Letting Hearts Heal (5 page)

“Sure. Pete can handle it on his own for a while. Let’s grab a cup of coffee. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted Mrs. Lowry’s brownies.”

Mason remembered Mrs. Lowry. She was the mean lady who owned the yarn shop and liked to chase away children who dared to stop outside her shop windows. Apparently she had become the local queen of brownies at The Sweet Valley Store. Things certainly had changed in town in Mason’s absence.

Enjoying brownies and coffee, Mason grilled Karen about the kind of customers who came into the store—where they were from, how many, and what they usually bought. She was as eager as Dean to get more products on the shelves, so she told him everything she knew—including info on the online store Pete was preparing to launch.

When Mason left an hour later, he felt much more equipped to do the job he’d been tasked with. So he spent the rest of the afternoon visiting the people on Dean’s list—some strangers, some ghosts from his past. When he drove back to the ranch, he discovered that the feeling in his stomach wasn’t hunger. It was pride mixed with a pinch of happiness. He enjoyed talking to people and had gotten positive feedback from everyone. Now he felt like a school kid who’s just received his first A and was rushing home to show it off. Mason hoped Dean would be pleased.

It was dark by the time Mason returned to the ranch. It was nice to have a place to come home to. He parked the truck and sat for a moment to revel in it. The windows of the house were lit up. It would be warm inside, maybe smelling of whatever was cooking for dinner. Someone would be waiting for him, asking about his day. The thought made Mason smile until he remembered that it wasn’t quite as blissful as it sounded. But it would do. And it was a hell of a lot better than the week before, when he had nothing.

Wyatt greeted him with a smile and the red race car as soon as he stepped inside the house. The blue truck was in his other hand. Clearly someone was in the mood for a car race.

“Hey, kiddo. Just let me talk to your daddy for a minute, and then we’ll have ourselves a race, okay?”

Wyatt nodded and padded into the living room. Mason took off his jacket and followed the smell of tomato sauce to the kitchen. Dean was an okay cook, but not a great one. Often Mason’s fingers would itch to help out or correct him, but he never said a word. It was easier that way.

“Hey, boss.”

Dean turned with a frown, red sauce dripping from a ladle in his hand. “Boss?”

“Yes. I work for you, which makes you my boss.”

“Shut up.” Dean turned back to what he was cooking, looking a bit tired. Mason almost wanted to offer his assistance, but the words wouldn’t come out. He hoped he could cheer Dean up with the progress he’d made, instead.

“All right,
Dean
. I’ll tell you the details later when there’s not a car race waiting for me in the living room. But long story short—I talked to the first seven people on the list today, and they’re all in. Oh, and I added a few more to the list that Simon West with the different-flavored schnapps told me about. Someone who might be interested in making jellies and some guy out way beyond the old Fitzgerald ranch who’s dabbling in wine making. I’ll check them out if you want me to.”

Mason fidgeted under Dean’s odd stare. “What?” he asked.

“Damn.” Dean shook his head. “Just damn. Everyone on that list has already turned me down at least once. And you change the minds of seven of them in one afternoon?”

“Maybe they’ve just had some time to think about it,” Mason suggested. He had no idea what he’d done differently, but as long as Dean was happy with his work, then Mason was happy.

“Yeah. Or maybe I was a genius for hiring you. Go let the kid beat you. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”

Chapter 4

M
ASON
WOKE
up disoriented. It was dark in the room, and the only sound he could hear was the wind howling outside. He was toasty warm under the covers, and just the thought of having to get up made him groan. Then he heard it and knew what had woken him—a timid knock on his door.

“Yes?”

There was no reply, just another knock.

“Come in.”

The door slowly opened, but the weak light from the hallway was not enough to reveal who it was. Not that it could be anyone but Dean, but why the hell didn’t he just say something? Mason sat up and reached for the light.

It was not Dean standing in the doorway in Spider-Man pajamas, however.

“Morning, Wyatt.”

