He didn’t move from the doorway, looking at the two of them expectantly.

  Clearing his throat, Kade took his coat from the doorknob. “I’ll get out of your way, then. Let you get back to cookin’.”

  “Sleep well.” Felicity watched him slide out of the kitchen, pursing her lips.

  Neither she nor her father said anything for a long time. Resisting a scowl, she turned back to her forgotten work. She pulled the canisters of flour and sugar from the back of the countertop, lining them up along the front edge.

  Emmett paced across the kitchen to stand beside her, releasing a quiet sigh. “I don’t think that was appropriate.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’m the judge of that, Daddy.” She leveled a cup of flour with a spoon, never looking up.

  “I’m not questioning you, sweetheart.” His tone softened and she glanced at him from the corner of her eye, studying his troubled expression.

  He shifted, toeing a crack in the hardwood floor. “I spoke to Marshall a bit while you were getting the tree cut. I didn’t want to mention it last night because you were so happy about the tree. It’s been so long since I saw you happy like that, I didn’t want to bring you down.”

  “What did Marshall have to say?” She added another cup of flour, fitting the lid back on the canister and putting it back in its place.

  “He’s having some second thoughts about his hire.” Emmett nodded toward the doorway Kade had disappeared through. “He’s been talking to the police about it, but they can’t do anything yet, just watch and wait.”

  Felicity made a small sound, something noncommittal, just enough to verify she was listening. She never could remember how much brown sugar and how much granulated sugar this recipe called for. Dusting her hands together, she pulled open the drawer of recipes, perusing the cards.

  “The very first night he was on the job, they lost a cow from the herd. Marshall said he and Sam Foster followed the tire tracks the thieves left behind. They went straight to the herd. No looking for it, just straight to it. Like they knew where it would be, and what the fastest path to get there was.”

  “Maybe they were watching,” Felicity said. “Marshall already suspected they were keeping an eye on his herd, whoever they are.”

  “Yes, but he also said Kade was uncomfortable telling the story to Sam.”

  “So? I remember you stuttering all the way through a traffic stop when I was little.” She frowned at him. “Besides, Sam Foster is scary to look at. I get intimidated just taking him turnovers. I can’t imagine trying to report a crime.”

  “Look, sweetheart, I’m not saying I’ve made up my mind either way. I’m just saying it’s best for you to be cautious right now. If he isn’t who he says he is, I don’t want you getting hurt.” Hurt again, he meant. He didn’t say it, but his tone implied it well enough.

  “You’re thinking too much of it,” she said. “It was just to say thank you. For the tree.”

  Emmett’s eyebrows shot up. “That was a thank you?”

  Her jaw tightened and she slapped the recipe card down on the counter, shutting the drawer. “I just got a little carried away, that’s all.” And she had; wonderfully, deliciously carried away. She hadn’t intended to let impulse get the best of her, but once she had a taste of him, she didn’t want to stop. Kade was strong and aggressive, and she surprised herself by admitting she liked that. Just thinking of his chilled hands against her skin made her shiver again, though not just with memory of the cold.

  “All the more reason to be careful,” her father sighed. “He’s been a polite house guest the past few days, but we still don’t know what kind of man he is.”

  “All right, Daddy.” There was nothing else she could say.

  Emmett studied her for a moment before patting her arm. “I love you.”

  “Love you too, Daddy.”

  As beautifully timed as ever, the front door opened and the desk bell rang.

  “Sounds like your first customer of the day.” He gave her arm one last pat before going to answer the bell, leaving her to measure ingredients in peace.

  She’d just started to cut the dough together when Gertie came around the corner.

  Felicity did a double-take. “Miss Gertie, what’s that cane for?”

  The old woman chuckled, hobbling her way to the kitchen table and drawing out a chair. “We aren’t all so spry as you, girlie. Besides, it’s cold enough now for ice to be on the ground in the mornings. I need all the extra legs I can get to keep from slipping. In any case, I thought I’d sneak over here and get a bite of something before I head to the shop.”

