In His Will (17 page)

“I know just the right place.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sondra sat in his truck and frowned. “The hardware store?”

“Just you wait. In fact, stay put with PeeWee. I’ll only be a second.”

For all of the Christmases she’d spent as an unexpected and unwanted interloper in foster homes, Sondra determined to make Matt’s holidays special. Having Dylan take them Christmas tree hunting meant the world to her. He insisted on carrying Matthew, brought along a camera, and snapped several photos. Instead of chopping down the tree, Dylan transplanted it into a huge pot he bought at the hardware store.

“Some things are meant to last,” Dylan told her after finishing the task.

When they brought the tree back home, Dylan didn’t leave. He stayed and helped her trim the tree with a box of beautiful, antique, hand-blown glass ornaments she’d unearthed in the attic. The newscaster started to discuss farm prices in the background, but Dylan switched off the TV and tuned the radio onto a station playing carols.

Everyone seemed to be in the Christmas spirit. A sprig of mistletoe was mysteriously tacked in the doorway to the barn. No one admitted to putting it there. Sondra glanced at it and forced a tight laugh. She hadn’t been kissed in ages. As she walked under it, her heart did a wicked little skip. Dear mercy. . .she wanted to be kissed. Not just kissed,
kissed
.
And at that moment, she knew exactly by whom: Dylan.

The realization floored her. A few months ago, he’d flippantly mentioned the marriage clause in the will. She’d been so scared about losing the home she needed so desperately for her son, she’d actually swallowed her pride enough to tell Dylan she’d be willing to get married—but he’d fallen asleep, and the words never came out. That would have been a friendship kind of marriage.

What she wanted now was entirely different.
I’ve fallen in love with him!
A kiss wouldn’t be near enough. An amiable partnership wouldn’t suffice. What she wanted was a happily-ever-after, madly-in-love marriage with Dylan. That realization stopped her cold.
Dylan’s a good man. Honest, kind, generous. If he ever detects even a hint of my feelings, he’ll ignore them—unless push comes to shove. If ownership of the ranch is at stake, he’ll probably rescue Matt and me. . . .
But she didn’t want that. She wanted him to love her back with all of the intensity she now discovered she held for him.

“Hey, now, what’s that you got there?”

Howie’s words jolted her. Sondra wheeled around. “Pecan snowballs and molasses pinwheels.” She shoved the plate of cookies into Howie’s hands.

Nickels swiped a pinwheel, wolfed it down, and reached for another. “I vow, this place don’t much smell like a ranch; it smells like a bakery. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.” He popped the next one into his mouth.

Dylan strode up. He helped himself to a snowball, but instead of eating it, he popped it into Sondra’s mouth. “You’re spoiling your men.” The corners of his mouth crinkled. “I thought that was above and beyond the call of duty, and I just found out today that you’ve buried the men in the Laughing-stock bunkhouse under cinnamon rolls, strudels, cookies, and desserts, too.”

She hastily swallowed the cookie. “We’re—partners. Seemed fair to me. All of the men work hard. Matt and I want to show our appreciation.”

Nickels pulled Howie back a few steps. Their boots crunched on the gritty soil. “Uhhh, boss?” They shot a meaningful look upward at the mistletoe. “Showing appreciation sounds like a mighty fine plan. Don’t you think, Howie?”

“Sure enough. We elect you to be our um. . .whaddya call it?”

“Representative,” Nickels filled in.

Sondra wished the ground would open up and swallow her. She felt a wave of heated embarrassment wash over her as Dylan studied the green sprigs dangling above them. He drew close, and she stopped breathing. He wrapped an arm around her. He smelled of soap and leather and man—a complex scent that enveloped her. Sondra’s heart was about to pound out of her chest as his head dipped. . . . Then he ducked a bit more and pressed a kiss on Matt’s downy head.

As he straightened, he stared into her wide eyes and ordered without looking behind him, “You men get back to work.”

Sondra started to inch away, but his arm tightened. “I thought I was supposed to thank both of you.”

