They passed a set of French doors, and then another set, the porch nearly as wide as a car. And then she caught a whiff of something, something that smelled like mouth-watering food. Butter, chives and…fried chicken.
“Oh, man.”
“What?” Nick asked as he stopped in front of an old-fashioned half door, the top portion swung open.
“That smells so good.”
He pulled open the bottom half of the door and said, “Mom, the woman you want me to marry is here.”
IF NICK HAD BEEN in a better mood he would have laughed at the expression on Alison Forester’s face.
“Nick,” his mother said, either ignoring him or not having heard him. “What are you doing here?”
“Mom, you wanted me to meet her, didn’t you? I know for sure there’s a waiting list to stay here. Ms. Forester seems to have magically risen to the top.”
It was funny, really, because everyone in the kitchen pointedly avoided looking their way, and there were a lot of people in the kitchen. But they were probably used to this conversation, or various forms of it. If she wasn’t harping on him about going back to a “real job,” his mom was trying to get him married off. Nick wished she’d make up her mind which she wanted most…not that he was going along with either of her plans. Not now. Not ever.
“Why, Nicholas Sheppard,” his mom said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And to make matters worse, she shot Alison a glance meant to convince her of her innocence. “I’m Martha Sheppard,” she said, holding out her hand.
About as innocent as a barn cat stalking a mouse. Oh, yeah, Nick could see the way her eyes looked Alison over, as the two shook hands. She clearly approved of what she saw.
Wide hips. Check.
Ample breasts. Check.
Nice teeth. Check.
Nick decided to nip this right in the bud.
“She’s already seeing someone.”
“Actually, I’m not,” Allison said. “And I’m sorry your son doesn’t want to marry me.” She shot him a teasing look. “But it’s actually a relief. I’ve never married a man I’ve never kissed before.”
“I guess this means we’ll have to cancel the wedding,” his mom said, wiping her hands on her apron, which read, Old Women Make Better Lovers. A present from her best friend, Flora.
“I guess so,” Alison said. “Though I was really looking forward to tasting your pâté. Say, could I have a bite of whatever’s cooking in the oven instead?”
His mom laughed, and Nick went still. He loved his mom’s laughter, had missed the sound since…
The chasm left by his father’s death once again overwhelmed him. They were all still suffering.
Alison extended her arm toward his mother.
And that was when he saw it. The telltale redness just beneath Alison Forester’s cuffs. Burn marks.
What?
“Good to meet you, Alison, though I’m sorry to have to cancel your wedding.”
“That’s okay,” Alison said, returning his mom’s clasp. “I look like hell in white.”
That made his mom laugh again. But Nick had eyes only for Alison’s left arm. Burn marks. He scanned the rest of her. There was another patch just at the nape of her neck, one that disappeared beneath her shirt.
“Nick,” his mom said, drawing his eyes back. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you Ms. Forester was coming. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Someone canceled and when I called the other people on the list, none of them could come. Ms. Forester’s timing was perfect. Not that I don’t think she’d make a lovely bride.”
And with that, she turned back to Alison. “Come here, sweetie. I’ll give you a taste of my famous honey-pecan-fried chicken.”
Nick watched her follow his mother. The knowledge that at some point she’d been a burn victim, a bad burn by the looks of it, completely skewed his perception of her.
“Good?” his mother asked after handing her a forkful of chicken. He watched as she took a bite, her eyes closing as she chewed and swallowed. “Mmm,” she said, and God help him, he couldn’t take his gaze away from the sugary sheen on her lips.
Obviously he’d spent too much time out in the sun.
“Do you have any other sons I might be able to marry?” Alison asked. “I hate the thought of never tasting this again.”
“As a matter of fact, I do—”
“Mom,” Nick interrupted. His eyes darted to Alison’s cuff again. She must have seen him because she self-consciously touched her wrist, confirming that she’d figured out what he’d been looking at.
“Don’t encourage her,” he said with a smile, suddenly feeling bad.
“I’ll try not to,” she answered in her Southern drawl.
“I’ll go get your stuff.” Crap. He really wished she wasn’t sticking around. She reminded him of…things he’d rather forget.
Such as his job.
“I’ll come with you,” Alison said.
“You staying for dinner?” his mom asked Nick.
“I’m having dinner with the Berringers tonight.”
“I thought you looked mighty dressed up for rodeo practice.”
“I changed at the arena.”
“Yeah, right out in the open,” Alison said.
She had a nice smile.
His mom waved a hand dismissively. “They all do that,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “If you ever want a show, go behind the chutes during a rodeo. I swear those boys have no sense of decency.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” Alison said.
“And since you’re here, why don’t you have dinner with us? The Berringers will understand,” his mom added.
“Mom, you know I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can.”
“Scott wants to talk to me about purchasing some of our cattle.”
“You can do that over the phone.”
“Mom,” Nick said sternly, “it’s too late to cancel.”
“Nonsense. Tell them you got hung up bringing a guest to the ranch. It’s true, and if you stay, you’ll even up my numbers.”
“Mom—”
“Nick Sheppard, I don’t get to see you often enough as it is what with you off to rodeos all the time. I’ll call and explain the situation.”
“No, don’t do that,” Nick said, beginning to realize he fought a losing battle.
“Good, then you call.”
“What’s the matter?” Alison asked in an aside. “Worried I’ll bite?”
Was that a flirtatious look in her eyes? Or was he just imagining that?
Imagining it, he decided when she couldn’t look him in the eyes.
And why did he feel warm?
He squared his shoulders as he asked, “Where’s she sleeping?”
“In one of the bunkhouses.”
He knew he wouldn’t like the answer to his next question, but he had to ask. “Which