“I couldn’t resist the urge to race you over here,” she said. “And that means the beer is nothing but foam about now. You’ll have to wait for it.”
“It’s fine,” he said, his voice low and a little bit ragged.
“I’ve got lemonade, though.”
“I love lemonade.”
She laughed. “No, you don’t. But until the beer settles, lemonade is what you’re getting.” She unloaded the plastic jar of lemonade, the food and the forks and paper goods, taking way too much pleasure out of knowing that he watched every move she made—hungrily, like some big mountain lion stretched out on a tree limb, his tail flicking lazily, eyeing his dinner. She loved knowing it wasn’t just her mom’s cold chicken he was hungry for.
Once she had all the food out, she dropped to the blanket and took off her boots.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
She had to cover a laugh. For a ladies’ man, he sure was acting edgy and nervous today. She wiggled her stocking foot at him and answered in an easy tone. “Just getting comfortable.” She set her boots in the grass, tucked her legs to the side and patted the empty space next to her. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
He approached with caution and again, she had to hide a smile. But when he reached her, he turned, dropped to the edge of the blanket—and took off his own boots. She watched the muscles in his back bunch and stretch beneath the worn fabric of his old Western shirt and felt a heat down low in her belly, a sort of melting, lazy sensation. She wanted…
His mouth on hers. His knowing hands stroking her body.
Whoa, girl. Slow down a little. All in good time.
He set the boots away from the blanket, set his hat on them and faced her, drawing his long legs up, sitting cross-legged. She served him: a paper cup of lemonade, a breast and a drumstick, a mound of potato salad, a buttered roll and some carrot sticks. Over the years, she’d watched him eat hundreds of times. She knew how much food he liked, what parts of the chicken he preferred.
“It’s good,” he said, as he dug in.
She was filling her own plate from the plastic containers. “Oh, yeah.” She tasted the potato salad. “Mmm. My mom. She sure can cook.”
He waved the drumstick at her. “You mean you didn’t fry this chicken yourself?”
She laughed, glad that he seemed to be relaxing a little. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do that to you.” She knew how to cook. Marie had insisted on teaching her the basics, at least. But she was always much too impatient to hang around the kitchen. She wanted to be out the door and on the back of a horse. So her biscuits ended up gooey in the center and half the time her chicken got charred. “I know my limitations. I’m a rancher, not a ranch wife.”
He set the chicken leg back on his plate. Suddenly he seemed kind of thoughtful. “You’re happy, huh? Working cattle? Up before dawn to get the chores done, freezing your butt off all winter, dripping sweat while you fix fences and burn out ditches in the blazing summer sun?”
She tipped her head to the side and studied his face. “What kind of question is that? You know me. Does a dog have fleas? Do bats fly?”
He frowned. But when he spoke, his voice sounded offhand. “Just making sure you remember there are other options for you.”
“Too bad there’s nothing else I want to do.”
“But there are other things you could do. As I recall, you got As and Bs in high school.”
“I’ll have you know I got straight As.”
“I’m impressed.” “I did my best in school. That doesn’t mean I enjoyed being there.” She wouldn’t have gone past the eighth grade if her mom and Grant hadn’t insisted she get her diploma. And she still believed she could have held on to the Triple J, if only she’d been able to work full-time, instead of spending five days out of seven at Thunder Canyon High.
He advised in a weary tone, “You scrunch up your face like that, it might get stuck.”
“Hah,” she said. “You sound like Mom.”
He chuckled. “Just don’t be bitter. Believe me, it was the best thing. You’d have regretted not finishing high school.”
“No. I wouldn’t have. But it’s okay—and I’m not bitter.” She wrinkled her nose at him again. “Well, not much, anyway…”
He ate half of his flaky, perfect dinner roll. She chomped a carrot stick and got to work on a tender, crispy-skinned thigh. Eventually he said, “What I was trying to tell you is that I’m doin’ pretty well now. I could help you out, if you decided you might want to give college a try…”
Emotion tightened her throat. Not because she felt she’d missed out on college, not because she wanted it. She didn’t. Not in the least.
It was just that he was always so good to her, so generous. “Oh, Grant. Thank you. But no. I’m pretty much a self-starter. If I need to know something, I find a way to learn it. I never had a yen for any formal higher education. All I’ve ever wanted was a chance to do exactly what I’m doing now.” “I see.” His voice was flat. He set his plate down beside him, only half-finished.
Distress made a leaden sensation in her stomach. “Okay. I don’t get it. What did I say?”
He stared at her for a long, strange moment. And then he shrugged and picked up his plate again. “It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“But you—”
“No buts, Steph. I am positive to the millionth degree.” He grinned as he said it.
She grunted. “Oh, very funny.”
The Christmas she was seven, five years before their dads were killed, her mom had tried to talk her into asking Santa for one of those fancy American Girl dolls, the kind that came with a whole perfect miniature wardrobe—and a doll-size trunk to put all those fine clothes in.
Steph had sworn that a doll was the last thing she needed. She wanted a pony more than anything. She knew she was old enough for a horse of her own.
Grant, a high-school senior that year, had been over at the house, for some reason long lost to her now. She’d been following her mom around the kitchen, arguing endlessly, “I mean it, Mama. Don’t you get me any doll. I don’t want a doll and if you get me one I’ll rip its head off. I need my own horse. I got work to do. Just ask Daddy. He’ll tell you I’m his best helper and his best helper needs a horse.”
Grant had stuck his head in from the living room to tease, “Oh, come on, Steffie, you know you want a pretty little doll.”
She still remembered whipping around to glare at him, shaking a finger as she lectured him, “Do not call me Steffie. And I don’t want any doll.”
“You sure?”
“I am positive, Grant Clifton,” she’d smartly informed him. “Positive to the millionth degree.”
Now, he lifted his drumstick to her in a salute. “You were one feisty kid.”
She faked a groan. “Oh, please. Feisty? Not me. I was a practical kid. And I got my first horse that Christmas, if you recall.”
Malomar, her sweet-natured bay mare, had ended up sold at auction with the rest of the Triple J stock. It was one of her saddest memories: her mare being led into that horse