If he kisses me, I’ll never be able to face him again. He’ll know. . . he’ll know.
Dylan kept an arm around her and used the other hand to tilt her face up to his. Every shred of her wanted to run; every bit of her wanted to raise up on tiptoe and. . . . She decided to play it safe. She popped up onto her tiptoes and gave him a hasty peck on the cheek.

His hold tightened, and his brows formed a stormy vee. “Just what was that?”

“A—a holiday kiss.”

“Not on your life. That pathetic excuse for a kiss was something a maidenly great-aunt might concoct.” His voice deepened to a husky, predatory purr. “This is a kiss.”

Once again, his head dipped. His mouth slanted across hers. For all of the fire she’d seen in his eyes before she’d closed her own, he kept the contact tender. His lips brushed, teased, found a perfect fit. . .just as he shifted the baby between them slightly to the side, then cinched her so close, he left her breathless and dizzy.

Matt wiggled and cooed, jarring her from her abandoned reaction. She jerked away and couldn’t bear to look Dylan in the eye. She’d just done what she most feared—lost control completely. A man didn’t need any emotional attachment to enjoy a woman. What was an intense, emotional connection for her had been mere biology for him.
I’ve made a fool of myself in front of him. . . .
She craned her head to the side
. I hope the hands didn’t witness that!

“Sondra—”

“Matt just soaked me,” she lied.

❧

Dylan watched her scurry back into the house. In all honesty, he felt like he had a whole boxful of crickets jumping in his belly. He’d nearly gotten lost in the moment. After waiting forever to kiss her, he’d wanted to cast aside all self-control. Fighting that urge had to be the single hardest thing he’d ever done.

Good thing he did. For a glorious moment, she’d been with him. Then she jerked away like she couldn’t stand his touch. Oh, yeah, she said Matt had wet her; but his own arm had been right beneath the little guy’s bottom, and it was bone dry. Never before had Sondra lied to him. She made a very poor fibber, too. Her cheeks went fiery, and she avoided looking him in the face.

He hadn’t taken any liberties. The woman had no call to be embarrassed because she’d responded so naturally to him. . . .
Unless she’s not embarrassed, but ashamed because she still loves Kenny.

Dylan grabbed a bale of hay and heaved it into a stall. Once, he’d resented Miller for saddling him with a city-girl and questioned God about why long-standing, charitable plans went awry. Now he understood Miller’s matchmaking plans. . . .
But Almighty Father, why are You allowing me to be tempted with a woman who’s so stuck on her lost love, she doesn’t want me?

Seventeen

All her life, Sondra made it through by hiding her feelings. No one knew when things bothered her, and she didn’t let them know when she was hurt. Now, it strained her to the limit to keep her emotions hidden—at least where Dylan was concerned. She left her heart unguarded, and it counted as the most foolhardy thing she’d ever done. It took all her courage to face him and feign nonchalance.

Dylan showed up every single day. His dedication and faithfulness were unquestionable. Sondra tried to find comfort in the fact that his work would help her keep the ranch. In truth, the intensity he now showed accomplishing the chores about the place troubled her greatly. She’d been painfully obvious in her attraction. Clearly, he was politely making it clear their partnership shouldn’t have crossed the line. He was too much of a gentleman to say anything, but actions spoke louder than words. What good would it do if she kept the ranch but lost her friendship and partnership with her closest neighbor?

Another chilling thought occurred to her. Was she going to be able to keep the Curly Q? She pored over all of Miller’s old books, and the facts shook her to the core. The price of beef was lower than it had been in the past four years, and due to meager rainfall, feed prices kept creeping higher. Were the dark shadows in Dylan’s eyes strictly due to overwork, or was worry causing them?

As she walked to the henhouse, Dylan rode off. Nickels beat his gloves against his thigh, creating a small cloud of dust. He squinted at Dylan’s back. “That man couldn’t get more work done if he was twins!”

Sondra nodded somberly. “What can I do to help?”

Nicholson shrugged. “Dylan’s got us all organized just fine. Seems to me you already have your hands full with a little one.”

