by Lisa Bingham
Silence throbbed in the kitchen until P.D. was compelled to ask, “So what do I do now?”
Bodey swore under his breath. “I don’t know. Just … act like nothing has happened. That would be my best piece of advice. Getting him involved in the Games has been the first thing to get Elam off that damned mountain since he came home.”
She nodded, gathering her purse and standing. “Thanks, Bodey.”
She was at the door when Bodey spoke again.
“You’ve caught his eye, P.D.”
She whirled to face him, gasping. “What?”
“Don’t play coy. We’ve been friends for too long. For a minute this morning, Elam was looking at you like you were a tall drink of water and he was a thirsty man.”
She flushed, hoping that Bodey hadn’t seen her own hungry glances.
“Be careful. I thought he was finally ready to move on. But if what you said was true …”
“You’ve got it all wrong, Bodey. He doesn’t look at me any differently than he would any other woman.”
“Uh-huh.”
Again, she felt the heat rise in her cheeks and she prayed that Bodey wouldn’t sense that she and Elam … that they’d … that …
“This time, it isn’t Elam I’m worried about,” Bodey continued. “It’s you.”
“Honestly, Bodey—”
“Just don’t expect too much of him, okay? You want to have some fun … fantastic. But I wouldn’t count on his being able to offer you much more. Elam might be one of those men who can only commit once in his lifetime.”
She waved a dismissing hand toward Bodey—as if to say he was being totally ridiculous. But as she pushed her way out into the cool night air, she couldn’t entirely will away the twinge of regret that settled in her chest.
Because Elam wouldn’t be the first person in her life to kick her butt to the curb as soon as he was tired of her company.
*
ELAM straightened from the ornate wrought-iron railing he’d been attaching to the rear deck and reached for the Styrofoam cup of coffee he’d left sitting on the edge.
In an instant, he became aware of the cool night breeze, the rumble of the generator, and the glare of the spotlight that illuminated the work he’d done. He’d been keeping a punishing pace, trying to push all but the most rudimentary thoughts from his head. But as he set down his drill, it wasn’t the finished length of railing that captured his attention. Instead, it was the silence. The stillness. The sense of being alone.
Wiping his brow with his sleeve, he dragged air into his lungs and glanced at his watch. Only eleven. And another solitary night stretched ahead of him.
Elam swore, suddenly conscious of his aching muscles and the fact that this house might be nearly finished, but there was no electricity—and the only nod to comfort was an air mattress and a sleeping bag.
Sighing, he dumped the contents of his coffee cup onto the ground. Right now, he’d kill for a hot shower and a comfortable bed.
Almost as soon as the thoughts sifted through his brain, he realized that both of those things could be easily obtained. All he had to do was make a trip down the hill to the Big House.
In the past, he would have resisted the urge—at least until morning after everyone had begun preparing for the day. But tonight, he found that the glittering lights in the valley below beckoned to him, reminding him that his solitude was self-imposed. Besides, he’d promised to help P.D. learn how to shoot. And for that, he’d need to gather some supplies.
Killing the generator, he wrestled his keys out of his jeans pocket and climbed into his truck.
Elam could have made the trip blindfolded. Even as a kid, this spot on the hill had been his own special haunt when he needed to think things through. But tonight, he found himself taking the trip in reverse, returning to the valley nicknamed Taggart Hollow. A low moon provided enough light for him to see the familiar layout of the ranch. The house was the centerpiece, and beyond it was the modern barn, corrals, and paddocks that Elam’s father had finished just before his death, and the huge metal equipment building they referred to as “The Shed,” which Jace had constructed only a few years earlier.
Elam slowed the truck and paused to enjoy the view. Even though he took this same route several times a day, he felt as if he was seeing the compound with new eyes. The Taggart Ranch had been home to the family since Josiah Taggart, freshly discharged from the Union Army, joined the railroad crews and followed them west. After the meeting of the rails in Promontory, he’d found himself tired of the grind of laying rails. With little more than his horse, a rifle, and fifty dollars in gold in his pocket, he’d headed toward the mountains he’d grown to love.
