Cleo glanced back at Isaac and Leo to make sure they weren’t listening. They weren’t, so she continued and kept her voice low. “It’s as if Judd’s had to put his life on pause.”
“You mean about Audrey?” Rosy asked.
Cleo suddenly felt like the bulging-eyed bullfrog, and she didn’t want to admit it, but she had more curiosity than a dozen cats. “They were involved?” Involved was such a tidy word. Better than boinking.
Rosy made a check of the boys, too, then leaned in toward Cleo, as if telling a secret. “Audrey bakes him pies. Pies,” Rosy said with emphasis, as if that was critical to this conversation, and it appeared to Rosy that Cleo would understand.
She didn’t. “Pies?” Cleo asked.
Rosy gave a firm nod, complete with a tight, disapproving mouth. “When a woman bakes a man cookies, it’s just flirting. I mean, she can hand him one, and he can eat it without even a napkin or anything. But a pie requires cutlery. Plates or saucers. It means sitting down and eating it.” Rosy huffed. “Audrey might as well just strip off naked and jiggle her boobies in front of him.”
Cleo was certain the stare she gave Rosy was a blank one. “Do, uh, other baked goods cross such lines?”
Rosy shrugged. “Muffins are fine. Cupcakes, too, but cake can be flirty since you can’t eat some varieties with your hands. Too messy unless it’s pound cake or coffee cake. Of course, it could be just showing off, too, if it’s one of the fancy ones with icing roses and such. But showing off could be like proposing marriage.”
Cleo had no idea that Rosy had so many opinions about the connection of baked goods and the subtleties of a courtship.
“Don’t get me wrong. I don’t dislike Audrey,” Rosy went on. “But she’s after Judd.”
Cleo hated the pang of jealousy she felt about that. “And she’d be a good catch.”
Rosy looked at her. “If she was, Judd would have already caught her. Something to think about.”
Something else replaced the jealousy—the heat she felt for Judd. Of course, it didn’t take much to stir that.
“Still, Audrey’s not giving up,” Rosy added a moment later. “Her uncle, Marvin, owns the Gray Mare Saloon, and now that he’s found the ‘love of his life,’ he wants to get a partner to help him run it so he’ll have more free time. Her name is Bambi, and she works at a ‘nightclub’ in San Antonio. According to what I’ve heard, her specialty is a ‘slap and tickle’ lap dance.”
Cleo wasn’t exactly sure what that was, but she now understood Marvin’s urgency in finding a business partner for the Gray Mare.
“Marvin wants Audrey to buy part ownership of it so it’ll stay in the family,” Rosy went on. “And she’s got plenty of money to do that, but Audrey won’t because of Judd’s drinking problem.” Rosy lowered her voice even more on those last two words.
And there came the jealousy again, and this time it was mixed with lots of other feelings. Including guilt. Audrey had avoided putting a liquor-lined path between Judd and her, and here Cleo owned the Angry Angus.
Rosy cleared her throat when Leo rushed back over to them, and it was a signal that the talk about pies, bars, boobies and such had to end.
“Eddie and crew will be even better when I get the sound and motion effects working,” Rosy said as she turned her attention back to the frogs. She was fiddling with some kind of speaker contraption with a switch.
Cleo wasn’t sure about the “better” part, but Rosy hadn’t had any trouble shifting to a different conversational gear. Plus, she seemed to be enjoying what she was doing.
While Isaac spooned the batter into the muffin tin, Cleo glanced out the back window to check on Beckham again. He was where she’d last seen him—in the corral, grooming Judd’s horses. Obviously, he was taking his job very seriously since it was only 8:00 a.m., and he’d already been out there over an hour. For a teenage boy, voluntarily getting up that early on a weekend was somewhat of a miracle.
After Cleo put the muffins in the oven, Isaac and she walked to the window and looked out at his brother. “You think Mr. Judd could give me some work, too?” Isaac asked. “You know, just in case.”
She did know, and it twisted at her to think that the boys felt as if they needed money stashed away. “He might. You can talk to him about it.”
