Finally Home (6 page)

He stepped out of nowhere, scaring the life out of her.

“Holy . . .” She put one hand to her chest in an attempt to keep her heart confined. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“If I did, would I have little Bliss all to myself?” he asked and tugged the knit cap over the baby's tiny left earlobe.

“She's vegetarian,” Emily said, ignoring his ridiculousness as best she could.

“Give her some time,” he said, pulling down the other side of Bliss's cap. “She probably needs teeth before she can go full-bore carnivore.”

Emily stared at him for a good four seconds before she realized what he was talking about. “Not Bliss. Sonata Detric. She's—” she began, but he was already grinning.

She drew air through her nostrils and glared at him. “Holy cow, you're a pain in the tail. No wonder Casie turned you down.”

Sobering somewhat, he settled his lean hips back against the sheep pen. “What makes you think I proposed?”

She stared at him, nervous suddenly. She wasn't entirely unaware that she was meddling.

“Em?” he asked.

“Well . . .” She blew out a breath. “You're not a complete idiot.”

He raised his brows.

“I mean, you're as sexy as Belgian chocolate,” she said, and stole a peek at him.

His brows had jumped into his hairline.

“Oh, don't look so surprised. You know you're tasty. But Casie . . .” She shook her head and felt her gut tighten with emotion. “She's like . . .” She shrugged, searching for words. “Wild raspberries.”

“I don't think I follow your—”

“Tasty
and
good for you. I'm just saying . . .” She exhaled heavily. “Don't give up.”

“She's awfully skittish.”

“Yeah, well, just give her . . .” she began, then shook her head and brought the conversation back to the crisis at hand. “What am I going to do?”

“About Baby's vegetarianism?”

“I'm going to slap you,” she warned.

He laughed. “Geez, Em, simmer down. Why are you so wound up?”

“Why! Why? Fifty percent of our current guests don't eat meat. And we're on a cattle ranch. A cattle ranch!”

“So make her something else. It'll be fine.”

“It's not that simple.”

“Even for a virtuoso like you?” he asked.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe Casie turned you down because you're such a bull sh—”

“Hey, you watch your mouth in front of my godchild.”

She glanced guiltily at Bliss, but the baby didn't seem to be taking notes. In fact, she had fallen asleep against her mother's shoulder, tiny mouth slightly open, downy lashes dark and lush against her Frappuccino cheeks. Emily absorbed the sight, drawing it into her soul. This was her family, her blood, her life. Everything else was irrelevant.

“You're right,” she said, and sighed. “It'll be fine.”

“Sure it will,” he said and, leaning closer, placed a kiss on Bliss's flawless brow. “Do you need some help?”

“I would give my spleen for some help,” she said and scowled. “What can you do?”

He made a face as he considered that. “I'm pretty good at riding broncs.”

“Can you ride broncs while peeling potatoes?”

“Not sure, but I can probably manage without the broncs.”

“Bingo,” she said.

Two minutes later they were side by side in the kitchen. Emily had strapped Bliss to her back, and Colt was studiously beating eggs with a wire whisk. The chickens' productivity was considerably diminished during the winter months, but the available yolks were as bright as harvest moons.

Colt set the bowl aside. “Now what?” he asked.

“Now you . . .” She glanced at him and stopped short. He had found a half apron somewhere and subsequently tied the lacy garment around his taut waist. The frilly single pocket looked ridiculous against the frayed denim of his jeans. “What are you doing?”

He lifted his arms slightly and glanced down at himself. “I didn't want to soil my ensemble.”

“If Casie sees you in that she'll probably never talk to you again, much less seriously consider marrying—”

“Hey.” Casie's voice rang through the house as she stepped in through the front door. “It smells great in here al—” Her voice stopped as she appeared in the kitchen and caught sight of Colt in the apron.

“What do you think?” he asked, lifting his arms higher. He'd rolled the sleeves of his corduroy shirt away from his wrists, which were corded with muscle and ridiculously appealing. Emily squelched a sigh.

“I think you missed your calling.”

“I should have been a chef?”

“You should have been a housewife.”

He chuckled. The sound, low and fertile, rolled like distant thunder through the kitchen, stopping Emily's breath for a moment, but when she glanced at Casie, she realized she wasn't the only one affected. The other woman's eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted. Emily struggled with her grin and turned away, but Casie found her voice in a moment.

“I thought we were having steak,” she said.

“I thought so, too, but apparently fifty percent of our guests are vegetarian,” Colt said.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Emily countered.

“What now?”

“Colt says he knows his mom's recipe for egg strata.”

“
Says
I know. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Em.”

“Our reputation rides on these guests. You're only as good as your last satisfied—”

“Man, it's colder than the ice age out there,” Sophie said and unceremoniously entered the kitchen. Why, Emily wondered, did she always look like she'd just stepped off the pages of
Vogue
? “Is the coffee on or should I—” She paused as she glanced around. “What's going on?”

