Finally Home (11 page)

Love was a hard thing to figure, he thought, and longed preposterously for a lively crop of arthropods.

“Did you know Sophie trained Evie to pull a sled?” Casie asked in a hopeless attempt to change the subject.

“Soph's a magician with horses,” Emily said, tone matter-of-fact. “But so are you. How did you fall off?”

“I
didn't
fall off.” Casie's tone was defensive as she cast a sideways glance at Colt and fiddled with the baby's homespun bootie. She shifted under his gaze. He still made her nervous. They'd known each other for twenty-odd years. Had attended the same school for twelve. Had kissed once in Grady's pasture under a crescent moon. That memory made
him
a little fidgety. Not because he regretted it. Hell no! It was because he regretted every day he'd spent
not
kissing her since that moment. He regretted every stupid deed he'd ever done to push her out of his mind. Sure, she was too good for him. But it was entirely possible that she was too good for
any
man. So why shouldn't
he
be the lucky bastard who spent the rest of his life trying to make up for those damned grasshoppers?

Emily shook her head as she put biscuits in the oven. “So Sophie's lying?” she asked and drew Colt back to the conversation with some difficulty. “You didn't fall off a horse?”

It was an absurd thought. Sophie rarely fabricated anything . . . unless it somehow involved abused horses. Then it was no holds barred.

“I was riding Maddy, so you know it can't be
too
serious,” Casie said, which was just idiotic, because it had been proven time and again that falling off
any
horse wasn't exactly good for your longevity.

“While leading Chesapeake,” Colt added. He didn't really know why he acted like a tattling twelve-year-old when she was around.

“You were leading that crazy stallion?” Emily asked.

“He's not crazy. He's really got a pretty good mind for a three-year-old. It's just that he's—”

“A
stallion!
He could have killed you!” Emily jerked her gaze to Colt. “How could you let her do that?”

He blinked, but in a moment he realized he should have known this would somehow turn around and bite him in the rear. “It's not my fault if she thinks she's Jim Shoulders.”

They stared at him in unified silence.

“The Babe Ruth of rodeo,” he added in exasperation. Apparently, unlike Willie Nelson,
their
heroes had
not
always been cowboys.

Emily glowered.

“So . . .” he said, grinning sheepishly as he glanced at Sophie. “You're teaching Evie to drive, huh?”

Silence again, then Casie buried her face against Bliss's chubby arm and chuckled at his evasive maneuvers. Emily shook her head.

By the time Max and Sonata stepped into the fragrant warmth of the kitchen, Sophie was reenacting the scene on the road and Emily was laughing out loud. For the life of him, Colt couldn't have said why Casie was the one hand-whipping Bodacious cream while he dandled the baby against his chest.

“Are we too early?” Max asked.

“No, you're right on time.” Emily was just carrying a pot from the stove to the table.

“That's good, because S. is starving,” Max said. Sonata rolled her eyes and he laughed. “What have you got there?”

“Burgundy cream sauce.” Emily lifted the pan and offered a spoon to Max. “Want to try it?”

“If I must,” he said and tasted the velvety mixture. “Yowsa” was his only comment.

Emily smiled and handed a clean spoon to Sonata, who took a tiny sip.

The front door opened and closed again, signaling the arrival of their third guest.

“Is it too salty?” Em asked, shifting her gaze from one to the other.

“It's not too
anything,
” Max said.

“Except fattening,” Sonata suggested.

“There's no such thing here on the Lazy,” Emily assured them.

“Really?”

“Believe me,” she added. “If there
was,
Mr. Dickenson would be as big as a barn.”

Colt raised a brow and gave her his best don't-mess-with-me expression.

She grinned. “Instead of being the hottest bronc rider on the—”

But in that second Lincoln Alexander stepped into the kitchen. Emily raised her smiling face to welcome him, but her eyes went wide and the pot slipped from her fingers to crash onto the linoleum.

CHAPTER 10

“S
o what brings
you
to the Lazy Windmill, Lincoln?” Max asked.

The lazy lasagna, as Emily called it, had been consumed by everyone but Sonata and wildly applauded. Dessert was now being served. Apple-plum bread pudding steamed into the air like culinary magic. Lumpy and variegated, it was a homely dessert, but each serving was baked in its own muffin tin and capped with Bo's uber rich cream. Chances were excellent it was going to taste far better than it looked.

The young man glanced across the crowded expanse of the Lazy's battered kitchen table, wintery eyes solemn and unblinking. He had been almost entirely silent during the meal. But then Emily had been almost as reticent. What was that about? The question nagged at Casie. Emily was usually as chatty as a mynah bird. In the past, half of what she said had been lies, but that had rarely stopped her from participating in their mealtime conversations.

Lincoln Alexander shrugged. “I just needed some time to think,” he said finally, voice low, left fist tense beside his empty plate.

“Yeah?” Max glanced up before dipping a spoon into his pudding. “About what?”

The boy's brows lowered the slightest degree, and for a second it almost seemed he wouldn't answer, but finally social expectations or some other equally powerful force prompted him. “I'm working on something.”

No one spoke. All eyes were on him, waiting for clarification.