  “Maybe we can get you some cleats. Or some snow shoes and a pike to walk with.” Felicity grinned at her, brushing flour off her hands. “I’m sorry, I haven’t got anything fresh made just yet. It’ll be twenty minutes or so. I have some pastries from yesterday, though, if you’d like some of those while you wait.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind waiting. Besides, that way I get to sit and smell it baking.” Gertie leaned her cane against the table, peeling off her scarf and laying it on the tabletop beside her. “And I can smell your tree, too! Haven’t seen a tree in the window of the Hilltop House since you were a girl.”

  Her smile faltered and Felicity turned back to the mixing bowl. “It was a gift. It’s not done yet, but you’ll see lights in a couple days, I imagine.”

  Gertie nodded, satisfied. “Well, I’m glad. Seems you and your father deserve a bit of cheer after all you’ve been through.”

  “Thank you, Miss Gertie. That’s very kind.” She knew the old woman meant it as kind, anyway. Felicity didn’t like to think of herself as bitter, but she had grown tired of people’s sympathy over the years. Everyone had rough spells. The disadvantage of a small town was that whenever you did, everyone knew about it. She didn’t begrudge anyone the knowledge of her mother’s passing; Helen Hammond had been an active and vibrant part of Holly Hill’s community.

  It was the whole town knowing how things had fallen apart with Michael that bothered her. That was private, nobody’s business but her own. And yet it had spread across the town like wildfire, people coming by to offer sympathy on top of scathing comments about him, which she hadn’t been in the mood to hear.

  The topic still came up far more often than she liked.

  “We might have snow for Christmas,” Gertie continued, unaware of her sour thoughts. “I’ve noticed the stripes on the woolly bears are thinner than usual.”

  Felicity couldn’t help but laugh. “You still swear by those caterpillars for the winter forecast, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.” Gertie sounded almost offended. “They’ve never been wrong. Not once in my life! Why, six years ago I saw one that was all brown, and that was the year we barely had a winter at all.”

  “And I’m sure you saw an all black one when we had that blizzard, back when I was a little girl?”

  “I certainly did.” The elderly woman nodded matter-of-factly, though her face fell. “I suppose most aren’t too concerned with the weather these days, though. Stranger things about than narrow-striped woolly bears.”

  Felicity cocked her head, eyeing her oddly. “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t heard yet?” Her thick white eyebrows climbed her weathered forehead, and Gertie leaned forward in her chair. “The rumors are all about town.”

  “I haven’t heard anything, Miss Gertie. I’m always working.” Except for the snippet of time taken out for picking a tree. And for walking around the town square with Kade. The thought of him made her annoyance rise anew, and she mashed the dough in the bowl harder.

  Gertie gave her a piteous look, apparently mistaking the cause of her frustration. “I know you work hard, dear. Well, let me tell you about it. You know about all of Marshall McCullough’s missing cattle, of course.”

  “Of course.” Felicity nodded, trying not to sound short.

  “Well, they found one of them this morning. Rec
ognized it by its brand. The poor thing was in Nate Mason’s driveway, dead as a doornail.” Shaking her head, Gertie clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Nate about had a fit. Not over the cow, mind, but over having to drive through his lawn to head to work. But the strangest thing wasn’t the animal. It was that it was bone dry, not a drop of blood left in it. Like it was hung up after slaughter to bleed it out, but no one had opened it to bleed. Save some cuts on its back and sides, all it had was some kind of bite around the collar.”

  It was a struggle not to roll her eyes. Those sort of stories cropped up every few years and they were inevitably some sort of prank or misunderstanding. Still, Felicity didn’t like hearing about them. Misunderstanding or not, it gave her the willies to think of finding a dead animal in that condition. “Now Miss Gertie, you know I don’t like spook-tales like those.”

