In His Will (8 page)

“Starving!”

He said it with such gusto, she smiled. “What do you like on your dogs?”

“Ketchup, mustard, and pickle relish.”

“No onions or cheese?”

He chugged down the soda and let out a long, slow, noisy breath of bliss. “You really do ’em up. No onions. Cheese, if you have it.” He then hitched a shoulder. “Sondra, I’m sweaty, hot, and real hungry. Maybe you’d rather—”

“I left a few of Miller’s shirts hanging in the guest room. You’re welcome to go have a quick shower. As much time as you spend here, it’d probably be a good idea for you to bring over a change of clothing. I’ll eat one hot dog, maybe two. The rest are going to go rotten before I eat them again, and the buns go stale in this heat. Feel free to polish off as many as you want.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Sondra did know what she was asking for. She hadn’t shared a meal with anyone in ages. If she wanted, she could attribute feeding him to good manners and basic gratitude, but the truth of the matter was, she wanted company, and Dylan propped open the door of friendship by dropping in for a drink.

For the first time, they shared a meal. Sondra folded her hands in her lap and dipped her head for a quick, silent prayer. To her surprise, Dylan immediately started, “Heavenly Father, we give You thanks for Your grace and mercy, for Your bounty and care.”

Afterward, he cleared his throat. “I guess I should have asked. It was presumptuous for me to dive in like that in your home.”

“Oh, no! It was lovely. I only wish I’d made a real meal instead—”

“Hold it right there.” He gave her an outraged look. “Hot dogs are an all-American meal, and I’m dead serious when I give thanks for them.”

Half an hour later, Sondra asked, “How does ice cream sound?”

Dylan’s eyes lit up. “Only if you eat a whole bowl full. You’re still too skinny.”

Glancing down at her tummy, Sondra refuted, “I’m not skinny. I’ve probably put on an inch a week this last month!”

“What does the doctor say about that?”

Sondra waggled her finger at him. “I knew you put your sister up to that! She just happened to know where the doctor’s office was, and they just happened to slip me in for a quick check-up so the chicks wouldn’t overheat in the car.”

“Hey, I’m not denying it. Since you were in town, it made sense for you to see the doc. So what did he say?”

“Believe it or not, even with being sick, I gained weight this time.” She grinned. “Must have been the great care my neighbors gave me.”

“You’re like one of those women from olden days. I’ll bet my hands could about span your waist.”

“That’s not saying much. You have huge hands. This baby isn’t staying little, either.”

Dylan strove to keep a casual pitch to his voice. “What did the doc say?”

“The obstetrician said he looks fine. Everything is right on schedule, including the fact that the baby is getting the hiccups.”

“They really don’t—do they?”

“Oh, yes. The rascal bumps up and down like he’s on a teeter-totter.”

“I still don’t believe it. If he does it when I’m around, you let me know.”

Sondra gave him a wary look. “Why?”

A wave of awkwardness swelled. Dylan shifted and groused. “Because. . .awww, just forget it. Skip the ice cream. I need to get going.”

“I love rocky road. That and fudge brownie. There’s always one or the other in the freezer, and I’ll keep soda in the fridge. You’re welcome to help yourself anytime.” She dipped her head and wondered what made her blurt that out. His quick wit and easygoing nature made him fun to be around. Though she’d surprised herself with that invitation, she meant every word of it.

Shuffling his weight from his left boot to his right, Dylan stood at the door, plunked his Stetson on and rumbled, “You strike me as woman who values her privacy. I don’t imagine I’ll claim those much.”

She looked directly at him. “I’m not the type to make empty gestures. Some women are good at coy games and small talk. Me?” She flicked him a strained smile. “I got shuffled around in the system too much to ever get good at those social conventions. You can take whatever I say at face value, so don’t feel shy about popping in the back door if you’re thirsty.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He left.

Sondra stared at the door and wondered what had gotten into her. The only other men she’d ever felt that way with were Kenny and Miller. That fact jarred her.

Still, she went to the refrigerator and rearranged things. . . just so the soda cans would be up front. After all, what were partners for?

❧

She made it through her seventh month of pregnancy quite nicely. The hands wouldn’t let her do much of anything. They gave her tummy assessing looks and nudged her out of the way. Gathering eggs, helping groom the horses, and feeding the dogs and cats were her chores. She quickly mastered the software on Miller’s computer so she could keep track of orders, bills, and payroll. Every other Friday, she passed paychecks out to the hands and thanked them wholeheartedly for their labor.

Since they wouldn’t hear of her doing many of the ranching chores, Sondra made it a practice to bake something a couple times a week. The men cooked for themselves at the bunkhouse, but they definitely appreciated having her desserts. She soon learned Howie liked pie of any variety, Nickels shared her weakness for chocolate, and Frank didn’t care what it was as long as it was sweet. Edgar liked apples in his things, while Joseph could eat an entire batch of cookies all by himself. With those preferences in mind, she tried to rotate her choices.

It wasn’t long before she ran into one of the men from Dylan’s spread at the grocery store. Scanning the flour and butter in her cart, he drawled, “Heard tell you make a mean apple pie.”

Her lips parted in surprise. Folks in this small town were astonishingly friendly. Men and women she’d never met chatted with her at the store or on the sidewalk. They invariably asked about Dylan, too. She wasn’t comfortable talking about herself, and she had no idea what to say about him other than to mention he was a hardworking man. That always garnered a nod of agreement.

Dylan’s ranch hand grinned. “Edgar came over. He and Dylan planned tomorrow.”

Sondra still didn’t see the connection.

“Edgar told Dylan they’d save him a slice of your pie. Said you just put a couple in the bunkhouse.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

“We’re going to cull the herds and sell off some beef. Dylan has Teresa making barbecue afterward.”