His gaze slipped to the left for a second, but never actually met anyone's eyes. “I'm an artist. Sort of,” he said.

“Sort of?” Max's tone was curious.

“What kind of artist?” Sonata asked.

“Metal.”

The room went entirely silent again but for Max's spoon clicking against his bowl. “You're a sculptor?”

“Guess you could say that.”

Casie felt Colt glance at her, but she didn't glance back. She'd been a fool to let him see that the boy had spooked her. Now she'd be forced to spend time convincing him to go home for the night since she sure as hell couldn't have him sleeping on her couch. Holy cow, what if he didn't sleep fully clothed? Her stomach twisted. Maybe she should have gotten a flu shot.

“Do you cast your work or do you prefer fabricated art?” Sonata asked.

Lincoln shrugged again. The movement was stiff. “A little of everything.”

The room fell into silence, each thinking his or her own thoughts as they stared at him. Only Emily had turned away.

“Well . . .” Max said, leaning back in his chair, dessert already finished. “What time is breakfast?”

“Max!” Sonata scolded.

“What?” He turned toward her, both chagrined and amused. “I was just wondering.”

“We haven't even left the table yet.”

“Eight o'clock,” Emily said, and reaching down, curved a hand reverently against Bliss's head where it rested on Colt's shoulder.

Casie watched her. Not only had the girl been almost entirely silent during supper, but her usual sense of humor seemed to be completely depleted.

“It's a date then,” Max said and winked at Emily. She didn't even seem to notice. “I'll await it with bated breath.”

“You're going to await it while you burn off that bread pudding,” Sonata said and stood up, her own dessert all but untouched. “Does anyone happen to know where the nearest gym is located?”

“Gym?” Colt asked, rising too, right hand large and steady against the baby's sleepily curved back.

“It doesn't have to be anything fancy,” Sonata said. “A StairMaster and some dead weights would do for a day or two.”

Casie shifted uncomfortably. It wasn't as though she expected the Lazy to be a five-star inn, but she always felt oddly guilty when a guest desired something she couldn't or wouldn't supply.

Colt, however, seemed to be of an entirely different mind. He shrugged, then stroked the baby's back in absent adoration. Bliss sighed in her sleep, plump lips parted and lax against the soft flannel of his shirt. “There are some pretty good hills behind the bunkhouse,” he said.

Sonata smiled. “I'm afraid I need something
tonight
before those calories congeal.”

Colt canted his head a little, lips twitching into a mischievous grin. “According to my seventh-grade science teacher, those hills have been there for a few million years. I gotta think they're out there right now.”

Sonata raised perfectly groomed brows at him. “It's dark.”

His grin amped up a notch. “Not with the moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,” he said.

“You're kidding, right?”

“There's not a gym within fifty miles of here,” he assured her.

She raised a brow, silently assessing him for a moment. “Then how do
you
stay in such great shape?”

The room went silent. Casie felt a muscle tic in her jaw, but, perhaps realizing the inappropriateness of her question, Sonata tore her gaze from Dickenson and turned toward her.

“Surely,
you
must work out,” she said.

“Case works like a pack mule,” Colt said. “Doesn't matter if she's recently broken a couple legs coming off a horse.”

“What?” Sonata asked, but Casie desperately steered them back on track.

“Unfortunately, we don't have a lot of time for a regular exercise regiment,” she said.

“But we do have three hundred hay bales that need stacking,” Sophie added.

They all turned toward her.

“I'm just saying . . .”

“Hay bales?” Sonata repeated.

Max shifted his gaze to Emily, but she was catching no one's attention tonight. “Where are these bales going to and from?”

“This isn't something you have to worry about,” Casie said. “I'm just sorry we don't have a gym for you to use.”

“It's not a problem,” Max said. “Sounds like we can burn some calories right here on the farm. What do the bales weigh?”

Colt shrugged. “Fifty pounds. Maybe sixty.”

“You could think of it as a sixty-pound lat machine, S.” Max grinned at her.

She lifted her chin at the challenge. Her white blouse was tailored and pressed, her cuffed trousers pleated. “Sounds good,” she said.

Max's brows shot toward his hairline, and Sonata smiled. “We came here for a ranch experience, right?”

“Oh no,” Casie said and rose nervously to her feet. The last thing she needed was guests suing her for medical compensation when their backs seized up in the middle of the night. “That's not necessary.”

Sonata turned toward her, spine straight as a T-post. “Max assured me this vacation was all inclusive,” she said.

“I'm not going to make you lift bales,” her fiancé assured her. “You'll ruin your Christian Diors.”

She cocked her head at him. “I thought I'd wear my Nikes.”

He chuckled. “I'll check the GPS. Maybe there's a gym in Rapid City that's open all night.”

“Not necessary,” Sonata said. “I think this sounds like a great idea.”

The two of them stared at each other for a prolonged second . . . the modern version of pistols at dawn.

“Okay,” Max said, standing abruptly. “I'm in.”

Sonata smiled. “What do we wear?”

“Really,” Casie said, trying again. “We don't need to take care of those bales until morning.”

“Why wait?” Sonata asked.

