Leftover Love (7 page)

At breakfast Hoyt had assured her that winter was the best time to clean out barns. “When it’s hot, the smell gets so strong it’ll knock you over.” Maybe that was so, but he wasn’t the one doing it.

Each time she tried to raise the pitchfork higher than her chest, the muscles in her arms started to quiver uncontrollably. She just couldn’t find that last ounce of strength to heave the forkful of manure-packed straw into the spreader parked just outside the door.

Since she was unable to lift it over the side of the wagon, Layne tried to toss it in. But something went wrong with her coordination. She swung the pitchfork too high. When the manure came off the tines, it went straight back and landed on her face and head. She barely muffled the shriek of dismay when it hit her.

For an instant she stood motionless while the biggest clods tumbled off of her. Finally she dropped the pitchfork and gingerly began to brush the smaller particles off her
face. With the thick mittens covering her hands, it was like wiping her skin with a big powder puff.

When she bent her head to see how much was still on her clothes, a clump fell off her hat. It was all suddenly so ridiculous that Layne started to laugh. She heard the heavy sound of running feet outside, but it didn’t make any real impression on her as she continued to brush the wisps of straw and manure off her clothing while she silently shook with laughter.

“What happened?”

Somehow Creed Dawson had managed to squeeze his big frame between the wagon and the barn to reach the open doorway. His tall bulk loomed in front of her, blocking out the sunlight and momentarily startling her.

“Nothing. I—” Layne still wasn’t sure how it happened. “I went to throw some manure into the wagon but I threw it on myself instead.”

“That’s why you screamed?” he asked with an accusing rasp in his low voice.

“You’d scream, too, if you had a forkful of manure land on your head,” she retorted and brushed at her sleeves.

“Next time try to save the yelling for emergencies.” He shifted to one side, allowing the outside light to fall on her. “Hold still. You have some in your hair.”

Obediently she stood motionless while his gloved fingers brushed at her head. She was eye-level with the front of his thickly padded jacket with its fleece lining and row of leather-covered buttons. There was a vague surprise at how light and gentle his touch was.

Almost absently she lifted her gaze to his face. It was such a highly unusual face, browned by the sun and the wind and creased with strong male lines. There was something oddly compelling about features that were so unattractive. The blunt ridges of his cheekbones were too
prominent and his cheeks were too lean; his nose was crooked and his brows were too thick. About the only thing she found to like was his mouth.

Layne idly wondered at his age. Thirty-six? Thirty-seven? It was difficult to tell with a face like his. She couldn’t imagine a younger version of it. It would still be all hard, uncompromising lines, only now carved with experience.

A distant part of her was aware of him carefully picking out small pieces of manure that had become lodged between her scarf and the sides of her neck. A hooked finger was very deftly scooping them out.

Her attention shifted to the impenetrable dusty brown color of his eyes. They always seemed shuttered, closing in his thoughts. When their focus shifted to her eyes, Layne barely noticed. She wasn’t even conscious of how rudely she was staring at him, fascinated by his irregular looks. There was a sudden smoldering of anger in his eyes, dark and thundering. Layne glimpsed it for a moment, then he was looking elsewhere and it was gone.

“I think you’ll survive,” he announced gruffly and reached down to pick up her pitchfork. “Here. You’d better get back to work.”

“Thanks. …” Her voice trailed off onto a flat note as he abruptly turned away without waiting for any expression of gratitude, polite or otherwise. Layne sighed, wondering what she had done to offend him this time, then shook her head. She didn’t know what sort of hang-up he had, but she wasn’t going to waste precious time wondering about it.

After supper that evening Layne was quickly indoctrinated into the practice of calling the evening meal “supper.” In the city it might be dinner, but out here it was supper. After supper that evening she took a long, hot bath to soak some of the soreness out of her muscles.

With the sash to her long terrycloth robe securely belted, she started downstairs. Her chestnut hair was piled atop her head in a loose knot. The bath had left her feeling almost human again. She was halfway down the steps when Mattie opened the stairwell door at the bottom.