It would twist at Judd, too, but what was a little twisting if it gave the boys some security? After everything they’d been through, they deserved a little peace of mind.
“If Judd doesn’t have something for you, maybe I can come up with an extra chore,” she offered.
Isaac stunned Cleo when he hugged her, and just like that, her tears threatened. To an outsider, it would have seemed like such a small gesture, but she knew just how big it was.
Cleo would have definitely tried to hang on to that hug a while longer if there hadn’t been a knock at the door. She glanced at Rosy to see if she was expecting someone at this early hour, but the woman only shook her head.
“I’ll answer it,” Cleo volunteered.
Her first thought was this was Lavinia. That’s why Cleo had worked herself into a scowling bad mood by the time she reached the door and threw it open. But it wasn’t Lavinia. Cleo didn’t know who was more surprised—her or the tall brunette in a gray suit and heels.
“I’m Nicole Gateman,” she said, flashing some kind of credentials. “I’m from CPS, and I’m here to do a home check. An unannounced one,” she added, though that wasn’t necessary. “I need to speak with Kace Laramie and then chat with Beckham, Isaac and Leo.”
Cleo tried not to seem overly concerned about this, but of course, she was. Anything not up to CPS’s liking could cause them to lose the temporary custody.
“Kace is at work, but I can text him,” Cleo offered. “It’ll only take him a few minutes to get here.” She hoped. She wasn’t certain of Kace’s work schedule.
“Please do that.” The woman’s voice was as crispy as a fresh potato chip.
Cleo nodded, and Mrs. Gateman stared at her while she texted Kace. It wasn’t a friendly stare, either. Her mouth pursed into a tight, disapproving bud.
“You’re Cleo Delaney,” she said when Cleo had finished the text. That also sounded like disapproval.
Cleo nodded again and moved back so the woman could come in, and so Cleo could keep watch for Kace. “I’m babysitting the boys this morning.”
Mrs. Gateman made a sound that could have meant anything, and when she stepped in, she gave the house the same look of disdain that she’d given Cleo.
“You’re alone here with the boys?” the woman asked.
Cleo tried not to give her any stink eye. “No. Rosy McCall is here. Her husband, Buck, is in his workshop just at the back of the house. Would you like for me to get them?”
Apparently answering that required her to take in a long breath. “No. I need to talk to you first. I’m well aware of who you are, and you should know there’s been a complaint about you.”
Like the stink eye, Cleo tried to bite off the profanity, too. “From Lavinia Mercer?”
“I’m not at liberty to say who made the complaint, but I’m required to investigate it. You have a police record,” she added without pausing. “You work at a bar, and while under normal circumstances, that’s a perfectly acceptable occupation, I’m concerned about these photos that were sent to me.”
Cleo went stiff as Mrs. Gateman took out some hard copies from her bag. Groaning soon followed because it was a photo of Harry and his naked cowboy butt being ushered into the bar by Tiffany and Monica. The next photos were of the plastic cows strewn around in their Jell-O bath.
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who took these?” Cleo asked, but she quickly waved that off. Of course this woman wasn’t going to rat out her source, though Cleo was more certain than ever that Lavinia was behind not only the vandalism, but also the photos. No one else wou
ld have anything to gain by giving CPS this kind of mud.
“I have to question if you’re a suitable person to be around such impressionable young boys,” the woman continued.
“Their mother thought I was,” Cleo snapped. The cocktail of emotions hit her at once. The grief over Miranda’s death, the anger over what Lavinia was trying to pull and the snotty attitude of this prissy woman, who didn’t know and probably wouldn’t care that Cleo loved the boys as if they were her own.
“The boys’ mother is no longer around to make critical decisions for them,” the woman argued.
And Cleo was just as quick to argue back, “No, but it’s what Miranda wanted. Since I didn’t qualify by your standards, I’m not the boys’ foster parent. Kace Laramie is.”
“Then, why are you here? Because according to my source, you’re actually living here at the ranch.” Even though Mrs. Gateman hadn’t asked that last part as a question, Cleo knew it was one.
