Her father led her down the stairs toward Dahlia, who waited with a huge and nervous smile. “Here they come, father and daughter. Just look at the two of you, together at last.”
The woman was enthusiastic. Callie had to give her that, though Callie felt worn out and they’d barely met.
“You look so much alike,” Dahlia said, looking from one to the other. “You have your father’s eyes, Calissa.”
Calissa. Only her mother called her by her full name. It hit her ear all wrong. “Thank you. And I go by Callie,” she said gently. Besides, everyone said Callie was the spitting image of her mother, not her father.
She did not need to be so effusive. Callie was grateful Dahlia had rescued her father from a loneliness he hadn’t admitted to himself, let alone to Callie. Thanks to Dahlia, once the ranch was back on track, Callie could return to New York without the constant worry that her father was sad and alone.
Dahlia led them to the kitchen where Callie was startled to see Deck rise from the table. What was he doing here? She wasn’t ready for another encounter.
“I wanted to fill you in on Brandy, Cal.”
Her father turned to Callie. “I thought we’d all go for a trail ride before supper. She good for the ride?” he asked Deck.
“Afraid not. Not for a new rider, anyway.”
“That’s a shame.” Her father turned to Dahlia. “I guess you’ll have to ride another horse tonight, darlin’.”
“Why don’t you three go ahead? I don’t have the right clothes here and I have dinner to prepare.”
“Your lentil soup just needs to simmer, doesn’t it?”
“There are side dishes. Lots and lots to do. You three go on and have fun.” She sounded nervous.
“I’ll stay and help you,” her father said. “Guess it’s just you two this time.” He nodded from Deck to Callie.
“You game?” Deck asked her with a smart-ass grin. “Or have you been in the city too long?”
“I can ride a horse, Deck,” she said, rising to his bait. She hadn’t ridden since seventh grade and wasn’t interested in starting up again. Certainly not with Deck, not as sexually jumpy as he made her feel. “I need a tour of the ranch. It might as well be on horseback.”
“Will an hour give you enough time to get grimy and start smelling like manure?”
“What?” Cal asked. Dahlia laughed uneasily.
“A half hour is more than enough, Deck.”
Mischief gleamed in the man’s eyes, as if he’d won a battle she hadn’t known she was in.
“Maybe you can help Callie take it down a notch,” her father said. “She’s still got that horns-down, mad-charge New York way about her.”
“I don’t think Callie wants to take it down a notch,” Deck replied.
“Would you two please not talk like I’m not here,” she said, trying to act amused instead of annoyed. “I know exactly what notch I’m on and how long I want to be there.” What the hell was she saying?
“I’ll meet you in the corral in an hour.” Deck tipped his hat to her. “Cal, we need you at the zoning meeting tonight. The vote will be tight.”
“Sure thing. I’ll be there.”
“’Night then,” Deck said and turned to leave.
Callie took in his departing backside, the jeans molded to his ass, one pocket worn from his wallet. His boots made his walk loose and slow and he’d grown broader. Eleven years ago, he’d been a boy. Now he was all man.
“Callie?”
“Huh?” She jerked her head to Dahlia, who must have said something to her she missed.
“I said, honey in your tea?”
“Sure, sure,” she said, sitting down, gathering her wits.
Dahlia handed her a mug and Callie caught a whiff of peppermint. The good tea, according to Deck. With honey, it wasn’t half-bad. He’d been right about that.
“Anyway, I’m so glad you’re taking this pressure from your father’s shoulders,” Dahlia said to Callie. She squeezed Callie’s father’s hand on the table. “This place has aged him.”
“Is that true, Dad?” Callie asked. “Is the ranch too much for you?” Had he hidden that from her, too?
“The Triple C will always be home. I need time for more now, that’s all.” He patted Dahlia’s hand and the woman blushed. “Dahlia’s getting me out and about. We’d like to travel—see Europe and India. I’ve been stuck in a rut.” He looked into Dahlia’s eyes and she looked back in an equally moony way.
Callie glanced down, embarrassed. She sipped her tea, aware of the tingle of alarm fighting to get through the syrupy sweetness of the scene. Was she just a cynical New Yorker? She so wanted her father to be happy and well. She set her mug down with a clunk. The love birds startled and looked her way.
“So…” Dahlia said brightly, “Rancho de Descanso…what a great concept. As soon as you have your logo, we can make up labels with ‘Exclusive from Dahlia’s Desert Delights’ for the products. Do you have the design yet?”
“A graphics team is working on it right now, but—”
“Just let me know. We’ll want compatible designs and—”
“Let’s not overwhelm her, Dahlia,” her father said, putting his arm around Dahlia’s shoulder. “She barely got here.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just so thrilled.”
“Did you put in the flower pots outside?” Callie said to shift topics before the woman offered her a facial. “They really brighten up the entrance.”
“Yes. Some herbs I need for my tinctures and teas. My own garden is jammed to the netting.”
“What are the purple and pink flowers shaped like bells?”
“Those are foxglove. The small white ones are sweet woodruff. Both have healing uses. Western medicine relies on synthetic compounds to an alarming degree. It’s such a shame to ignore nature’s bounty.”
“I suppose it can seem that way.” She smiled, then caught her father’s gaze. They were both humoring Dahlia. “I should get upstairs and unpack and change, I guess, since I’m going for a ride.” She sighed.
“Rosalie put extra towels in your bathroom and a blanket for your bed,” her father said. “Holler if you need anything.”
At the second-floor landing, she paused to look down at the spectacular great room, where a middle-aged man read a paperback novel from the small ranch library.
Her mother’s classic taste stood the test of time. Raw beams and stone fireplaces were popular in the newer guest ranches. Callie would replace the worn furniture and add some contemporary art, but her mother’s choice of Navajo rugs, Tohono O’odham baskets and exquisite wood pieces still looked great. She’d keep the kerosene lighting, too, as a rustic touch.
Upstairs, Callie entered the pink-princess glory of her room with the usual knot in her chest. Her mother had been happy to create the girlie oasis of canopy bed and French provincial furniture Callie wanted. She never let Callie suffer for their choice to live in the boondocks.
The room was full of mementos—riding trophies, dried corsages, cheerleading photos and awards. The bureau still held the prom shot of her and