“Feel better?” Mattie’s smiling glance seemed to indicate that Layne looked it.

“A thousand percent,” Layne said.

“I think I’ll take a turn in there and see if a bath can’t rejuvenate some life in this body,” Mattie declared wryly.

As they passed on the stairs, Layne paused to ask, “Is it all right if I use your phone to make a collect call? I want to let my parents know where I am.” She had planned to write them a letter but it seemed wiser to call and allay any fears they might have about the situation.

“Go ahead. There’s a phone in the office.”

When Layne opened the door to the parlor-study and switched on the light, the orange cat marched into the room after her, in a bit of a royal huff. It seemed to doubt that she had permission to be in there and followed when she crossed to the small walnut desk. When she picked up the telephone, the cat hopped onto the desk top and laid down, wrapping its long tail across its feet like a red-gold cloak.

Its slow-blinking eyes watched Layne as she put the call to her parents through the operator. Her mother answered the phone, and Layne waited until the reversed charges were accepted and the operator put her through.

“Hi, Mom,” she said and settled into an old-fashioned wooden and leather-cushioned office chair behind the desk.

“Hello, Layne. I wondered when we were going to hear from you. How are you?”

“I’m fine. I’ve been meaning to write, but with one
thing and another, I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time.”

“How’s it going? Were you able to find out anything new?” The questions sounded forced.

“Better than that.” Layne wrapped her fingers around the coiling telephone cord, glancing briefly at the orange cat when it hopped off the desk. “I’ve found her.”

“You have?” There was a certain vagueness in the reply. “Have you seen her? Talked to her?”

“Yes. I don’t know how to describe her. She’s so natural and down to earth that I …” Layne paused, sensing the hurt silence on the other end of the line. She immediately regretted letting so much of her enthusiasm and excitement creep through. “Mom … I love you and Dad. Please don’t let any of this upset you.”

“We won’t, darling,” came the quick assurance, but there was an underlying thread of nervousness and anxiety in her mother’s voice. “What did she say when she found out about you? Was she happy to see you or—”

“I haven’t told her,” Layne admitted. “I thought it would be better to wait until later … after I’ve had a chance to see how things work out. By the way, if you need to reach me, I’m staying at the Ox-Yoke Ranch. You’d better write down the number.” She read it off to her mother.

“Is this her home?” her mother asked.

“Yes. I’m working here as a hired hand. Can you imagine that?” Layne joked.

Conversation was awkward. Layne almost wished she had written instead of calling, but she knew her parents needed to hear that she still cared about them as much as before. She kept the conversation brief by promising to write a long letter, telling her mother all about everything. After she put the telephone receiver in its cradle, she stared at it for a long moment without moving.

“What didn’t you tell her?” The sound of Creed’s voice startled her.

Her gaze jerked to the doorway in dismay. His long shape was propped against the frame, his stance giving every indication that he’d been there for some time. The big tomcat was rubbing against his legs, a smugly smiling expression on its face when it opened its green eyes to look at Layne.

Her heart was hammering in her throat as she tried to think of some way to get out of this. She decided to bluff her innocence and uncrossed her legs to stand up.

“I’m sorry, did you want to use the phone? I had to call my parents so they wouldn’t start worrying about me,” she stated, sounding very nonchalant as she moved unhurriedly across the room to him, although her destination was actually the doorway he was blocking. “And I reversed the charges, so the call shouldn’t appear on your billing.”

With a negligent push of his shoulder, Creed straightened to his full height. “You still haven’t said what it is that you haven’t told Mattie.” His hat was pushed to the back of his head and his dark eyes were narrowed with suspicion.

“Did I say Mattie?” Layne stalled for time as she tried to recall. She was almost sure she hadn’t mentioned Mattie’s name in the conversation. “You must have misunderstood something. It’s easy to do when you only hear one side of a conversation. It’s hard to be sure what someone’s talking about.”

“You said you hadn’t told her yet, and wanted to wait until later.” He continued to eye her skeptically, but Layne was satisfied with a little doubt.