Well, crap. Now it was Cleo who needed to take a deep breath, but she didn’t have to answer because of the truck that came to a stop in front of the house. Not Kace, but Judd.
“Sorry,” Judd said, coming straight into the house. “Kace is tied up with a domestic dispute right now so I came.” He extended his hand to the social worker. “I’m Deputy Judd Laramie.”
Apparently, the woman didn’t approve of Judd any more than she did Cleo, because she gave him the same cool look. Well, coolish that turned hotish in a hurry. Mrs. Gateman did have more of a normal female reaction when she combed her gaze over Judd’s face, then his body.
Cleo wanted to smack her. Not a very rational adult response, but Cleo didn’t appreciate her doing any cowboy admiring when her coming here would likely stir up more trouble.
“I’m Nicole Gateman.” The woman shook his hand. “When will your brother be here?”
“Half hour, maybe less.”
The woman didn’t seem to approve of that, either, and sighed when she checked the time, as if a half hour would be a huge inconvenience. “Let me go ahead and see the boys, and then I’ll have questions for both of you.”
Judd and Cleo exchanged a look, part dread with a smidge of fear, and Cleo motioned for Mrs. Gateman to have a seat in the living room. “I’ll get the boys.”
Mrs. Gateman didn’t stay in the living room, though. She followed Cleo, her heels pattering on the wood floor, and the first thing they saw when they reached the kitchen was Leo with the mixing bowl on his head. What was left of the batter was dripping on his face and shoulders while he licked as much of it as he could. There was a piece of a blueberry on the tip of his nose.
Popsicle was licking, too. The kitten was coiled around Leo’s legs, lapping up the batter splatters.
Before anyone could say anything, the room erupted with sounds. Not sounds that Cleo had expected to hear, either. Mechanical belches, croaks and possibly farts. That was mixed with grinding gears and nearly maniacal laughter from Rosy. The poker-playing frogs were twitching while their lily pad undulated and quivered like a wave of slime.
“Eddie and crew are working,” Rosy proudly announced, causing Isaac and Leo to run toward her at the table.
Probably because of the bowl on his head, Leo smacked into Isaac before he then rammed into a chair. Cleo hurried to him to make sure he was all right. He wasn’t.
Leo hollered, “There’s gunk in my eye.”
There was. Lots of it. Cleo grabbed a handful of paper towels and started wiping. When Leo continued to protest, she lifted him to the sink and started flushing out his eyes with water. All while the frog noise continued.
“Oh, sorry,” Rosy said. At least that’s what Cleo thought she’d said. It was hard to tell with the other sounds, but Rosy was flipping the switch to get it to stop. Judd finally went to her and took out the batteries.
And the silence came.
Cleo gave Leo’s face a wipe with the paper towels and eased him to the floor. There wasn’t much she could do about the batter in his hair, but she did pluck the blueberry from his nose and tossed it into the sink.
Mrs. Gateman just stared at them.
“They’re dead,” Isaac said, and it took Cleo a moment to realize he was talking about the frogs that had snagged Mrs. Gateman’s attention. “Miss Rosy stuffs dead things, and she’s going to teach me how.”
Cleo was about to explain that the stuffing hadn’t happened on the kitchen table, but what would be the point? Mrs. Gateman had likely already decided that they were off their rockers.
“Boys, I’m Mrs. Gateman,” the woman greeted. “You must be Isaac and you must be Leo.”
“Must I be?” Leo queried. Of course, it sounded rude, but Cleo figured he hadn’t meant it that way. He probably hadn’t understood the stiff way Mrs. Gateman had put that.
“Where’s the other boy, Beckham?” she asked, volleying glances at all five of them.
“I’ll get him,” Isaac volunteered, but he gave Cleo an uneasy look. She hoped the look she gave him back was a reassuring one, but she’d probably failed at that.
“Are you a babysitter?” Leo asked her.
Mrs. Gateman shook her head and stooped down so that her face would be closer to his. “No. I’m a social worker. I’m here to make sure you’re in a good home with responsible, caring people. If not, then it’s my job to find the right place for you and your brothers.”