According to legend, the moment he’d entered Taggart Hollow, he’d known he’d found his home. And when he’d made a trip to Bliss and seen the woman behind the counter of the land office, he was sure he’d found his mate as well. But his bride-to-be hadn’t been so easy to convince. So he’d built her a cabin in a stand of trees near the creek and courted her with wildflowers and snippets of poetry. Their home—or the “Little House,” as it was known—still stood a few hundred yards away from the rest of the compound, shaded by pines and willows that had grown to gigantic proportions.
Since then, each generation had added to the holdings. Josiah’s sons had farmed, clearing the land and adding acreage. Elam’s great-grandfather had added cows, making his fortune when cattle was king. He’d commissioned local artisans to build the “Big House,” a huge Craftsman Era dwelling rich with hand-carved details, river rock foundations, and lodge pole beams. He’d brought a bride home from England, shocking the community with his choice of an aristocratic “foreigner” rather than a local girl, but it was soon clear it was a love match. When the stock market crashed and beef prices plunged, he’d lost nearly everything. Somehow, despite the strictures of the Great Depression, he’d still managed to hold on to the land.
Their grandfather had served with distinction in World War II, survived time as a POW, and fallen in love with a schoolteacher from New Zealand, who’d also been interred. Bringing her home to the peace of the mountains, he’d doubled their acreage yet again and brought the ranch back into the black.
Even Elam’s father had drawn his inspiration from the land and his college sweetheart—a woman he’d courted for three years before her parents would allow her to marry. Anticipating the day he would bring her home as his bride, he’d renovated the Big House, bringing it into the modern age. Then, he’d done the same for the family business, increasing the amount of cattle they ran by purchasing more pastureland, especially for summer grazing, as well as stud and training services for their purebred quarter horses.
Putting the truck into gear again, Elam eased down the winding road, clattering over the bridge that spanned the creek. Despite the upheaval and tragedies that had befallen the family in the last few years, Taggart Enterprises was still going strong. When their parents had been killed, Jace had somehow been able to take over their father’s duties as ranch manager, as well as overseeing the crop production, which fed their stock. Although young, Bodey had assumed most of the responsibilities in caring for the horses and cattle. Sure, since leaving the military, Elam had come to work with the colts every day. But as he pulled up next to the house, he realized that he might have shown up, but his head hadn’t been in the game.
That needed to change. He was a part of this family, but he was also a partner in the family business and it was time for him to pull his weight.
Despite the late hour, lights were blazing from the kitchen windows. As Elam stepped through the door, Bodey looked up from the stove. The scent of searing meat filled the room.
Elam crossed to peer over Bodey’s shoulder. “You think it’s dead yet?” he asked wryly. As usual, Bodey was burning the shit out of a T-bone steak.
Bodey regarded him with surprise. “What brings you here?”
Elam’s brows rose. “Any reason why you don’t want me here?”
“No, I—” Bodey swore when popping grease splattered on his hand. Reaching for a fork, he transferred the meat onto a plate.
As he reached to turn off the burner, Elam deftly snagged utensils from a nearby caddy, then swiped the plate and moved to the table.
“What the hell, Elam?” Bodey groused when he discovered his missing food. “I thought you ate at Vern’s.”
“That was hours ago and I’m hungry again,” Elam said, then realized it was true. Something in P.D.’s food must have kick-started his appetite because the sight of the steak was making his stomach grumble.
Bodey opened his mouth to argue, then sighed, turned the burner back on. Reaching into the fridge, he grabbed the package of steaks wrapped in plastic and white butcher paper.
The swinging door to the kitchen flapped open and Jace stepped through.
“Might as well cook one for me, too,” he said, his long limbs eating up the distance to the sink, where he began washing his hands. “Whoever the hell tracked grass all over the rug had better start wrestling with the vacuum. The cleaning lady just came yesterday and those cattle buyers are going to have to come into the house to finalize the paperwork.”
He looked expectantly at Elam, then Bodey. “Well? Any confessions?”
“Barry did it,” Elam said automatically, just as Bodey parroted the same thing. But Elam caught the way Bodey nudged his dirt-and grass-covered boots farther under a chair.
