So there’d been no wedding.
And while Slater and Raine had never lived under the same roof, they’d become a sort of family, the three of them. Slater supported Daisy, spent as much time as he could with her, loved her as deeply as any father had ever loved a child. And Raine was equally committed to motherhood.
It was an innovative setup, no denying that, but Slater wouldn’t have changed anything, even if a do-over had been possible.
He’d fought it for a while, had wanted to take the traditional approach. In the end, he knew Raine had been right all along. Daisy was a happy, well-adjusted child. She got excellent grades in school, had numerous friends, was healthy in every way. She had a solid home—two of them, actually—and parents who loved her.
So far, so good.
“Slater?” Raine’s voice was like a friendly poke in the ribs. “Are you still there?”
“I’m still here,” he replied quietly.
“So what’s on the menu? For dinner, I mean? Not that I care, because everything Harry makes is delicious.”
Slater snapped out of his momentary distraction for the second time in two minutes. He grinned. “I have no idea what Harry’s planning to whip up, but she’s cooking it, not me. So are you going to be here or what?”
“We’ll be there,” Raine said. “Usual time?”
“Yeah. You know Harry and her schedules. This place runs like clockwork.”
“We’ll be prompt. The last time I was late, she claimed the dishwasher was broken and made me do up the whole works while she supervised. Remember?”
He did. “Served you right,” he said.
“Never any sympathy,” Raine accused him. “In fact, you laughed.”
Slater had to laugh again, recalling the incident. “I’ve warned you over and over, sugarplum. Punctuality’s important to Harry. Nobody holds up the program and gets away with it.”
“Well,” Raine said, “her one-of-a-kind garlic mashed potatoes are important to me, so let’s hope she’s serving up a batch of those. Daisy and I will be there at six sharp.”
When Slater ended the call, he texted his mother, which seemed ridiculous since they were in the same house, but such were the oddities of modern life.
Ready to go to the vineyard?
The response was almost instantaneous.
I can’t wait to show you the changes we’ve made. Meet you out front.
Slater stood, his thumbs working on the phone’s keyboard.
By the way, Raine and Daisy will be here for dinner tonight.
We’ll keep it short then. I’ll run into town for ice cream as soon as we’re done.
Walking, Slater keyed in a couple of smiley-face icons, followed by:
I was hoping for those lemon bars Harry bakes.
Already on the menu. But Daisy loves chocolate ice cream, and thanks to your brothers, we’re always out of the stuff.
Here’s a concept. Why don’t we discuss this in person?
Blythe immediately replied with an icon of her own, a smiley face sticking out its tongue.
Slater groaned and dropped his smart—or smart-ass—phone into his shirt pocket.
This was going to be a good day, and an even better evening, spent with the women he loved—young, old and in-between.
Raine was still on his mind as he headed for the front of the house. The last time he’d seen her, her shining dark hair bounced around her shoulders, but considering how impulsive she was, she might’ve had it cut short or dyed it green in the interim. She had mischievous hazel eyes and an infectious laugh; it had been that laugh that had caught his attention in the first place, when they’d met at a party a little over a decade ago, the beginning of a six-month affair. A talented graphic artist, Raine also designed websites and had recently done a stunning one for the winery.
His thoughts shifted, once again, to Daisy. From the very beginning, she’d been a member of the Carson clan; they’d instantly embraced her. In fact, they completely spoiled her. There’d been the pony from Uncle Drake, the custom dollhouse from Uncle Mace, the fit-for-a-princess bedroom their mother had designed for the little girl’s frequent visits to the ranch. Slater had finally had to ask them, politely of course, to stop one-upping him all the time.
Yeah, that had worked. The Christmas he’d given Daisy a bicycle, she’d received two more—one from each of her uncles.
But these were small glitches to Slater. Early on, he’d been afraid Raine might decide to leave town, move somewhere far from Mustang Creek to pursue big-city work opportunities, taking Daisy with her. But that fear had been put to rest when he and Raine had signed a joint custody agreement.
He’d bought her a house in town, and she’d established herself as a valued member of the community.
Raine had also been the one to suggest that Daisy take the Carson name.
Slater stepped onto the side porch, really more of a veranda, and saw that his mother was waiting, chatting with one of the hands, who held the reins to two saddled horses. The older man’s eyes lit up in his weathered face, and when Slater got close enough, he received a hearty slap on the back as welcome. If he hadn’t been expecting it, he might have staggered under the blow.
“Slate, good to see you, son.” Red—named after the river—was a true tough-as-nails cowboy, the old-fashioned variety. He was like a human barometer, and Slater didn’t check the forecasts when he was home; he just asked Red, who would squint at the sky and give him an accurate prediction every time. Slater could swear the man had worn the same hat for the past thirty years, but maybe he just liked the style and actually bought a new one now and then.
“Good to be home,” he said, meaning it. “When I come back, I always wonder why I left to begin with.”
“I wonder the same dang thing.” Red patted the neck of one of the horses, a restive bay. “This here is Heckfire,” he told Slater. “I know you miss old Walter, but Drake and I thought you might like this young fella.”
The horse was a sleek beauty with a glossy coat, and he tossed his head against the rein. Slater sensed that it wasn’t so much rebellion as the fact that he wanted to get moving. All this yammering is boring. Let’s run.
There was no question that Slater missed his gelding, a horse that had been a gift from his father. But his four-legged friend had been nearly thirty years old, and when Slater had said goodbye on his last visit, he’d known it was for the final time.
He ran his hand down the length of the horse’s muscled neck and was rewarded with a nicker and an investigative sniff as Red handed over the reins. “He’s a showstopper. But... Heckfire?”
“We call him Heck. The name comes from Drake. Even as a colt, this critter was causing trouble, and we hadn’t named him yet and your brother said, ‘Heck, he’s full of fire.’” Red paused, cleared his throat then glanced at Blythe and blushed. “Well, he didn’t exactly say ‘heck,’” he clarified. “Anyhow, we, uh, adapted the name, and it stuck.”
Blythe rolled her eyes but said nothing. Red was an institution on the ranch; he’d worked for the family longer than Slater had been alive. A widower, the old man had never gotten over his long-dead wife. He still placed flowers on her grave every Sunday afternoon.
Slater merely waited, nodding once, because it was obvious Red had more to say. “You’ll have to teach this stubborn cayuse a few manners,” the old cowboy said, rubbing his grizzled chin and assessing the gelding solemnly.
“You