  “It’s not just a spook-tale, and it’s worse than just that.” The old woman’s expression darkened, her voice dropping to a whisper. “There’s something funny going on, and lots of folk are talking about it. Rumor has it there’s a person a few towns over that turned up the same way.”

  Felicity gasped, her dough blender clacking against the glass bowl. “Oh, now that’s quite enough of that! I get little enough sleep as it is, Miss Gertie, you want me to be awake all night?”

  Gertie laughed apologetically. “Oh, no. I don’t mean to frighten you. I just got carried away, is all.” She cleared her throat, offering a sympathetic smile. “Still not sleeping, are you? The chamomile didn’t help?”

  “No, nothing seems to help. I guess there are medications and things, but I’ve had about all I can take of doctors for one life.” Turning the dough out onto the counter, Felicity worked it with her hands. “Besides, I’m sort of used to it by now. I’ve had insomnia since I was a girl. As long as I’m working here, it doesn’t change much. I can nap when I need to, and it lets me bake fresh things overnight, you know?”

  “Yes, but how long are you going to be working here?” Gertie asked quietly. “The rest of your life?”

  “Maybe.” Felicity had already convinced herself she’d spend the rest of her life in Holly Hill, so why not the Hilltop House? Her father would always need help. After he passed, she’d just run the place on her own.

  If they managed to keep the place that long. She closed her eyes, rolling out the dough and reaching for a second bowl to mix filling.

  The kitchen was quiet for a while, only the sound of her utensils breaking the silence. Once she had the cinnamon rolls on a baking sheet and into the oven, Gertie finally spoke again.

  “Do you and your father have plans for Christmas?”

  “I think the tree is about as far as we planned.” Felicity smiled weakly. The scent of cinnamon had all but overpowered the smell of the tree, but it was still there, a comforting cool note beneath the warmth of her fragrant sweets.

  “Well, it’s a good start. Just don’t get so caught up in work that you forget to enjoy the holiday yourself. You know.” Chuckling, the old woman climbed to her feet and took her cane from the edge of the table. “Could I trouble you to make another dozen of those and bring a box by the shop later? I think they’d be nice to have today, maybe with a spot of coffee.”

  Felicity grinned before moving to the sink to scrub dough off her hands. “Of course, Miss Gertie. You know I’m always happy to make things for you.”

  “Good!” Fishing a small billfold from somewhere in her coat, Gertie left cash on the kitchen table and bundled herself up to venture back into the cold. She was halfway out the door before she paused. “Oh, and Felicity?”

  She glanced back over her shoulder. “Yes, ma’am?”

  Gertie gave her one last grim smile. “Don’t read the newspaper today.”

  SIX

  * * *

  OLD GERTIE’S SHOP was one of several antique stores on the square. The weathered paint on the window proudly proclaimed the name Bertie and Gertie’s, though her husband Bertrand had been deceased nearly as long as Felicity’s mother.

  Despite her fondness for the shop, Felicity seldom visited, save to make deliveries and occasionally help Gertie with odd jobs around the apartment upstairs. With the woman being well into her eighties, Felicity fretted over the steep stairwell, but Gertie was more sure-footed and energetic than her years might make one think. It was a wonder the woman managed to run a business and get around without a car, but Felicity suspected she liked having things to do—even if it was just walking to a destination.

  Though she expected to be waylaid for a cup of coffee and chatter, there were people in the shop when Felicity arrived with her box of warm cinnamon rolls. The truck out front sported out-of-state license plates, which always meant Gertie’s sales would fare well. Instead of interrupting the bartering, Felicity only smiled and waved, depositing the box of sweets on the old table where Gertie kept the coffee pot and then hurrying back outside.

  In years past, she’d visited the shop often, hunting for knick-knacks and tidbits to turn into decorations for the Hilltop House. But after the bills started coming, the money they could spare for such things dried up. No matter how much she liked Bertie and Gertie’s, Felicity couldn’t help but view the shop as part of her past life, the one that had fallen apart and left her with broken pieces that wouldn’t fit back together.

