Not that it mattered. Cole had left on a business trip the day after Dixie got here. He’d taken Tilly with him.
“Hey, Hulk,” she called. Dawn had arrived, but the bank of storm clouds nearly hid the fact. The wind was blustery, promising rain, and the temperature was a cool forty-five degrees. “You know how you hate to get wet. Time to come in.” No sign of him.
It was probably just as well Cole had taken off. The reminder of his priorities could only be good for her, even if, like a lot of things that are good for you, it tasted nasty going down. But dammit, when a man announces his intention of inspecting a woman’s tattoo, he ought to stay around long enough for her to turn him down.
Funny how alike she and Cole were in some ways, she thought, crossing to the next row. Most people don’t take their pets with them on business trips. Yet in other ways, they stood on opposite sides of a chasm.
Of course, it wouldn’t be odd for Tilly to go with him if it wasn’t really business that had taken him away.
No. She shook her head. Cole had faults—huge, heaping bunches of them. But unless he’d changed beyond all recognition, he played fair. No lies, no tricks. Besides, she couldn’t picture his mother fibbing for him.
Dixie smiled. She liked Caroline Ashton Sheppard, even if the woman was the source of some of Cole’s more irritating assumptions about the female half of the gender divide. Had Caroline been born a couple thousand miles to the east, she would have made a great Southern belle—gentle, soft-spoken, with an innate sense of style and a will of iron.
She liked Cole’s stepfather, too. Lucas Sheppard was one of those salt-of-the-earth types who serve as a reminder to cynics like her that not all men are cads, little boys or idiots.
Another thing she and Cole had in common, she thought wryly. They both had father issues.
Of course, his went a lot deeper. Dixie’s father hadn’t meant to die and leave her, while Cole’s father had abandoned him intentionally. Not that Cole had told Dixie about it, not Mr. I-Don’t-Talk-About-Personal-Stuff. But Mercedes had. When Cole was eight, Spencer Ashton had walked out on his family to marry his secretary, somehow swindling his wife out of most of her inheritance. He’d never looked back.
There was no sign of Hulk. Dixie called again, but she didn’t expect him to answer. Hulk would show up when he darned well pleased.
Ah, well. She’d felt duty bound to try. Shaking her head, she turned and headed back. Even in winter the vineyards were a pleasant place to stroll, with the aisles between the rows of vines green with a cover crop of legumes and barley. Russ had told her the plants would be tilled under in the spring, adding nitrogen to the soil.
Sure didn’t seem like winter, though. The grass was green, for one thing. Most people grew cool-season grasses here, and that’s what she’d grown up with…but she’d been away a long time. Long enough for it to seem both strange and strangely familiar to wander around outside in January without bundling up.
Which led to the subject of clothes. She had a winter wardrobe she’d not be able to…
Who was that? Dixie stopped, frowning. There was a man standing in front of The Vines. Not one of the vineyard workers, she thought, though he was dressed casually, in jeans and a plain shirt. But she’d met all of the workers now, hadn’t she?
Maybe not. She’d have remembered this one—a tall, rugged sort, he looked as if he’d just ridden in off the range. Though there was something vaguely familiar about him…intrigued, she headed his way.
“Hello,” she said as she drew near. “You looking for someone?”
He turned. There was gray in his dark hair and interesting crinkles around his eyes—from squinting as he rode off into the sunset, she decided, amused by herself. “Not really. Just curious.”
“The winery loves curious tourists,” she assured him, “but not until ten o’clock, when the tasting room opens. This area is private property.” She cocked her head. “You look familiar.”
“I don’t think we’ve met,” he said politely. “Are you one of the owners? The, ah, Ashtons?”
“No, just a temporary employee and a friend. It’s the head shape,” she said, pleased to have figured it out. “And something about the set of the eyes. If I could line your skull up next to Cole’s and Eli’s, I’ll bet the occipital surfaces and zygomatic arches would be identical.”
He looked faintly alarmed. “I hope you don’t plan to make the attempt. You’re a doctor? Or an anthropologist?”
She laughed. “None of the above. An artist. You wouldn’t be some long-lost Ashton cousin, would you?”
He shook his head and studied her a moment longer, a faint smile on his mouth, something unreadable in his eyes. “I’d better be going, since this is private property. Nice speaking with you.”
Cole had spent four frustrating days in Sacramento. Some of the frustration had been professional, but a fair portion arose from his inability to keep his mind where it belonged.
Dixie had left The Vines on Friday afternoon, planning to be gone all weekend. Which she was entitled to do, of course. But Cole kept wondering who she was spending the weekend with. A woman like Dixie was only alone if she wanted to be.
At two o’clock that morning, alone in his hotel room, he’d been fighting with memories and questioning his sanity. Why in the world would he consider getting involved with her again?
He was attracted, yes. What man wouldn’t be, especially if he knew just how hot it could be between them? But he was old enough to know that fire burns, and long past the point where he could be led around by his gonads.
He didn’t need the heartache or the hassle, he’d finally decided, and had at last dropped off to sleep.
So it was annoying to learn, as he pulled into the parking lot at the winery, that he was looking forward to seeing her again. He grabbed his briefcase, opened the Jeep’s door and slid out.
Eli was waiting for him. “How’d it go?”
“Lots of talk, not much action.” He opened the back door and Tilly jumped down, politely sniffed Eli’s hand, then wandered away to check out the shrubbery in front of the tasting room.
“Everyone agrees that we need better coordination between the various growers’ associations,” Cole said, opening his briefcase and removing a stack of papers. “Especially when it comes to lobbying in Sacramento. No one wants to actually do the work of setting up a coordinating group.”
“I thought Joe Bradley was keen on running things.”
“I’m not letting Joe turn this into one of his dog-and-pony shows. He starts out big, loses interest and then things fizzle.”
Eli sighed. “I suppose that means you agreed to run things.”
“Nope.” Cole was still mildly astonished at himself. Somewhere along the line, though, doing it all—and proving he could do it better—had stopped being fun. “I’ve got enough on my plate already.”
“I know that. I didn’t think you did.”
“Here,” Cole said, handing Eli the papers. “A copy of the minutes. There are a few things of interest in there.”
Eli scowled. “Summarize it for me.”
Cole grinned. Eli’s hatred of paperwork was a chain he loved to yank. “Can’t. I’ve got enough on my plate.”
“I’m going to break that damn plate over your head,” Eli informed him without heat. “This new leaf of yours doesn’t have anything to do with that old girlfriend of yours who’s following me around, does it?”