“I was probably referring to my girlfriend,” she lied. “I didn’t tell her how long I planned to be gone, since I wasn’t sure myself.” There was an impulse to challenge him for
listening in on a private conversation, but instinct told her that that was the wrong tactic. A shift in topics seemed wisest at this point, so Layne glanced down at the pumpkin-colored tomcat, curling against Creed’s leg. “Fred certainly likes you.”

Creed acknowledged the cat’s presence with a brief glance, then moved leisurely out of the doorway. “He’s a cat.”

The explanation puzzled Layne. Creed was no longer blocking her path, but she didn’t take advantage of his shift into the room. She half turned to study him with a curious tilt of her head.

“What does that have to do with it?” she asked.

“A cat has a different set of standards for judging a person.” Which was not a much more informative response than the first. Creed paused in the middle of the room and met her look. “Your story checks out, by the way.”

“My story?” Layne didn’t follow his meaning.

“I called the newspaper in Omaha yesterday and they confirmed that you worked for them and that you had taken an extended leave of absence.”

Bless Clyde,
she thought, and said aloud, “It was sensible of you to verify it. I guess I never got around to supplying Mattie with any references. They didn’t seem necessary at the time.”

“Your decision to leave the paper was rather sudden, wasn’t it?” It was a rhetorical question, indicating that Clyde might have let something slip. “I suppose a love affair turned sour and you wanted to get away to mend your broken heart.”

The apprehension that had been building shivered away in a faint sigh of relief. “My heart is unbroken. It’s been cracked a few times but it’s still intact. I promise you I’m not running away from any affair.” She laughed briefly. “No
lover is likely to pursue me all the way here, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No. I was just trying to find a reason for your sudden decision to come out here. A broken romance seemed the logical one.” There was still something vaguely speculative in the way he looked at her.

“I came because it was something I had always wanted to do, and I couldn’t think of one reason why I wasn’t doing it,” Layne stated confidently because there was a degree of truth in it. This was the culmination of eight long years of searching.

“I can see why Mattie hired you. You’re a lot like her.” He couldn’t know the warm pleasure his comment gave her. “She can be as bold as brass sometimes—and rash in her decisions too.” There was an implied criticism in the comparison that stiffened Layne just a little.

Still she managed to smile. “My daddy always told me that the people who never make mistakes are the ones who never do anything.”

“Your daddy is a wise man,” Creed agreed easily.

The conversation was threatening to turn into one of those battles for the last word. Layne turned again to the door. “Mattie’s upstairs. Shall I tell her you’re here?”

“No need. I just came by to pick up some papers she was going to leave on the desk for me.”

As he walked over to the desk Layne hesitated another second, then left the room. The minute his questions were answered, Creed appeared to have lost interest in the conversation. It was becoming obvious to her that he was not one for idle talk.

That fact became more and more evident to her as the days went by. The work on the ranch didn’t get any easier in that first week, but her body began to become conditioned to it, most of the soreness easing to a few minor aches.

Yet in all the working hours, some of which Layne spent in his company, Creed rarely had anything to say to her unless it was in relation to the job being done. Otherwise he seemed to treat her as some sort of nonentity. At first it bothered her because Layne was used to people liking her. Finally she chalked him off as being antisocial by nature.

When the end of the week rolled around, Layne had her first day off. But she had learned long ago that a day off meant that she had to regroup before starting again. She gathered her pile of dirty laundry and carried it downstairs to the kitchen, where Mattie was finishing up the breakfast dishes.

“Would it be all right if I used your automatic washer to do my clothes?” she asked, hoping she wouldn’t have to lug them all the way to the coin-operated Laundromat in town.

“Sure. There’s dirty clothes in the basket if you need some to fill out a load,” Mattie said.

The enclosed back porch had been converted into a utility room, housing an automatic washer and dryer as well as a scrub sink. Mattie followed Layne onto the porch and showed her where the detergent was kept.

“It’s going to be a good day to hang the clothes outside,” Mattie observed with a glance out the frosted windows. “They’ll freeze-dry in an hour.”