Cowgirl Come Home (17 page)

B
ailey adjusted the
strap of the cloth grocery bag on her shoulder and pushed the doorbell, bumblebees raising a ruckus in her mid-section.

She’d checked the address twice. Right number. Right house. But she still couldn’t quite believe it.

She’d never been inside, but when they were dating, she and Paul had cruised down Bramble Lane debating about which house they’d buy when they were rich and famous.

“This one,” they’d said simultaneously, on more than one occasion.

Two stories, skinny lap siding with brick accents, a porch that begged you to sit there every evening as the neighborhood settled down. This wasn’t the biggest or showiest house on the street, but she liked how it seemed lovingly coddled by older trees and full, green hedges.

Although she could hear the chime echoing inside the house, nobody came to greet her.

Out back,
she guessed.

She held tight to the handrail going down the steps. The entire porch had been replaced by new, manufactured “wood.” Winding her way past a skateboard, a girl’s bike and some kind of motorized scooter, she reached the privacy fence gate. A post-it note fluttered in the late afternoon breeze.

“Come in,” it urged, in hot pink ink with five odd-shaped hearts forming an arch.

She was tempted to snatch it up and press it to her chest but didn’t. She opened the gate and walked into a world unlike anything she’d been expecting.

“Hey,” a high-pitched voice called from the large, rectangular pool. “You’re here.”

Chloe abandoned her orca-shaped raft and rolled into the water. Once her head re-emerged, she yelled, “Da…ad, your girlfriend’s here.”

Bailey waved but didn’t walk any closer, still trying to take in the unexpected landscaping.

Somehow—at tremendous cost, she guessed—he’d built a year-round pool right up against the back patio of the house. The roof reminded her of something she would have seen at the Louvre—a pyramid with solar panels and skylights and retractable doors that opened a wide expanse to the elements. Presumably, the panels could be closed in the winter.

“Wow. This is really something,” she said when Paul vaulted over the back porch in a pair of board shorts and a black tank. “Four seasons of swimming, huh?”

He tried to look modest but she could tell he was proud. “Thanks to the power of solar energy. You recognized the place, right? I couldn’t believe my luck when it came on the market. I made an offer without consulting Jen.”

He winced elaborately. “You can imagine how well that went over. She’d been working with an architect—an over-priced ninny from Bozeman—to design a new home on one of the lots south-west of the river.”

Bailey knew about the development but she hadn’t seen it. To her taste, downtown Marietta was the only place to live, if you couldn’t afford a ranch.

“The house was in pretty rough shape, so I got it for a song. Jen remodeled the inside, and I designed the pool. What do you think?”

“It’s amazing.”

He looked proud and pleased. “Like I told Jen, if you’re going to have a pool in Montana, you better build a cover or those couple of summer months will go by much too fast.”

Jen.

Bailey couldn’t help but wonder about the woman Paul loved enough to marry and give two beautiful children. She hoped to learn more from the house Jen decorated and made her own.

“I knew you’d done well for yourself. Mom said the Chamber of Commerce voted you Businessman of the Year a while back.”

“Big Z’s was neck and neck with the Wolf Den. Voting was this close.” He held up his thumb and index finger about two inches apart.

She laughed with a joy she’d forgotten she knew existed. Yes, life sucked at the moment, but she made her shoulders relax. Maureen insisted down time was key to recovery. “It’s okay to let go once in awhile, Bailey. Have fun. Your body will thank you for it.”

“Can I get you a drink? A glass of wine? Iced tea?”

“Tea sounds good.”

He took the carryall from her and led the way to the rear porch. “Any news on your folks?”

“Mom left a note on the table. And once my phone was charged I listened to her voice mails. She’s adamant that Dad didn’t drink. I don’t know if she’s trying to convince me or herself.”

“Where are they?”

“Not a clue.”

She stepped carefully on the flagstone path. She felt silly wearing boots with a swimming suit, but her ankle wasn’t strong enough to handle flip-flops. Luckily, her ivory cover-up wasn’t wrinkled too badly from being stuffed in a suitcase.