“She's a vegetarian,” Casie said.

“Who? Bliss?”

“Geez!” Emily said. “Everyone's a comedian. This isn't funny.”

Sophie pulled the knit cap off her head and stared at Colt's frilly apron. “It kind of is.”

“You don't like it?” he asked and pirouetted a little.

For a second not a female breath was drawn as their gazes shifted to lower regions.

“What?” he asked, scowling as he noticed their expressions.

“Nothing!” Casie said, and clearing her throat, turned away, already blushing.

Emily managed to refrain from pumping her fist in the air. “Beat up another egg, will you, Colt? Soph, I need some more Parmesan grated,” she said and scowled. “Why didn't I learn to make my own cheese?”

“Because you only have two hands,” Colt suggested. “Well, you know, besides our six.”

For the next ten minutes they worked in concert.

“Tell me again why we're sweating bullets over one guest,” Sophie said. Her hands were covered in flour. A little dusted her hair.

“So we don't starve to death over the winter,” Emily said.

“Oh.” Sophie made a “makes sense” expression. “Good reson.”

Ty showed up a few minutes later and set the table as Colt mixed up Lumpkin's milk. She bleated hopefully from the living room. But true to his gregarious nature, Colt carried her back into the kitchen to feed her. Far be it from him to be out of the action . . . or maybe . . . Emily glanced wistfully toward Casie. Maybe there was something else that brought him back.

Whatever the case, everyone bumped knees and elbows as they passed the chair where he sat. But Lumpkin didn't take long to finish a bottle anymore. In a matter of minutes Colt was rising, stowing the lamb under one arm just as a knock sounded at the door.

Emily let in their guests.

“It smells terrific in here,” Max said.

“Yes, it . . .” Sonata began, but then she caught sight of Lumpkin. “Is that a . . .”

They all waited.

“I believe it's a lamb,” Max said.

“In the house?”

“Pretty cold outside for newborns,” Colt said, and settling Lumpkin under his other arm, stuck out his right hand. “Hi. I'm Colt Dickenson.”

“Maxwell Barrenger,” said the other man and grinned as they shook. “I like your apron.”

Colt grinned back and turned toward the woman who was just lifting her gaze from the apron's frilly hem.

“I'm Sonata.” She thrust out a perfectly manicured hand and held his just a second longer than necessary. “Sonata Jameson Detric. It's very nice to meet you.”

“Well,” Emily said, sensing trouble brewing. “Let's eat.”

CHAPTER 5

“I
don't know what's wrong with it,” Colt said, and cupping his hands in front of his face, breathed some heat onto them. It was colder than a witch's rear end standing beside the ancient pickup.

Emily scowled at the engine. Between it and the open hood, she could see Max approach from the bunkhouse. En route, he popped the collar up on his lambskin jacket and shoved his hands into the pockets. His blue jeans were creatively distressed, his cowboy boots shiny. “What's going on?”

Colt shook his head. “Can't seem to get Em's truck started this morning.”

“That's a truck?” Max asked, staring askance at the vehicle.

“It was a
crazy cool
truck,” Emily said and sadly put one mittened hand on the curved fender.

“Oh yeah?” Max said, tilting his head the other way, as if another angle might help him see things differently. “What century?”

Colt chuckled. “In the late forties, this little baby would have been top of the line.”

“Yeah,” Emily agreed, though she didn't have any idea what she was talking about. She just knew she loved the lines of it, and the substance. And of course, the price. The octogenarian who'd placed the ad in the
Hope Springs Gazette
had asked for three hundred dollars, but she had talked him down to two-fifty, five dozen eggs, and a quart of bread-and-butter pickles. The thought of owning her own ride for the first time in her life had conjured up images of independence and world domination. But in retrospect, perhaps she should have been a little suspicious when he had insisted that she take “the whole thing.” Maybe that was a clue that some parts weren't necessarily attached with the kind of cohesiveness that one generally expects in automobiles. In fact, although the engine had started after some cajoling, she'd been forced to stop twice on her way to the Lazy to retrieve parts that had gone AWOL.

“It just needs a little tender, loving care,” she said.

“And maybe a paint job,” Max added, at which point Emily had to admit that the amalgamation of colors was more a lack of paint than an actual hue.

“A new carburetor,” Colt said.

“And a seat,” Emily admitted wistfully.

Max glanced into the truck's interior. “Huh,” he said and not much else. There
was
a seat, but rodents, time, or some as-of-yet-undisclosed monster had eaten most of it away, leaving passengers and driver to perch as best they could upon the open springs.

“But the tires are good,” Emily said.

Max raised his brows, obviously impressed. “You
are
an optimist.”

“It's pretty much a necessity around here,” she said, still staring dismally at her proudest purchase.