“What are you doing here?” Jace asked Elam as he reached for a towel.
Elam lifted his hands. “Geez, do I need an engraved invitation?”
“No. Bodey just said that—”
Bodey slapped Jace on the shoulder, then quickly returned his attention to the steaks he’d placed in the pan.
Elam’s eyes narrowed. “Bodey said what?” he asked suspiciously.
Jace had never been much good at hiding his thoughts—and clearly something was up, but Jace merely said, “He said you’d be taking his place in the Games—which is great. P.D.’s a good friend.”
Friend?
Or friend.
Elam couldn’t tell anything from either brother’s expression. Jace adopted such a look of innocence that a choir boy would have been proud. He seemed overly concerned with wiping the last drop of moisture from his hands while Bodey was completely absorbed in his duties as a chef.
“What’s going on?”
“Mmm?” It was Bodey who looked up. “Nothing. Just haven’t seen you here at the Big House much lately.”
“I came to get some weapons and ammo so P.D. and I could practice in the morning. Do you mind if P.D. uses your gear, Bode?”
Bodey shook his head. “No. Not at all. Knock yourself out.”
Since his brothers were still acting weird, Elam added, “And I decided, while I was here, that I’d grab a hot shower and crash in a real bed. Any objections?”
As if the words broke the odd tension in the room, his brothers suddenly relaxed.
“Hell, no,” Jace assured him. “Come morning, you can help Bodey with the vacuuming.”
Then the good-natured ribbing began as Jace opened the refrigerator to gather steak sauce and a tub of salad, ranch dressing, and several bottles of beer. But as their voices rose, Jace quickly held a finger to his lips. “Damnit, keep it down. You’ll wake up Barry.”
“Maybe he’ll want Bodey to cook him a steak, too,” Elam offered.
Bodey rolled his eyes.
Jace adopted a look of horror. “Shit, it took me an hour to get him to go to sleep!”
Elam felt his lips lift in a ghost of a smile even as the weight in his chest seemed to ease. But Bodey couldn’t help himself. As he slapped a plate with a still steaming steak in front of Jace, he said, “Then you’ll have to read him another bedtime story. So what?”
Jace’s eyes narrowed and he lifted his fork in warning.
“Damnit, if either of you wake him up, I’ll be sure to let him know that both of you blamed him for the grass. Then I’ll suggest the three of you stay up for a Star Wars marathon.”
This time, it was Bodey who assumed a patent look of horror.
And for the first time in as long as he could remember, Elam suddenly felt … at home.
FOUR
P.D. didn’t know what she should expect as her pickup bounced and jounced over the ruts leading to Elam’s cabin the next morning. Several times, she’d chickened out about coming up the mountain at all. She’d even called Bodey to tell him to get word to Elam that she wasn’t able to meet with him. But she hung up before he could answer his phone. Bodey had advised her to act as if nothing had happened, so she was going to have to go through with their plans whether or not Elam was still in the mood to give her a shooting lesson.
Once again, she’d screwed up her courage enough to drive through Taggart Hollow. But this time, rather than turning at the Big House, she took the service road leading up to Elam’s cabin.
As she rolled to a stop and leaned forward to peer through her cracked windshield, the yard looked empty. There were no tools scattered on the workbenches or a shirt discarded in the warmth of the late-morning sun.
Damn. She’d probably chased the man off for good last night—and she had no clue how to undo the damage. Should she apologize for the random song the band had decided to play? Or should she beg him to give her another chance to … what? Be his friend?
As she sat there, the sunlight reflecting off the dented hood of the secondhand truck she’d bought to haul produce from local farms to Vern’s, she wasn’t even thinking of the Wild West Games anymore. Yeah, her half of the possible prize money had seemed like a perfect way to pay for a much-needed addition to the kitchen, but she’d always known that winning was a long shot. And now, remembering Elam sitting in the darkness, the blood draining from his features, was enough to make her reconsider.
