Love Somebody Like You (3 page)

Wasn't the town of Caribou Crossing only fifteen or twenty minutes away? Before he could ask, she had ridden away to join her new student, who was getting mounted.

As the lesson started in the ring, Ben watched for a few minutes. The teenaged student wasn't a barrel racer, just working to improve her riding skills. Sally had her trot and lope the horse in a variety of patterns around the barrels. She lacked natural talent, but had a great attitude.

His stomach growled, reminding him that lunch had been too long ago. He went to the trailer to get a handful of cherries from the fridge. Sally hadn't accepted his invitation. Nor had she invited him to stay for dinner, but it was getting late and they both needed to eat. Easy fix: he'd drive into town and pick something up. Takeout, some beer, and a bunch of flowers.

Easy, friendly stuff. Hopefully, she wouldn't be offended.

He unhitched the trailer, then climbed into the old Dodge Ram. The truck was a dually, the double set of rear tires giving it the extra strength he and Dusty needed to haul the rig. He cranked the windows down to enjoy the fresh air, and drove off, avoiding using his left hand unless absolutely necessary. On the way from Williams Lake, he'd found the local country and western station, CXNG, on the radio. Now he hummed along to some vintage Merle Haggard: “Workin' Man Blues.”

Damn pretty land around here, but then horse country always was scenic, he reflected. The kind of scenic that not only pleased his eyes, but sank deep into his soul. On either side of the two-lane road, ranch land rolled away in gentle curves. On the right, low, craggy hills formed a backdrop. Traffic was light on this Tuesday afternoon, no one in a hurry. He slowed to pass a couple of riders on the gravel shoulder. When they waved, he took his right hand off the wheel for a moment to return the salutation.

He saw the turnoff to the main highway, leading back the way he'd driven earlier. He passed by, staying on the country road, and soon was greeted by a
WELCOME TO CARIBOU CROSSING
sign with a stylized caribou illustration. A couple of minutes later, he was in the outskirts of town.

Cruising down the main street, he noted some nicely restored heritage buildings, fresh paint on most storefronts, and flowers in planter boxes. A cute little town and yeah, it wasn't much more than fifteen minutes' drive from Sally's place. How odd that she never came here.

Seeing a parking spot across from the town square, he grabbed it.

He strolled a couple blocks. A restored old hotel called the Wild Rose Inn had a fine-looking dining room and Western-style bar; a coffee shop called Big & Small offered sandwiches, wraps, and salads; a Japanese restaurant called Arigata looked interesting. He wasn't a sushi guy, but he liked teriyaki, tempura prawns, and a few other Japanese dishes.

He settled on the Gold Pan, a diner that was two-thirds full. It had Formica tables and red leatherette booths, a long counter and red-topped stools, even a jukebox. John Denver's “Take Me Home, Country Roads” wove beneath the sound of customers chatting. On the walls hung black-and-white photos of gold miners, some looking haggard as all get-out, others beaming and holding up sizable nuggets.

Feeling right at home, Ben took a seat at the counter. The middle-aged, auburn-haired waitress gave him a plasticized menu and a big smile, which he returned. The air smelled of frying chicken and grilling beef, and everything on the menu sounded delicious.

Thinking about what would work best for takeout, he ordered meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and coleslaw for two. Normally, as part of his fitness regimen, he took it easy on the carbs, but women liked dessert—that was his excuse and he was sticking to it—so he also asked for a couple of slices of strawberry-rhubarb pie. “That's to go,” he told the woman. Terry, her name tag said.

She clipped the order slip to one of those old-fashioned carousels that hung between the diner and the kitchen, then turned back to him. “How are you liking our fair town so far?”

He figured the population was small enough, she'd know he wasn't a local. “Looks nice, but I haven't seen much of it. I've been out at Ryland Riding, visiting Sally. She's an old friend.”

Her dark eyebrows arched. “You're a friend of Sally Ryland's?” Her tone held disbelief.

He eyed her quizzically. “Yeah. From way back. Before she got married.”

“Huh. Didn't know she had friends except for Dave and—” She broke off, flushing. “That sounded terrible. Sorry. It's just, well . . . she keeps to herself, you know?”

No friends? The Sally he'd known had been so outgoing. But then, Pete's death had probably messed her up, not to mention left her swamped with work. “Since her husband died?”