Her arms automatically curled around a little baby carrier she wore. She gave Nickels a wry smile. “Matt keeps me busy, but I’m getting pretty good at reaching around him. I’m tired of not pulling my weight around here.”

“Ma’am, far as I can see you have no call to fret. Things go along at their own speed, and there’s things on a ranch you can’t change, hurry along, or make smell better.”

After he strode off, Sondra shook her head. These men had seen the ups and downs of ranching. They were able to be more philosophical about the downturn in the market. Then again, even if the Curly Q didn’t turn a profit, they could easily find a job elsewhere. She, on the other hand, stood to lose everything.

“I won’t let that happen.” She patted her baby on the back and vowed in an iron tone, “I’ll do whatever it takes. We are not moving an inch.”

❧

The kiss under the mistletoe had really done it. He knew they shared an explosive chemistry. Still, he didn’t want Sondra thinking he chased after her for her land or livestock. If he got within three yards of her, he’d make a fool of himself because he’d likely grab her, kiss her silly, and confess his love.

Any fool could see she needed time yet. If he pressed her or started an obvious attempt at courtship, she’d bolt. One kiss, and she’d run away like a scalded cat. He ached for her, but for the sake of her peace of heart and his pride, he decided to back off. Day in, day out, he strove to keep some distance between them. He’d resolved to change that today. It seemed like a fair enough time to broach the topic of love and marriage, it being Valentine’s Day and all.

Dylan planned each move. He’d pull out every stop, use every trick in the book, and turn a stellar profit. That way, marriage wouldn’t be an escape hatch she resorted to out of desperation. Once Sondra held the deed, he’d propose—with an offer up front of a prenuptial. That would prove he wanted her, not what she finally owned. Today, though, he’d start doing the little things that made a woman feel courted. . .like giving her a card. Flowers would be coming on too strong. Just one thing at a time.

He popped the card into his shirt pocket, rode over, and pulled to an abrupt halt in her barnyard. The place was quiet—eerily quiet. Pink-and-red iced doughnuts lay strewn and trampled on the ground.

❧

Sondra hit the automatic dial on the phone again. She twisted around and cranked the swing to keep Matt content, but with every ring and turn, her tension spiraled higher. “God, please help us.”

“What’s going on?”

She spun around. “Dylan! I’ve been trying to get you.”

“What’s going on?”

“Cows are down. Nickels said a dozen or more. South pasture.”

He bolted out and vaulted onto Pretty Boy. Sondra ran to the door and called, “They already have the medical kit with them, and I called the vet.”

After he’d gone, Sondra paced back and forth across the living room. Whatever it was, it was bad. She couldn’t stay here when Matthew’s future hung in the balance. She bundled Matthew up, strapped him into a car seat, and latched him into the jump seat of a pickup. They were halfway to the south pasture when her cell phone rang.

“Sondra, where are you?”

“By the old oak, turning toward the pasture. What do you need?”

“Rope and mineral oil.”

“I have rope.” In the distance, she saw him spin around and catch sight of her.

“You drove a trailer!” He hung up, and she wasn’t sure whether he was glad or mad.

Dust swirled around the truck as she stopped. It didn’t hide the appalling sight of cattle lying and staggering about. Sondra tore out of the cab. “What happened?”

“They ate mountain laurel.” Dylan gestured toward clumps of shrubs and segments of branches along the fence and road. He didn’t bother to hide the worry in his eyes or voice.

Not a day went by that Sondra didn’t see Dylan and the men work hard. Never had she seen such grim determination or desperation. As they loaded several sick cows into the trailer, Dylan ordered, “Sondra, Milt came out in a jeep. Drive it to town and get as much mineral oil and lard as you can, then swing by the vet’s. Once he’s here, he’ll call an order in to his assistant, and you can bring back everything.”

After moving Matt to the jeep, Sondra called BobbyJo. “I need help. . . .”

By the time Sondra reached town, her new friend and Eva Nielson had two carts waiting outside the grocery store. “Here you go.” BobbyJo tossed a box into the jeep. “I bought all their lard—seventeen buckets. Only nine bottles of mineral oil, though. Eva dashed to the drugstore and got two cases.”