It had been a stupid idea. Stupid, stupid, stupid! She might be able to keep her backside on a horse and hike the foothills, but she sure as hell couldn’t handle a team or shoot a—
A loud metal bang and the jolt of her tailgate being dropped made her jump. When she glanced in her rearview mirror, she caught sight of Elam hefting a heavy metal box into the bed, then a padded rifle case.
Relieved, she saw that she’d overlooked Elam’s truck. The shiny silver Dodge Ram was parked in the shade of a stand of aspens next to an older Ford with a toolbox in its bed. Without a word, Elam made another trip back to the Dodge, grabbing another weapons case from the backseat of the extended cab, and a second ammo box. He threw them into the bed with the others, relatched the tailgate, then rounded the truck and wrenched open the door.
“Morning,” he said as he folded himself into the passenger seat.
P.D.’s heart began pounding like crazy in her chest, and she had to fight to keep from grinning. Although Elam was still quiet, reserved, he showed no other signs that he’d been driven from her restaurant the previous evening.
“Morning.”
Elam wore a cowboy hat low on his brow, casting his face in sharp planes and angles. To her delight, she could see it wasn’t a “fancy” hat like those worn by city folk—with their seven-hundred-dollar flashy boots and their stiff, ill-fitting cowboy hats—who came to Bliss to hunt or fish. Elam’s headgear had obviously been worn well and often, probably more for work than for town since the brim was streaked with dust, and a darker ribbon of color next to the band showed where the hat had faded in the sunlight. He slouched in his seat and pointed to the dirt track that headed higher into the foothills.
“Head up that way,” he said. “There’s a natural berm toward the top that we can use for target practice.”
She put the truck in gear, carefully maneuvering through the ruts caused by spring rains and the heavy trucks that had delivered supplies for the cabin. Once they passed Elam’s house and began to climb, the surface grew smoother and she was able to go a little faster.
“What’s this?” Elam asked, gesturing to the c
ooler that sat between them on the bench seat.
“Lunch.”
One of his brows rose, drawing attention to those changeable hazel eyes that were more gold and green today.
“Are you trying to make me fat?”
She allowed her grin to slip free. “I promised to feed you.”
“Dinner. You promised dinner.”
Her stomach fluttered in anticipation. Did that mean he was still planning on coming to Vern’s later? If so, she was going to have a word with the band. Tonight, they would play nothing but happy, happy, happy songs.
“I didn’t want you fainting from hunger with a loaded pistol cradled in your hands,” she said—and why, oh why, did the words sound so dirty the minute they fell from her lips?
He eyed her for a moment—as if he, too, had made the ribald connection—but thankfully, he let the comment pass. “So are most of the recipes at Vern’s yours?”
“About half,” she admitted. “I’ve got a great chef I persuaded to move here from Logan. He was ready to leave the rat race of a college town. But I love to experiment with sauces and pastries.”
“You do good work.” He lifted the lid and peered inside, revealing the ice packs, boxed lunches, and bottles of soda. “It smells good,” he said, closing the cooler again.
“Peppered turkey on homemade sourdough bread, my famous crock-aged pickles, a three-cabbage slaw, and Smack-Yo-Mama chocolate cake.”
This time, both of his brows rose. And—yes!—some of the tension eased from around his mouth.
“Smack … what?”
“You know. ‘It’s so good you’ll—’”
“Smack your mama,” he finished. “Where on earth did you learn to cook like that?”
P.D. shrugged, slowing for a sharp turn. “You might say that my parents were throwbacks to the seventies flower-power movement. We traveled the country in an old school bus that they’d painted in psychedelic colors gathered from the cast-off bins of local hardware stores. Summer and River Raines, my parents—and yes, those were their real names—weren’t too fond of work, but they loved to barter. So now and then, when money was tight, they’d offer to wash dishes or clean tables for food. I was exposed to a lot of regional cooking and produce, and I paid attention. Plus—” She stopped, wondering if she could offer him a more painful kernel of truth. But after witnessing his own naked anguish the night before, she knew she deserved to give him at least that much. “There wasn’t a whole lot to eat when I was growing up, so I became horribly preoccupied with food. I pored over recipes in the newspapers like other kids read the comics.”