“Why hasn’t Teresa called me?”

“Ma’am, I never pretended to be able to read a woman’s mind.”

She barely quelled her laugh. “Can you read a man’s?”

“Every once in a while. Mostly when he’s lookin’ at a woman or something good to eat.”

“That doesn’t take much skill,” Sondra decided with mock solemnity. “It’s a good thing you’re a decent cowboy.”

He gave her a slow smile and shook his head. “You know, Dylan’s right. That spunk of yours might get you through this.”

Sondra smiled and pushed her cart down the next aisle. She cruised to the produce section again to pick up more apples.

The next day, Sondra called Teresa. At four thirty, she showed up at Dylan’s ranch, the Laughingstock. Teresa helped her transfer five apple pies, a chocolate cake, potato salad, and six dozen homemade rolls from her car to the picnic tables. She made lemonade as Teresa filled her in on snippets of news.

The air was redolent with the heady aroma of roasting beef when the men sauntered over. Soon as Dylan asked grace, a solid dozen men attacked the table. “Hey! Sondra made pie!”

“That’s dessert!” Teresa shouted. “You leatherhands leave it be ’til you’ve eaten everything else.”

“Whoa! Them rolls ain’t store-bought.”

“Pitch me a couple!”

Dylan paced up to Sondra. She turned away and fussed to keep napkins from blowing away. She didn’t want to look at him. He made her breath hitch.

Due to being in a wheelchair, Kenny had boasted impressive chest and arm muscles. Dylan, though—on him, those corded muscles spoke of heavy labor and the ability to tackle any task. He walked with rugged assurance, and every inch of him shouted masculine confidence. He’d easily held and carried her—and that somehow suddenly seemed significant.
What am I doing even looking at him?

Unaware of his effect on her, Dylan arrived at her side with a heaping plate of beef in his hands. He extended it to her. “You’d best elbow in and get some of that food or these hogs’ll inhale it all in five minutes flat.”

Sondra shook her head. “I can’t eat a fraction of this.”

“That’s nothing!”

“It’s too much, seeing as I have a passenger on board. Plain and simple, there’s just not enough room.”

“That passenger needs good nutrition. How much milk are you drinking? What about fruits and vegetables?”

“Dylan, I’m a grown woman. I don’t need you to hover.”

“How much weight have you gained?”

Her jaw dropped.

“Well?”

“That’s none of your business!”

He grabbed her arm. “Make way, guys. Sondra needs to eat up.”

“Stop this!” she hissed.

“Give her a roll. They taste mighty fine.”

“You knothead! She made ’em,” Edgar announced.

Dylan paused for a second and looked at her. “You’re supposed to be resting. You made the pies. What were you thinking, making rolls, too?”

“If you’re going to give her the business, best you do it up right,” the man behind her tattled. “She made that there potato salad and the chocolate cake, too.” He then tugged on Sondra’s maternity smock. “If he fires me, I expect a job on your spread.”

“Are you kidding? You’ve just gotten the man so mad at me, I’m mincemeat! All I owe you is indigestion!” She set her plate down. “I already have a good enough case of it to last both of us!”

“It’s no wonder. You push yourself too hard and don’t eat right,” Dylan snapped. “This kid is going to be a sickly little thing if you don’t start filling up with decent grub. When’s the last time you ate liver?”

Momentarily closing her eyes in horror, she shuddered. “Liver?”

“You heard me right. Liver. For iron.”

“I take an iron tablet.”

“Not good enough. You don’t get all you need from a stinking, little artificial pill. Quit stalling. When’s the last time you had liver? Last week? Two weeks ago?” When she shook her head, he growled threateningly, “Last month?”

“Kindergarten.”

“That does it!” He raised his voice, “Teresa, where’s the liver from this beast? Fix it up right quick. Sondra needs to eat it.”

Sondra shook her head. “I won’t.”

“Yes, you will. Your son deserves it.”

“What did he ever do to you?”

Dylan gave her a disapproving look.

Pressing her hand over her stomach, Sondra complained, “You’re making my indigestion even worse, so stop scowling at me.”

“We’ll walk you.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Walk me?”

Nodding curtly, as if he’d come to some momentous decision and solved the entire problem, Dylan informed her, “Walking. Until your colic passes. It works great for horses.”

Sondra turned away, and everyone glared at him.
Now what did I do wrong?
Suddenly his eyes widened and he stepped back, but the table stopped him. “Sond—” A perfectly good apple pie hit his face.

Nine

Her phone jangled incessantly for the next hour. Sondra finally unplugged it. She curled up in bed and stewed. How dare Dylan treat her like that?
A horse!

Mixed in with her anger was a dawning sense of embarrassment. She’d actually hit Dylan with a pie—took the tin and smeared the whole thing all over his face. He must be absolutely livid. She’d humiliated him in front of all of his men.

He was clueless. I overreacted.
She lay in the dark and winced. Apologizing to him wouldn’t be easy, but she owed him that much. In fact, nothing would ever cancel the debt she owed him. Yes, he’d get land and livestock at the end of the year. . . but he’d earn it.

One thing for sure: Dylan needed the land. Wisely enough, he’d refrained from repeating his desire to have first bid at the remainder of the ranch after the year lapsed. He was doing the nearly impossible, running two ranches. She appreciated it, but at the same time, on nights like tonight, Sondra was reminded it wasn’t an altruistic gesture. He helped her because of what he’d get in the end.

Doing the books let her plainly see what the value of the cattle would be, come reckoning time. Then, too, Mr. Cheviot had advised her to get the land appraised so she could adequately deduct it from the property tax when it came due. Dylan was putting in hard work—but in the end, he would walk away with a very handsome reward. If he failed, he was no worse off—but she’d lose her home, her dreams, and the future she wanted for her son.