Terry shook her head. “I've never once met Sally, and she's been here seven, eight years. I don't know if she's set foot in town more than a few times, and her husband wasn't here much more often. They built Ryland Riding and it was, like, their own little world. Just the two of them.”

“You mean, except for students and people boarding horses, right?”

“Sure. But Sally and Pete didn't socialize.” She took a lattice-topped fruit pie from the display case. “Seems they didn't need anyone except each other. That's true love for you. I guess. I mean, it's not how me and my hubby, Jeff, back there in the kitchen, like things.” Slicing pie, she chuckled. “Well, obviously, eh, or we wouldn't own a diner. We like being in the center of what's going on in town.” She put two generous slices of pie into a take-out container.

“I remember when Sally and Pete first met. It was like,
bam,
neither of them had eyes for anyone else.”

“Well, I guess it stayed that way. I heard that the rare times he did come into town he'd buy flowers for Sally.” An order was up, and she went to deliver it.

Maybe Ben had better not take flowers tonight. He didn't want Sally thinking he was trying to compete, or compare, with Pete.

Idly, he glanced at the write-up on the back of the menu. It said that the Gold Pan had been open for ten years, and its name was in honor of the town's history. Caribou Crossing had its origins in the 1860s gold rush. When the gold ran out, it became a ranching community.

Terry returned. “Just a couple more minutes.”

“No rush.”

“It was such a tragedy,” she said, returning to their earlier conversation, “Pete dying that way. So young, and totally unexpected. Goes to show you never can tell, right?”

“That's the truth.” He'd been riding bucking broncs for more than fifteen years and the worst he'd done was break some bones.

“It's so sad, Sally out there all alone with a broken heart. For a while, folks thought she was dating Dave Cousins, though he denied it. But it seems he was telling the truth and they only ever were friends. Guess she's got no room in her heart for another man.”

Maybe that was the reason she hadn't been receptive to his flirting. Still, a woman had to move on at some point. His grandma had learned that, after his grandpa died.

Terry turned to get Ben's order. She slipped take-out containers into a couple of string-handled paper bags with the diner's name and logo. Eyeing his sling, she asked, “You gonna be okay with these, hon?”

“Sure. Thanks, Terry.” He paid, leaving a good-sized tip.

“Hope to see you again.”

“Thanks, but I'm just passing through.”

Unless Sally gave him a reason to stay. Which, he had to admit, didn't seem likely. Still, he'd always been an optimist. Couldn't survive long in the rodeo world if you weren't.

Chapter Three

After turning Melody and Puffin out into the large paddock, Sally walked to the small foaling paddock at the back of the barn. The grassy pasture, with a half dozen cottonwoods for shade, was away from the other horses and the hustle and bustle of students and horse owners. The sole occupant, a heavily pregnant palomino, nickered and came over to the fence, head extended and ears cocked forward.

“Hey there, girl. Yes, I have your treat.” Sally pulled a carrot from her pocket and fed Sunshine Song. “You're lonely, aren't you? It won't be much longer.” Song's behavior was calm and normal, and there was no waxing on her teats, but the mare was due any day.

Sally went into the office in the barn to check e-mail. The farrier confirmed an appointment in two days to shoe Campion, now that the horse's abscess had healed. That'd mean another bill, on top of the vet's for treating the abscess.

There were no new requests for lessons or horse boarding, and no applications for the assistant's position. Maybe she should pull the ad, but it was possible that the perfect person might see it and that somehow Sally'd be able to swing a meager paycheck. So far, she'd received two applications, but both were from men. Trusting a man wasn't high on her agenda.

She stretched, thinking fondly of Dave Cousins, the one man who had won her trust. A couple of years back, one of her boarders, Karen Estevez, had mentioned to her friend Dave that Sally was struggling, running Ryland Riding on her own. He'd offered to help out. Sally's need for independence said no, as did her mistrust of men. Karen, a Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer, had sworn that Dave was a genuine good guy with no ulterior motive.

Over time, Dave had proved Karen right. He'd been a godsend, and had slowly become a friend. When he started dating Cassidy Esperanza last summer, Cassidy had turned into a friend and helper, too. The pair kept coming around even after they convinced Sally to hire an assistant. She still found it hard to believe that, after years of social isolation, she actually had friends.