Cleo figured that explanation was way over a five-year-old’s head, even a head coated with gunk, but Leo’s face bunched up, and he squinted one eye at her. Cleo didn’t think that was a reaction to the batter, either.
“You gonna take us?” Leo asked.
Mrs. Gateman smiled in probably what she thought was a reassuring way. “If necessary.”
“Does that mean ‘yeah’?” Leo persisted.
“It does.”
While Mrs. Gateman kept smiling, Leo’s mood went in the other direction. He balled up his little fists. “No!” Again, it was a holler.
And he punched the woman in her thigh.
That took care of the smile, and Mrs. Gateman did some hollering of her own. “You hit me,” she snarled, rubbing her thigh.
Horrified, Cleo rushed to Leo, scooping him up to stop him from doing it again. “Leo,” she said in a scolding tone, and that’s the best she could manage because the boy was obviously in a fighting kind of mood.
“You’re not gonna take us,” Leo howled. “I like it here, and I got stars. I got three jail cards.”
Of course, the woman wasn’t going to understand that, either. Mrs. Gateman probably didn’t play the BS—best scenario—game and probably thought they locked up the boys.
“May I speak to you in private?” Mrs. Gateman aimed the question at Cleo, and she spoke through clenched teeth.
“Of course.” Cleo kissed Leo, whispered to him that she wouldn’t be long and passed him off to Rosy.
When Cleo went into the living room, Judd came, too. “The boys have a good home here,” Judd insisted. “They’re adjusting and they’re happy.”
Mrs. Gateman rubbed her thigh again. “That might be, but I’m not seeing it right now. Once Sheriff Laramie is here, I’ll sit down and have a long chat with him and all three of the boys, but I can tell you right now, there’ll need to be some changes.”
Yeah, definitely not a BS kind of person. “What kind of changes?” Cleo asked.
The woman took another long breath, and some of the disdain eased from her face. However, Cleo didn’t like the expression that replaced it. It was one she recognized—she’d used it herself when she’d had to fire a nice person who just wasn’t working out on the job.
“You can’t live here with the boys,” Mrs. Gateman said, looking directly at Cleo. “It’s good that they have help with the McCalls, and their records are clean.” She frowned a little, though, when her gaze drifted back to the ki
tchen. Maybe because she was thinking of the frog family.
“You’re not asking me to stay away from them, are you?” Cleo didn’t wait for an answer. “Because I can’t. That wasn’t what their mother wanted. Before she died, she asked me to watch after them.”
“And you can do that, watch after them,” the woman said to clarify. “But you can’t live here.” She sighed. “Sheriff Laramie’s foster arrangement is temporary, but I understand he wants to make that permanent.”
“He does,” Judd quickly confirmed.
Mrs. Gateman nodded. “Then, don’t do anything to compromise that. Anything,” she instructed.
“We won’t,” Judd assured her. His jaw was drum-tight when he looked down at Cleo. “You’ll be moving in with me.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JUDD DIDN’T HAVE to ask himself if this was a mistake. He knew that it was.
Cleo and he shouldn’t be sleeping under the same roof, period. Still, other than her pitching a tent or staying in the barn, he couldn’t think of another way around her being at the ranch while not actually living with Buck, Rosy, Kace and the boys.
“I won’t be here every night,” Cleo assured Judd as they hauled in her suitcases. Since it was a variation of something she’d already told him in the past twenty-four hours, since Mrs. Gateman’s visit, Judd figured her nerves were playing into this.
His own nerves certainly were.
“Probably just once or twice a week,” Cleo added. “On the nights that I stay until the bar closes, I’ll crash at my apartment and then drive back here early the next morning before the kids get up.”
That wouldn’t be ideal, but the boys wouldn’t be left alone. Buck and Rosy would be there, and the spreadsheets had been adjusted so that all times were covered. Again, they’d left off Judd’s name.
Cleo put the suitcase she was holding next to the sofa and glanced around, as if looking at the place for the first time. Glancing didn’t take long, though, because there wasn’t much to see, and it was no doubt a reminder that they would be on top of each other.
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