“Maybe it just needs a new alternator,” Max said and reached into the bowels of the beast to touch an unidentified doohickey.

Emily glanced at him. “You know something about engines?”

“Nah,” he said, drawing back. “I was just trying that optimist thing.”

Colt chuckled. “Sorry I don't have more time to tinker with it right now, Em. I promised Dad I'd run an errand for him this morning.”

“You'll have time to pick up our guest though, right?”

“I'll be there, but I guess you'll have to use Puke to make your deliveries.”

“Deliveries?” Max questioned.

Emily hugged her arms to her chest, wrapping herself against the brittle cold. “I take pies and stuff to a couple neighbors,” she said.

“Don't let her fool you,” Colt warned. “Em here supplies half the county with baked goods. She's a regular Chef Boyardee.”

“Nice reference,” Emily said, pulling her gaze from her truck.

Colt shrugged. “Couldn't come up with anything better.”

“Maybe your brain's frozen,” Max said, hunching his shoulders against the cold.

Colt nodded. “Probably nothing a hot cup of coffee wouldn't fix.” He glanced sideways at Emily. “ 'Course, if I had a fresh-made sticky bun to go with it, I could maybe remember to talk to Les about Dee's troubles.”

“Dee?” Emily said, and looking into his eyes wondered, not for the first time, what the hell Casie was thinking. If Colt Dickenson had the slightest interest in
her,
she'd have him hog-tied to her ankle before he'd finished that first cup of coffee.

“I thought I'd state my choice of names for the truck before you called it Ixapos or whatever.”

“Enheduanna,” Emily said and grinned. “Come on in, both of you. Coffee's on and the rolls will be ready in a few minutes.”

“I'm pretty sure I'm still full from last night,” Max said.

“You won't be,” Colt assured him. “Not once you catch a whiff of those rolls.”

“Well, maybe I'll have a little something now, then eat again later when Sonata's ready.”

“You must not be the type to sleep in.” Colt held the front door open for the other two to step inside.

“Pretty tough to do when your roommate is pacing your space like a Nazi on morning patrol,” Max said.

“What?” Emily turned, toeing off her boots as she did so. “There's not a problem, I hope.”

“No. No problem.”

Emily scowled, worry troubling her stomach. “The temperature was okay, wasn't it? You weren't too cold? This is our first winter with guests and it's hard to—”

“The temperature's fine,” Max said and laughed. “S. just isn't . . .” He made a face as if trying to think of a term that didn't conjure up thoughts of concentration camps. “Let's just say she isn't the kind for cuddling when there are employees to be castigated.”

“But this is supposed to be a vacation.”

“Believe me,” he said, “she wouldn't be happy if she couldn't be worrying about her business.”

“Maybe I should go get her,” Emily said. “Invite her for rolls and coffee.”

“Not if you want to keep your head attached to your torso.”

Emily glanced at him.

“She doesn't really like to be interrupted when she's chewing someone out. Why do you think I was out in the cold at—” He stopped and sniffed. “What
is
that smell?”

“It's magic.” Colt winked at Emily as he stepped past Max. His stocking feet were silent on the old linoleum as he made his way toward the scrolled metal stand on the counter. It held six pottery mugs. Each of them was slightly different, except for the fact that they were misshapen. Emily had found them at a garage sale on her way home from a doctor's appointment. She could only guess that they were somebody's art project gone bad, but she loved every misbegotten one of them.

Taking two of the nubby cups in one hand, Colt set them on the counter, poured coffee into each, and handed one to the other man.

“Have a seat,” Colt said and motioned to the chairs.

Emily sighed softly, beginning to relax. She didn't know why. It was going to be a crazy busy day and she still had deliveries to make. Dee (she rolled the truck's new name around in her brain for a moment, then gave it a mental thumbs-up) was on the blink, a new guest would be arriving in the afternoon, and Bliss wouldn't sleep much longer. But she loved it that Colt felt at home here. Loved it that others could sit in the kitchen and taste the warmth and smell the peace.

“How long has Sonata been . . .” Colt paused as he and Max moved toward the table. He was limping this morning, Emily realized, and wondered why his leg seemed to bother him more sometimes than others. Maybe she should try her hand at homeopathic recipes. “What does Sonata do exactly?”

Max laughed and wrapped his hands around the earthenware mug. It would take a minute for it to absorb heat from the coffee. But there was nothing more comforting than feeling warmth seep into the baked clay. “She's VP for Hearth and Home,” he said and took his first sip. A moment later he raised his brows. “Whoa!”

“Is it too strong?” Emily asked.

“No.” Max shook his head, looking dazed. “Not at all. I think I could wrestle it to the floor if I had to.”

Colt laughed just as the front door opened. Casie entered the kitchen on stocking feet. Her nose was red and her fingers looked stiff as she wrapped her hands around her own cup of coffee.

