Letting Hearts Heal (9 page)

“Hang on. She made cookies this morning and asked me to bring some up to the house.” Joe slowly stood up and retrieved a box from a shelf. “Make sure you share with your boys.”

Dean smiled.
His boys
. “Thanks, Joe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He thanked Anna on his way out, and she offered him another one of her shy smiles. Then he started the drive back but only got halfway before one of the ranch hands stopped him and told him about an issue with a fence. That meant another drive, trudging through the snow for a while, and working until his fingers were numb. By the time he got back to the house, it was getting dark and he was freezing. His brain had been reduced to one thought. Coffee. Black, hot coffee.

Chapter 7

D
EAN
FOUND
Wyatt and Mason in the kitchen—Wyatt coloring at the table and Mason about to start cooking dinner and looking sexier than should probably be allowed. In a perfect world, Dean would naturally stand behind Mason, fuse their bodies together, and take the first deep breath of the day. Unfortunately Dean didn’t live in a perfect world.

“Hi.”

Wyatt offered him a quick smile and a wave with a blue crayon before returning his attention to his drawing. Mason, on the other hand, looked extremely relieved to see him.

“Hey. That was a long meeting.”

Dean hoped he didn’t blush. He’d done that a lot as a kid when he’d been caught lying. “Not really. I just got derailed when I came back here. Fence problem.”

“Here we have a dinner problem.”

Dean looked at the ingredients. “Looks fine to me.”

“I don’t… cook.” Mason closed his eyes for a moment before smiling sheepishly at Dean.

“You did when I was sick.”

“That was an emergency.”

“All right,” Dean said slowly. “I can do it. What are the ingredients for?”

Mason was obviously relieved, making Dean even more curious. There was a story there. “Wyatt requested pea pizza.”

“How about regular pizza and peas on the side, instead? I could go for ham and mushrooms.”

“No.” Wyatt objected and ran over. He tugged at Mason’s jeans leg. “Pea pizza. Please? Mason makes it.”

“Daddy can make pea pizza.”

“No. You do it,” Wyatt insisted.

Dean sighed, too tired to deal with a cranky Wyatt. He didn’t know what Mason’s problem with cooking was, but it couldn’t be that bad. Wyatt was still alive and kicking after Dean’s illness had forced Mason to cook. And Dean needed a moment alone to swallow the sting of being number two in his son’s world. Again. Though who could blame the boy? “I’ll go take a shower.”

M
ASON
WANTED
to protest, but Dean was already halfway out the door. The unfairness of it weighed heavily on him, and he had to take a deep breath to regain control of himself. He was a chef with a hungry little boy on his hands. Yet cooking a simple meal felt like the end of the world. It was beyond frustrating, not to mention humiliating.

The kitchen was quiet while he forced himself to cook. It was a good thing it all came so naturally to him or he’d have freaked out. Wyatt was silent too. Mason sighed. The boy should be helping, not worrying that he’d angered Mason.

“Why don’t you help me put the peas on the pizza, kiddo?”

Wyatt shuffled over and climbed onto a low stool Mason had set beside the counter. Wyatt’s sad little eyes broke his heart. He reached out and ruffled his hair. “Chin up, soldier. It’s time for peas.”

The expression on Wyatt’s face eased, and he started sprinkling peas onto the dough. One at a time. A few ended up in his mouth. He was still sprinkling when Dean came downstairs.

“Kitchen burn down yet?”

Mason blanched. “Don’t say that.”

“Why? It was just a joke, Mase.”

“Because it might have.” Mason kept his back turned while he finished preparing the pea-free pizza for Dean and himself.

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” Dean said. He grabbed a cup of the ever-ready coffee and sat at the table. “I’m a mediocre cook at best, but I don’t set kitchens on fire.”

“It’s not a matter of skills when it comes to kitchen fires.” Mason put the pizzas in, helped Wyatt down, and then started on the salad while he peered into the oven every minute. He also tried not to interpret Dean’s silence. He’d probably get it wrong, anyway. Or worse—he’d get it right.