Never much of a talker, Wyatt padded across the floor and grabbed the sleeve of Mason’s long-sleeved T-shirt and pulled.

“Ready for breakfast?” Mason was mildly amused when he let Wyatt drag him from the warm covers.

They weren’t headed for the kitchen, though. Wyatt stopped outside the master bedroom where Dean resided and looked up at Mason, all wide eyes, messy curls, and pale cheeks. “He won’t wake up.”

Immediately alarmed, Mason pushed the door open, but turned to face Wyatt before going inside. “Can you dress yourself?”

Wyatt nodded.

“Good boy. Go put on your clothes, and then I’ll be right down to make breakfast, okay?”

Mason received another nod and watched Wyatt disappear into his room a few doors down the hall. Then he took a deep breath and stepped into Dean’s dark bedroom. He wasn’t dead—that much Mason could tell from the sound of breathing. But he could be sick or something—knocked out from staying up all night and getting drunk. No. He wouldn’t do that with Wyatt around, would he?

“Dean? Dean, wake up. You’re freaking out Wyatt. Dean?”

When there was no reaction at all, Mason felt around the bedside table until he found the light switch. He turned it on and discovered Dean twisted in his covers, his hair and T-shirt drenched in sweat.

“Dean?”

A hand on his forehead confirmed what Mason suspected. Dean was sick—burning up, actually. At Mason’s touch Dean mumbled incoherently and turned his head. His weakened state tugged at Mason’s heart strings.

Mason sighed, realizing that he’d just been named official babysitter and nurse at the Walker ranch. So where to start? He decided to get dressed first. Then he brought his own covers into Dean’s bedroom where he replaced the damp ones twisted around Dean. He refilled the empty water glass on the bedside table and figured Dean was going to be okay for a while. He’d have to make Wyatt breakfast, and then he’d have to locate Old Joe or whoever needed to know that the boss was out of commission.

The last part turned out to be easier than expected. Mason was walking down the stairs when there was a knock on the door. Wyatt appeared from the kitchen and looked up at him.

“It’s okay. You can open the door,” Mason told him.

Old Joe was standing outside, snow falling softly behind him. “Morning, little man. Is your daddy around? Or Mason?”

“Morning, Joe. It’s good to see you again.” Mason made his way to the door, put his hand on Wyatt’s head, and tried to smooth his hair. The boy had been right. He could dress himself—if you discounted his mismatched socks. Taming his curls, however, was another matter. “Dean’s got a fever, and I’d say he’s looking at a few days—at least—in bed.”

“Likewise, Mason. And it had to happen that Dean got sick, I suppose.” Joe scratched his beard and rested his large frame against the door. “He’s been working too hard for too long. Too busy for a break, that boy.”

“He’s taking one now, whether he likes it or not.”

Chuckling, Joe nodded. “That he is. Well, I’ll be out of your hair. I just wanted to check in, since Dean is always out early. Try to keep him indoors as long as you can.”

“Will do. And if I can help with anything, let me know.”

Joe nodded, winked at Wyatt, and left.

“All right, kiddo. Your daddy’s not feeling well, so he’s going to sleep for a while.” Mason kicked the door shut and took a deep breath, knowing what lay ahead. “We’re on our own for breakfast. What are we having?”

“Peas.”

“For breakfast?”

Wyatt nodded seriously, and Mason scratched his forehead. “How about cereal instead?”

Scrunching up his little face in concentration, Wyatt considered it. “Okay.”

Cereal was safe. Mason grabbed bowls and spoons while Wyatt climbed into his seat at the table. Mason placed three different cereal boxes on the table, along with the milk. He had managed to produce a meal—kind of—without panicking.

“The milk needs to be warm.”

Mason closed his eyes in resignation. Of course it did. Why would Wyatt Walker want to put cold milk on his cereal? It was only what everyone else did. “Cold milk tastes good too.”

“Nope.”