“Listen,” Max said, looking smug. “I'd pay good money to see little Miss New York City throwing bales.”

“Honestly . . .” Casie began, but Colt stood up.

“If they're game to help, it'd be nice to get the job done tonight. Then Ty can sleep in tomorrow morning.”

Casie scowled. Ty had left immediately after evening chores to finish up an English paper; if he was willing to forego Em's lasagna, it must be important.

“There you go.” Max shifted his gaze to Emily for an instant. “Thanks for supper. It was awe-inspiring.”

“I
do
feel inspired,” Sonata said, but for an instant her gaze shifted to Colt.

Lincoln rose to his feet.

“Is there anything you need before breakfast?” Casie asked as the young man moved toward the door.

“No.” The word was barely audible as he shuffled past the others. Snagging his hooded sweatshirt from a peg in the entry, he stepped alone into the darkness and closed the door behind him.

“Not a big talker,” Max said, then rubbed his hands together. “Well, should we meet you back here after we get changed?”

“This is a really dirty job,” Casie said. “And hard. You don't want to—”

“Oh, but he does,” Sonata said. There was a confrontational light in her eyes. “And I do, too.”

Casie searched for another argument, but Colt spoke first.

“You have gloves?”

“Sure.”

“If you use them for bales, you're never going to want to wear them again,” Sophie warned, putting another set of dishes on the counter.

They stared at her in question.

“The hay gets stuck in the lining,” she explained.

“We'll supply the gloves,” Colt offered.

“Okay then,” Max said, and raising a hand, ushered Sonata out the door.

The kitchen went quiet.

“Well,” Colt said. “That's nice of—”

“What are you thinking?” Casie asked. She rounded on him, temper flaring.

He scowled as Emily took Bliss from his arms. “I'm thinking we have eight tons of hay to move, and you need to get off that leg.”

“My leg is fine,” she said, though she
had
kind of been dreaming about a long, hot bath.

“Your leg is not fine. You're limping.”

“I'm not . . .” she began, then glanced toward Emily; she'd been trying to convince the girl to quit lying since the day they'd first met. “Well . . . you
always
limp.”

“This isn't . . .” he began, then gritted his teeth. “You talk to her, Em,” he said, but the girl was already turning away.

“I'm going to feed Bliss.”

They stared at her in unison. “You okay?” Colt asked.

“I'm just tired,” she said, but her grip seemed tight on Bliss's well-padded bottom and her eyes looked wary. “I'll do the dishes later.”

“If you're not feeling well, Case and I can do them.”

Casie tried not to stiffen at his words, but who was he to volunteer her time?

“No, I'll take care of them,” Emily said and took a step toward the stairs, but in a moment she twisted back around. “Do you know how to install locks?”

“What?” Casie said.

The girl's brows were low, but she shrugged as if to lighten her words. “It's just that . . . there's been that rash of burglaries in town.”

“Is there something bothering you, Em?” Colt asked.

“No, I just . . .” The tendons in her throat tightened almost imperceptively. “Nothing. It's fine,” she said and hurried away, Bliss hugged against her shoulder.

“What was that about?” Colt asked.

Casie shook her head, but Sophie was already slipping past them toward the entry. “Are we going to get this done or what?”

“Don't you have homework to do?” Casie asked.

She ignored the question as only a well-versed teenager can. “The horses are my responsibility,” she said.

“Since when?”

“Since Freedom joined us. I think stealing horses might still be a hanging offense in the state of South Dakota.”

“You did the right thing taking her,” Casie said. “I know I wasn't too thrilled at the time . . . seeing how you could have been killed and all. But I'm really proud of you for saving her. Not to mention getting that whole pregnant mare cesspool shut down.”

For a moment quiet gratitude flooded the girl's eyes, but she shrugged away the moment. “We were lucky to find homes for the others. But it looks like Free and her baby are mine for the foreseeable future at least so I'll be helping with the hay.”

“The girl makes a fine point,” Colt said.

“Good point or not, her father will still skin me alive if she fails a single one of her classes,” Casie reminded them.

“Also a good point. How 'bout you both stay inside?”

“What?” Sophie asked.

“No,” Casie said. She wasn't entirely sure why the idea made her angry. After all, the thought of a hot bath made her sigh with longing and maybe he was just trying to help out. But how many other women had he helped out in the past? The memory of Sonata's obvious interest in him made her stomach knot up.

Irritation danced in his eyes, but he kept his voice even. “Em needs you,” he said.

She faltered for a moment, remembering the girl's atypical silence. But the realization that he was manipulating her won the day. “Sophie can take care of Em.”

Colt shifted his dubious gaze to the girl who lifted a haughty brow.

“Can't you,” Casie said. It was more a statement than a question.

“I suppose I can make sure the house doesn't burn down around her, if that's what you mean.”

“There you go.” Casie moved past Colt toward the door. “You can't ask more than that.”

“You . . .” he said, clenching his jaw, “are the most stubborn person on the planet.”

“Really?” She felt anger burn through her. She hated being angry. Hated being jealous and petty and wound up like a kid's Christmas toy. All emotions Colt Dickenson brought out in bushel baskets. “These aren't even your bales.”