Mason didn’t breathe easily until the pizzas were done and the oven turned off. He felt like a wet rag and was happy to plop down on a chair and breathe in the tantalizing smell of tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella. He closed his eyes and reveled in it. It was almost like being back in… his eyes snapped open. No, not there.

Dean was looking curiously at him.

Mason just shook his head and picked up a slice of pizza.

The meal was almost uncomfortably silent until Dean said, “You know, you’re a much better cook than you think you are. This pizza is a lot better than at the pizza place in town.”

Mason wasn’t surprised—not after working at an Italian restaurant for years—but he couldn’t say that. And the compliment, coming from Dean, pleased him. “Thanks.”

“Yum,” Wyatt agreed as he plucked the peas he’d so carefully put on the pizza and ate them along with the cheese and maybe a third of the crust.

Mason could picture it in his head—cooking every day for Dean and Wyatt and finding the passion for his craft again. He’d never felt more confident than when he was behind a stove and with a knife in his hand. Little, stupid Mason Schneider had actually become someone—someone with a gift. Pierre and the food critics had agreed. It hurt not to be able to use that gift anymore.

“You okay?” Dean asked.

Managing half a smile, Mason nodded. “I’m fine.”

After dinner, Mason cleaned up the kitchen while Dean gave Wyatt a bath and tucked him in. When the kitchen was clear, Mason went outside. He felt like he was stuck in his own head, and it wasn’t his favorite place. He thought he’d been managing to keep the memories at bay pretty well since coming back to the valley, but one night in the kitchen made everything come back. It had been the same when he cooked while Dean was out for the count.

“That’s some heavy sighing.”

“Yeah….” Mason wasn’t in the mood to share or to strip himself bare so Dean could see his weaknesses and biggest fears.

“I’m sorry I made you cook. When I offered you a job you said you’d do anything but cook.”

The truth almost made Mason snort. There really were few things above
cooking
on his list of least favorite things to do. It was shocking that only a few months ago there had been nothing he liked better. “I just can’t.”

“So now’s not the time to ask for help when I dive headfirst into cooking Thanksgiving dinner for the first time? I know I fuck up with Wyatt every day, but I want his first holiday on the ranch to be… special.” Dean leaned against the porch railing next to Mason. The dark and the shadows hid the expression on his face.

“It’s not a good idea to let me cook.” Mason pictured the ranch going up in flames and shuddered.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” It was that easy?

“That’s what I said. I can tell there’s a story there, but I won’t pry.”

“Thanks. And you don’t fuck up with Wyatt, you know.” In the dark, all he could see was Dean’s silhouette.

“You make him laugh all the time.” Dean sounded sad.

“It’s easier for me because I don’t have to deal with the responsibility. There’s no pressure for me. Wyatt is a good kid, and you’re not the bad father you think you are. You just need some time to adjust—both of you.”

Dean was silent for several minutes. “What if I turn into my dad?”

Mason couldn’t stop the snort. “Of all the things in the world to be scared of, you choose
that
? Jesus Christ, Dean. I’d believe you turning into a woman before turning into your dad.”

The laugh was brief, but it was there. “I just meant that in twenty years, Wyatt may look back and see a father who was closed off and only mentally present when there was something to criticize.”

“And do you think your dad ever considered that? You’re aware of what to avoid. That’s more than half the battle.”

“I hope so. For Wyatt’s sake.” Dean sighed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to whine.”

“You’re fine. Instant parenthood would freak me out too.”

“Yeah.”

Dean was quiet again, and Mason was starting to get cold. Just as he was about to go inside, Dean curled his fingers around his bicep.

“You know you can talk to me, right? I keep unloading on you, and it can go both ways, you know?”

Mason nodded slowly. “I know. It’s not a matter of trust, though. It’s… well, it’s fear I guess… of what will happen to my mind when I talk about it.”