  Her steps slowed on the sidewalk and Felicity found herself standing at the empty storefront on the square. For the second time in a week, she peered in through the window and frowned.

  She tried not to look at that building. Whenever she did, she couldn’t help looking past the grime on the glass and seeing what could have been inside. Cases for cupcakes and cookies, small café tables for breakfast patrons, bold colors on the walls with the names of French pastries painted in elegant script.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want the bakery anymore. It wasn’t even that she feared it wouldn’t be successful. The problem was no matter how sure she was, she knew it took years for a new business to turn a profit. Until that happened, it would be another drain on their resources they simply couldn’t afford.

  And what if she was wrong? The business failing would push them over the line they were treading, spilling them into the kind of debt where people lost everything they owned. It was already precariously close, the void yawning beside them, threatening to swallow her and her father and the whole Hilltop House if they made a single misstep.

  No, they couldn’t risk that. The bakery was a daydream, that was all.

  It couldn’t be anything else.

  Felicity hugged her coat closer, trudging the few blocks back to the house on the hill. It did look better, dressed up in winter decorations, and she hoped their visitors would appreciate the effort that went into it.

  Christmas was only a few weeks away, meaning travel would pick up soon. If the records they kept held accurate, they’d have more guests arriving on the weekend. She’d need to prepare another grocery list; they’d want to have festive cookies on hand, and having gingerbread houses for visiting children to decorate always went over well.

  At the foot of the porch stairs, Felicity paused and frowned.

  Rolled tight and wrapped in protective plastic, the day’s newspaper waited on the top step.

  She eyed it, considering Gertie’s warning. She didn’t have to read it just because she picked it up, though, and her father received the paper for a reason. They weren’t much for television or computers, so all his news came from the paper. It was old fashioned, but a lot of Holly Hill was.

  Sighing and shaking her head, she scooped the paper off the steps and carried it inside.

  The smell of the tree greeted her, mingled with the lingering smell of Gertie’s cinnamon rolls. The scent was normally pleasant, but having just passed the empty storefront on the square, it came loaded with a bitter sentiment this time. Shucking off her coat, Felicity trekked past the tree to throw her coat into her room and kick off her shoes, as well. Then she stepped around the corne
r, tossing the paper onto the kitchen table before returning to the living room and picking up a string of lights.

  Putting the rest of the multicolored lights on the tree took a good portion of the day, though she worked on it while doing her baking. It made the task less tedious, and with that out of the way, she could take her time with the ornaments.

  A box waited beside the tree, halfway unpacked with garland hanging over its side. Her father had always preferred tinsel, but like with the star and angel, he and her mother had often worked out compromises. In the end, the tree never looked the way either of them wanted, but to her, it was always perfect; her tree, an ideal blending of her parents’ personalities. She trailed her fingers over the garland, smiling to herself. Then she picked up one of the packages of ornaments, pulling off the cracked cellophane top and setting it aside.

  Most of the ornaments were as old as her, the colorful glass globes bearing dirty spots of discoloration. Felicity tried to hang them with the most attractive side to the front.

  A door upstairs closed, the sound of boots on the stairs making her pause. It was still mid-afternoon, earlier than she expected their house guest to be up, but her father didn’t own boots—it couldn’t be anyone else.

  She cradled the box of ornaments close and turned her head.

  Kade paused on the stairs, none of his usual mirth on his face. He met her eyes, looking troubled, descending the rest of the open staircase at a slower pace.

  “No boots on the rug,” she said, taking another ornament from the box.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him pull off his cowboy boots and drop them by the bottom stair.

  The corners of her mouth twitched with amusement.

  Boots aside, he didn’t look ready for work. He wore his hat and a white undershirt, which didn’t leave much to her imagination, and his jeans—deliciously snug across the hips as they were—were missing a belt. Standing on the edge of the rug in his white socks with a hole in the toe, the unpolished image made his hat look silly.