Twins Under The Tree. Leigh Riker

he’d climbed down the ladder to the barn floor and was walking with Clara McMann across the yard to the kitchen door. As soon as it opened, the scents of fruit and cinnamon, jalapeños and corn wrapped him in a cocoon of hunger. The warmth in the room felt like a too-cozy blanket.

      At the table Hadley Smith was already dripping hot sauce all over an enchilada. He looked up at Cory with a grin that transformed his normally stern face. “I could have told you. Clara doesn’t let anyone go without a good meal.”

      “Sit down, Mr. Jennings.” She pointed at a chair and the place already set with sturdy stoneware and silver. She took her seat, unfolded her napkin with a nod at the one he hadn’t touched, then said, “Now. We’ll eat—and get to know you.”

      Cory bit back a groan. He should have guessed. The true reason for this invitation was to weasel more details out of him. That wouldn’t happen. In his experience the more lies he spun, the more he had to remember so he didn’t trip himself up later.

      Cory took the platter of enchiladas from her, dished up a pair of them and slathered on some salsa verde. He grabbed a square of corn bread, still hot and moist from the oven, then hunched over his plate.

      Hadley tapped his shoulder. He held out a beer.

      Cory shook his head. “Not a drinker,” he said. At least not here. Alcohol loosened his tongue. “I’d rather have a glass of milk.” He sent Mrs. McMann a smile. “Kills the heat I created on my enchilada.”

      Hadley brought the glass to him, then returned to his chair. For a few minutes, silence reigned while everyone ate. Then the woman spoke again.

      “Where are you from, Mr. Jennings?”

      “Call me Cory, ma’am.” He coated the corn bread with another layer of butter, the real stuff. “Here and there,” he finally said, causing one of Hadley’s eyebrows to rise. “I was born in Texas.”

      Cory avoided Hadley’s gaze, and Mrs. McMann’s. Note to self. He’d used the state before, not that hard to remember. It went with his past rodeo career, even with the job he’d be doing here for her and Smith.

      “Your father was a rancher?” she pressed him.

      “No.” The one-word answer was his friend. He pushed a piece of corn bread into the sauce on his plate. “Don’t rightly recall what he did for a living. He and my mom split before I was born.” True enough, if he stretched things. “I don’t like talking about that.”

      With a sympathetic glance, she seemed to take that hint. She passed him the enchiladas, urging him to take another. “You young people don’t eat enough.”

      He focused on the empty milk glass. “I’m not a baby, ma’am. Don’t you have a pair of twins to worry about?”

      “Yes, but there’s always room for more.” She glanced at the ceiling. “We savor our meals here when we can. Please,” she added, “eat up, Cory. And call me Clara. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll need jeans in a bigger size.”

      “She’s not kidding,” Hadley muttered. He shoved away from the table. “Another fine dinner, Clara. Thank you for the trouble.”

      “No trouble at all,” she said.

      He walked toward the hall. “I’ll check on Luke and Gracie.”

      “I’ll keep your pie warm, dear. You, Cory? Ready for ice cream, too?”

      Hadley laughed but kept going to the stairs. “Don’t even try to refuse.” Cory cleaned his plate, carried it with the others to the sink, then sank back onto his chair while Clara McMann sliced the best-looking pie he’d ever seen into generous servings. Then she spooned huge dollops of vanilla ice cream onto the dessert dishes. Despite the four enchiladas he’d eaten and three chunks of corn bread, his stomach begged for more. He hadn’t always been able to afford to eat when he was on the road. Maybe this would work out.

      Clara set his pie in front of him. “We won’t wait for Hadley. He likes to stand a while and watch his babies sleep. I suspect you haven’t been eating well—or often,” she said.

      Cory didn’t attempt to correct her. He took Hadley’s advice. And ate.

      This gig—as long as it lasted—might be all right if he stayed as careful as he would on some bucking horse.

      He just had to keep his head down and stick to himself.