“You still have nightmares?” Dean’s voice was so soft and soothing that it took Mason a few seconds to realize what he’d said.

“How do you know about those?”

“I heard you a couple of times. When you first got here.” He tightened his fingers around Mason’s arm. “I wanted to go to you, but I didn’t know how you’d react.”

“Probably badly,” Mason admitted. It was embarrassing—humiliating even—that Dean knew. Being on his own for so long, Mason had gotten used to not showing any kind of weakness.

“Have you ever wondered where we’d be and what would have happened if you hadn’t had to leave all those years ago?”

“Yeah… at first. But then I forced myself to stop in order to make it through the day.” Mason sighed, thinking of those difficult days when he’d had to learn how to be on his own. “Did you… wonder?”

“I don’t know if I ever stopped. So much could have been different.”

“But would it have been better? I don’t want to make myself crazy thinking about it. We can change the future, but not the past.”

“Can we?” Dean didn’t sound convinced. “Come on, let’s go back inside. It’s freezing out here.”

Mason followed Dean inside. The conversation had left him every bit as unsettled as cooking had, and he wasn’t sure what Dean had been trying to say.

D
ESPITE
BEING
tired, it was late before Dean went to bed. He spent a couple of hours staring mindlessly at the TV. Mason had faked a pathetic yawn and gone to bed not long after they got inside and Dean built a fire in the fireplace.

Mason’s secrets were driving Dean nuts. The way cooking was made into something dangerous. The way Mason sometimes bolted from the living room at night with some not very believable excuse about being tired. But he decided not to push him. In the nine years since Mason left the valley, Dean had considered many reasons for his departure. One might have been Dean’s struggle with his sexuality. Dean hadn’t always understood it himself. He’d questioned if he was really gay, but he never questioned being with Mason. Dean wanted to repay the endless patience Mason had shown him as a teenager, and now he could. Well, he could try, anyway. It wasn’t as easy as it looked.

It wasn’t until Dean finally made it to bed that he remembered he had to get up early the next morning. It was Thanksgiving, and it had become extremely important to cook up a feast and make it a real holiday for Wyatt. No matter what, Dean refused to make it another way he failed his son. Those thoughts didn’t help him fall asleep.

“Daddy?”

Dean groaned, certain that it couldn’t possibly be morning, already. He’d only closed his eyes like a second before. Then it registered what he’d heard.
Daddy
. He opened his eyes and saw a bouncing Wyatt, already dressed and ready for the day.

“Morning,” Dean croaked, trying for a smile but unsure if he succeeded.
Daddy.
Wyatt had never called him that before, and the feeling was like nothing else Dean had ever experienced. Exhausted as he was, he wanted to jump up and dance. And he definitely didn’t dance. Or jump out of bed. Ever.

“Mason says peas isn’t Thanksgivin’ food.”

The worried look on Wyatt’s face broke Dean’s heart. “I think Mason’s teasing you. We can have peas if you want.” He hesitated. “It can be our very own Thanksgiving tradition.”

“Okay.” All was right in his world again, and Wyatt skipped out of the room, way too peppy for—Dean glanced at his alarm clock—seven o’clock in the morning.

Dean stayed in bed a little longer, thinking of the day ahead. Growing up an only child with just his dad, Dean always dreamed of big family holidays. When he finally came to terms with his sexuality, he thought he would miss out on having a big family, but the dream had never really died. Now it became clear to him that it wasn’t about the number of people around the table—just that they mattered.

Dean’s dad never made a fuss about holidays. Thanksgiving was largely ignored due to the old man’s bitterness. He never forgave God for taking away Dean’s mother. And Christmas had always been a sparse affair, only brightened by Mrs. McMahon and her attempts to make the holiday a little joyful. Dean was pretty sure she felt sorry for him with his dead mother and emotionally distant father, but he’d absolutely adored her. The ranch hadn’t been the same after she left—until now. Wyatt and Mason had brought life with them.