“Good morning,” she said, gaze touching on Colt for an instant before darting to Max. “How did you sleep?”

“Great for about six hours.”

“Six—” Casie began, but just then there was a bump and a bleat from the family room. An instant later Lumpkin trotted into the kitchen, tiny hooves clattering like castanets, woolly ears bouncing as she rounded the corner and bumped her pointy nose smack-dab into Max's leg. “I'm sorry,” Casie said, already sounding embarrassed as she hoisted the lamb into the air with one hand under her belly.

But then Bliss squealed from the other room.

“Guess everyone's hungry,” Colt said.

Emily glanced at Casie before lifting her attention to the rolls.

“I'll get her,” Colt said, taking one more sip of coffee before easing to his feet.

“Man,” Max said, grinning at Lumpkin. “That is cute.”

“Not so cute when she poops on the floor,” Emily said.

“True for almost everyone,” Colt added and sauntered from the room. In a moment he was crooning to the baby, and for a second Emily let herself absorb the low, soothing tempo of his voice. Not that she wanted him for herself. She didn't. Really. This once she would gladly adopt Casie's cautious approach to life and be content with what she had.

“Why in the house?” Max was asking. “I mean, I have to assume they don't
all
come inside. Do they?”

Casie laughed as she pulled a mixing bowl from the cupboard. “We try to keep a few of them in the barn.”

Emily said a silent thank-you to whoever might be watching out for her.

“Could I take her while you get things ready?” their guest asked, and rising to his feet, took Lumpkin from Casie's hands. Holding the lamb out in front of him for a second, he studied her comical little face. “Is it because she's so cute?”

“What?” Casie asked, already retrieving the milk replacer.

“Lumpkin,” he said, now cradling the woolly infant against his chest. “Is she inside just because she's so adorable?”

“Oh no. Well . . . she is cute,” Casie said. “But she wasn't supposed to be born yet. In this weather, if they're not dried off right away, their extremities will freeze.”

“Really?” He cradled two tiny black hooves in one hand.

“Probably not their feet, but their ears and tails for sure. Even in December, the mother could probably handle the job if she were so inclined.”

“Could?” he asked.

“Sometimes mothers fu—” Emily stopped herself. There were times when gratitude turned to grudge without the slightest warning. And her own mother hadn't
completely
failed, she reminded herself. Jennifer Casper had kept her alive. Kept her fed. Emily remembered scraping the jelly jar empty on one cold November night. She'd been small for her age and knobby-kneed. When Mom was in a good mood she used to call her Big Bird because of those gnarly joints, but her mother hadn't awakened until evening that day. Still, there had been peanut butter in the cupboard. There had almost always been peanut butter.

She could feel Casie's sudden attention and lowered her eyes to carefully align slices of bacon in the pan, each one soldiered perfectly against the next. Emily cleared her throat. “Sometimes mothers reject their young,” she corrected.

“You're kidding. She didn't want this one?” Max asked.

“Some of the very best ones are neglected,” Casie said.

Emily didn't look up. Couldn't. Her throat felt too tight. The kitchen went quiet.

“I don't know if I should ask for clarification or just say thank you,” Max said.

They turned toward him in unison, and he chuckled. “Mom took off when I was three.”

An unidentifiable noise sounded in Emily's throat. She covered it with a cough.

“I'm sorry,” Casie said.

Max shrugged. “Luckily, Dad had enough cash to buy me a new one.”

Emily blinked at him, emotions boiling.

“Look what I found,” Colt said, entering the kitchen with little Bliss tucked into his right arm.

“Wow!” Max said, gazing at the baby, then at the lamb. “I can't decide which one's cuter.”

“If you've got a weakness for sticky buns, you're going to want to choose this one,” Colt said, seating himself and propping Bliss on his lap. She slumped there like a tiny Yoda, blue eyes dark and wise.

“Good morning, Baby Bliss.” Emily tried to say the words casually, like this was the norm. Like she had awakened every day of her life to share this familial magic. But Max's words had aroused something raw and needy inside her. “How are you today?”

“A little stinky,” Colt said.

“Oh. Sorry.” She raised her gaze to his, trying to bring herself back to the here and now. “I'll get her changed before—”

“Already done,” Colt said.

Emily swallowed. She had no idea why that made her feel like crying. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said and set the baby on the edge of the table so he could see her face. It was a good face. An amazing face, with round eyes that swallowed you whole and soft black curls already wisping onto her milk-chocolate forehead. A face that generally made Emily cry or laugh or both . . . frequently at the same time. Maybe she needed help. “Better than having to clean up after that one,” he said and motioned to the lamb just as Sophie stepped into the kitchen from out of doors. Ty followed a second later. “They're going to have to chase all over the house for that job, aren't they?” he said, wiggling Bliss until she grinned lopsidedly. “Unless they diaper her, too.”