“Nope,” Mason muttered to himself. He considered refusing Wyatt’s request, but he recognized a golden opportunity when he saw one. And it was just milk, after all. He’d already reached for a saucepan to heat it in when he remembered the microwave. Using that was taking the easy way out, but with Dean out for the count, it meant that dinner was on Mason too. One step at the time.

Still he broke out in a cold sweat when he placed a mug of milk in the microwave and switched it on. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to turn it off and get out of the kitchen as fast as he could, and he almost listened. But then he glanced at Wyatt, who waited patiently for his warm milk for the cereal he was currently stirring with his finger. Mason realized that he didn’t want to be the man who couldn’t heat a little milk for a boy who’d just lost his mother.

When the timer beeped, Mason was ridiculously relieved. He’d just avoided disaster, a nervous breakdown, and drowning in memories he fought to suppress every day.

“Thank you,” Wyatt said when Mason poured the milk over the well-stirred cereal. The smile that went along with the simple words made facing his fears worth it for Mason. But he still hoped Dean would recover miraculously before dinnertime. He was pretty sure there were no restaurants in town that delivered this far out.

Dean was pretty out of it. Mason spent the rest of the day checking on him, making sure he stayed hydrated, playing with Wyatt, doing some laundry, and jotting down ideas. Dean had mentioned that he was considering a restaurant to fit into his concept, and the idea had stayed with Mason. With his experience, the ideas were piling up in his head.

Old Joe stopped by the house again in the afternoon. “Just checking in,” he said and he accepted a cup of coffee after Mason finally worked up the courage to use the machine. “Is the boss man still out?”

“Yeah, I figure that sleeping is the best thing for him, right now.”

Joe nodded. “I had a strange call today from someone wanting us to cater a wedding. I said we didn’t do that, of course, but I wanted to mention it to Dean. That boy is so full of ideas. One more would probably please him.”

“Probably. He’s talked about a restaurant and a chef. Mentioned catering too.”

Joe chuckled and sipped his coffee. “Dean’s so disappointed that Roy doesn’t cook. There aren’t a lot of chefs around these parts. Trust me, if there were, Dean would already be all over it.”

Mason nodded. He couldn’t help but feel that he was betraying Dean. He could help with something that obviously meant a lot to him. But because he was afraid, he kept his mouth shut.

“Well, I’ll be going,” Joe said, as he stood up and put his cup in the sink. “Tell Dean that we’ve got everything covered until he’s well again.”

“I will.” Mason stood up too. He had a feeling Joe had picked up on his weird mood and hated himself for letting it show. “And let me know if there’s anything I can help with.”

“That’s a deal. I’ll see you later.”

When Joe had left and Wyatt was engrossed in a cartoon on TV, Mason sat down at the kitchen table. One moment everything looked bright—like he was getting his life back on track—and the next he remembered who he was, what he’d been through, and exactly why he couldn’t have the life he wanted. And then there was no brightness left.

Cooking dinner that night was one of the hardest things Mason had ever done. He’d found a passionate love for cooking in the big city, and it had brought him far. Then disaster had struck—twice—and Mason had refused to do anything that even resembled cooking since then, afraid that bad things would happen again.

Fully aware that Wyatt was watching him and probably thinking that he was an idiot, Mason hardly took his eyes off the stove while he threw together a modified version of one of his signature pasta dishes of the past. The original didn’t have peas in it. This new version did. He’d call it Pasta a la Wyatt.

“Is Daddy still sleeping?” Wyatt asked while he happily shoveled primarily peas into his mouth.

“Last time I checked, yes. When you’re not feeling well, sleeping is the best thing for you.”

Wyatt nodded. “Can we go play in the snow tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.” Mason wondered if Dean had taken the time to play in the snow with Wyatt since it had fallen. He hoped so, but somehow had a difficult time picturing it. “We also need to go grocery shopping tomorrow.”

“And make pancakes? Mommy made pancakes.”

It was the first time Mason had heard Wyatt mention his mom, and he didn’t know what to say. Did a four-year-old understand what death meant? So he said the only thing he could, even though it involved the dreaded stove: “Sure we can.”