“Wow,” Chloe said sliding to a stop opposite a few feet away. “You look different. Where’d you get that awesome belt?”

Bailey’s gaze dropped. The belt had been a last minute addition to off-set the boots.

“And look at the bling on your boots. O.M.G. That is the coolest ankle bracelet evva. I love it.” When she looked at Bailey, her blue eyes sparkled with honest excitement.

“Thank you. I made them. Both.”

Chloe dashed closer. “Wow. That buckle is so awesome. It looks like Skipper. What kind of stone is the eye?”

Paul bent over for a look, too.

“Montana sapphire. I met a woman at a rodeo whose family has been digging them for years. My late husband bought the stone for a ring, but after he died, I decided to make it part of a tribute to my horse, Daz.”

“Does he have blue eyes?”

“No. Dark brown. He died a little over a year ago.” Bailey’s heart thudded hard against her chest, but she got the words out with barely a stumble.

Chloe’s bottom lip quivered, and her eyes filled with tears. “That is so sad. I don’t know what I’d do if Skipper passed away. Was he old?”

Paul wormed his way between them with a plate of nachos he must have had on the nearby grill to keep warm. “Take this to the table, please, sweetheart. There’s pop in the outside fridge if you want one. Just one before supper, though.”

A moment later, he popped the top on a can and poured the contents into a frozen mug. “Here,” he said holding its handle out to Bailey. “To heck with tea. Root beer used to be your favorite.”

The fact he remembered made her ridiculously happy. Her fingers closed around the icy handle and she took a huge gulp. Ignoring the foam mustache she knew clung to her upper lip, she burped loudly and said, “Ahh. I needed that.”

*

Paul watched four
hours slip by as if they were minutes. A part of him couldn’t believe Bailey Jenkins—
his
Bailey Jenkins—was playing Marco Polo in his pool with his children. What she lacked in speed and maneuverability she more than made up for with ruthless competitiveness. Both kids were laughing and breathing hard by the time they all took a break.

At first glance, she looked the same as she had at eighteen, but a closer study showed the truth. Her body had matured. Her breasts filled out the demure, navy blue and white stripe two-piece—even if her ribs were a bit too pronounced and her hip bones could have used a bit more padding, in his opinion.

But the biggest change wasn’t physical. This Bailey enjoyed playing with his kids. The old Bailey never had time for children. The teenage Bailey wouldn’t have asked Chloe and Mark clever, revealing questions over dinner…then listened, truly listened, when they answered.

Later, when they gathered around the stone fire pit for dessert, Mark asked the question he and Chloe had probably discussed privately at length. “What happened to your foot?”

The children had been skeptical when Bailey produced marshmallows, graham crackers and Hershey bars for dessert. It wasn’t that they’d never eaten s’mores, they simply couldn’t conceive of roasting marshmallows over glowing embers of broken glass.

“Car wreck. My foot got pinned under the front end of our truck. I was lucky.”

“What do you mean?”

“They had to use those big hydraulic Jaws of Life to get me out. But I only had a concussion and a broken ankle.”

Only.
Paul had to work to keep from cringing.

“Were you driving?”

“Were you wearing a seatbelt?”

“No…and yes. I was in the passenger side. One of the Highway Patrol officers told me my seat belt saved my life.”

The tremor in her voice told him the memory still brought her pain. So, Paul cut off Mark before his morbid curiosity—typical of eight-year-old boys—asked for details about blood and missing body parts. “Where are the rest of the candy bars?”

“Mark,” Chloe cried. “You didn’t? Oh, my God, you are such a pig.”

His son’s lips were ringed by a suspicious brown outline, but he fervently denied the charge until Bailey hauled him onto her lap and ticked him until he confessed.

“Okay. Okay. I did it. I ate the last of the chocolate. So sue me.”

Bailey put him down. “Not necessary. A perfectly roasted marshy doesn’t need chocolate.”

She pushed a white square onto a skewer and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her loose off-white cover-up slipped from one shoulder.

Paul had forgotten how lovely her natural skin tone was. But he remembered viscerally how smooth and silky her skin felt when he rubbed her with baby oil doctored with Mercurochrome—an old wives’ tale recipe for a deep brown tan.

A minute later, she lifted the golden brown treat to her lips and blew.

His groin reacted.

“Nothing beats a sticky, gooey marshmallow straight off the fire.” She pinched a hunk and pulled the bite toward her lips, strings of glistening white sugar trailing behind. With a flourish, she spun the filaments onto the bite and lowered it into her open mouth.

Chloe clapped and grabbed another marshmallow to try for herself.

Mark squinted at Paul. “What’s wrong, Dad? You look like you swallowed a marshmallow whole.”

Outed by an eight-year-old. Damn.

Paul jumped to his feet, gathering the empty wrappers and used napkins. He carried the mess to a nearby trashcan then said, “Bath time, kiddos. Your mother gave me hel—heck last week for not making you wash your hair after swimming. She says it’s going to turn green.”

He made a mad scientist gesture that brought a grin to Bailey’s lips. Her sticky sweet lips.

“Scoot, you two. I left bottles of anti-chlorine shampoo in each of your showers.”

Mark and Chloe took off with a minimal amount of grumbling. He could see they were worn out. The best part of owning a pool, in his opinion.

Bailey waited until both kids were gone before getting to her feet. She didn’t want to intrude on their nightly family rituals. She picked up the children’s half-empty water glasses and followed Paul into the kitchen. The place had all the bells and whistles any TV chef might expect: granite countertops, polished chrome appliances, hardwood flooring and dark golden oak cabinets. The recessed lights in the ceiling turned the butterscotch walls a warm, inviting color.

“Your home is beautiful, Paul. Could be right off the pages of a decorating magazine, and yet it seems perfectly functional at the same time.” She pulled out one of the chrome stools tucked under the island and sat.

He wiped a spill on the gorgeous marble countertop before her elbow connected with it then tossed the rag into a big, white, apron-front sink.

Was it possible to have sink envy, she wondered?

She’d wasted so much time designing a dream kitchen to fit in Ross’s log cabin. A kitchen not unlike this one, with windows behind the sink overlooking the backyard.

“Jen spent more money on this room than the rest of the remodeling combined. I told her we wouldn’t be able to afford food to cook by the time she was done.” He carried the bag of leftover marshmallows to a walk-in pantry about the size of her mother’s guest room.

He returned a moment later, a liter-size green bottle of imported water in hand. She recognized the label but rarely splurged on the pricey brand.

“Although compared to the cost of our divorce, the kitchen was a real bargain,” Paul told her, grabbing a couple of glasses from a cabinet with beveled glass panels.

His cynicism made her uncomfortable. Was she ready to talk exes?

Given the fact hers was dead…not really.

He unscrewed the cap with a powerful twist and poured two glasses of the fizzy water. “My new go-to drink, instead of beer. Chloe’s class stared a recycling campaign. When I loaded all the bags of crushed cans into the truck, it looked like a flaming alcoholic lived here.” He held out his glass. “Cheers.”

She touched the lip of her glass to his and looked into his eyes. Friendly, yes. Interested, too. The kind of interest a part of her desperately wanted to explore. Too bad the thinking part of her brain knew better than to start something she couldn’t finish. She hadn’t talked to OC yet. Could she trust him or not? Was she staying or going? At the moment, she honestly couldn’t say—and the subtle tug on her heartstrings she felt when she was around Paul wasn’t helping.

She slipped off the stool. “Excuse me. I’m going to try Mom’s phone again.”

Coward.
She walked to the dining table where she’d left her purse hanging over the back of her chair.

She carried her phone outdoors and took a seat by the fire pit. The flame had been shut off but the night was warm enough without a fire.