But now Dave and Cassidy were on their honeymoon, Corrie had quit due to a personal matter, and Sally was on her own again. Ben's assistance this afternoon had been so welcome. She was tired now, but not totally exhausted.

And hours of waiting had sure made her anxious to hear news of her sister, and perhaps her parents. Ben had driven off a while back, though, and hadn't returned. Likely he'd gone into town for a bite to eat.

Her kitchen didn't hold much more than eggs and tinned soup and stew, though she was now getting fresh vegetables in the garden Corrie had planted in the spring. The old Sally would have invited Ben for dinner and found a way of preparing a decent meal. But she hadn't been that woman in a long time.

She began to muck out stalls. Shortly after that, she heard a vehicle pull in and stop. A minute later, Ben's voice called, “Sally?”

“In the barn,” she shouted back. She stepped out of the stall, pitchfork in hand.

He came through the door to the barn. “Hi. Still working?”

“Hi.” She'd seen him off and on all afternoon, and each time it was almost like a flashback to happier days. Normally, she paid little attention to a man's looks, yet there was something about Ben that had her noticing. Now she found herself staring again. The man was born to wear Western clothing. Without that sling, he could've modeled for ads. A five o'clock shadow made his strong jaw even more masculine. Some folks might say his hair was too long, but she'd never thought a cowboy hat looked right on a man with short hair.

Forcing her gaze away from him, she gestured with her pitchfork. “I need to muck out stalls and clean tack. Why don't you tell me about Penny while I work?”

“Take a dinner break, then I'll help you.”

She deliberated. After Pete died, she had realized how dependent she'd been on him—or how dependent he'd made her—and sworn she'd never rely on anyone again. It was hard accepting assistance, yet Ben had a way about him. Maybe it was a holdover from the rodeo days, when most competitors had helped each other. “I might accept some help, but I don't need a break.” She was hungry, but she was also used to working late and not having a chance to grab a bite to eat until after eight. “You got dinner in town?”

“Brought back takeout for both of us. You haven't eaten already, have you?”

He'd picked up dinner to share? That was thoughtful. Or presumptuous. How was a woman supposed to read a man's motivation for doing anything? She could lie and say she'd already eaten. That was safer than letting him into her house and sitting down at the kitchen table with him. Her kitchen had been the scene of a lot of . . . unpleasantness.

“Meat loaf.”

She jumped, and returned to the present. To Ben. “Wh-what?” she stammered.

His eyebrows pulled together. “I brought meat loaf, with mashed potatoes and coleslaw.” He added in a wheedling, almost seductive tone, “And the prettiest strawberry-rhubarb pie you ever did see.”

Now he had her full attention. That was more food—delicious-sounding food—than she'd eaten in . . . she couldn't remember when. “Meat loaf?” Comfort food that always reminded her of her mom, who'd made the best meat loaf in the world. Yes, she not only wanted news of her estranged family, but she did want a real meal. Maybe she even wanted Ben Traynor's company, and the simple pleasure of looking at a handsome cowboy. They could eat on the deck; she didn't have to invite him in. It'd only be an hour, tops.

She rested the pitchfork against the wall and walked toward him. “You persuaded me.”

He stepped back, letting her precede him out the door. There, she saw a couple of paper bags resting on the ground. She slipped her fingers through the string handle of one, and left him to take the other as she led the way toward the house.

It was built on a bit of a hill, the front on the high side. Sally never used the front door. At the back of the house, steps led up to a deck and the mudroom. The deck had a barbecue, a cheap patio table, and four chairs—four, because occasionally Dave, Cassidy, and Dave's daughter Robin shared a bite to eat with her. The view across rolling grassland to distant hills couldn't be beat, in her opinion. When the weather permitted, she ate her quick meals here, surrounded by the wide open serenity of nature, rather than in the closed-in kitchen with its bad memories.

Leading the way up the stairs, she said, “Let's eat on the deck. Why don't you unwrap the food and I'll get plates and cutlery.” Hopefully, he wouldn't think twice about her not inviting him inside.

She went into the mudroom, closing the screen door against mosquitoes and flies. Her hat went on a peg. She sat to pull off her boots and socks, stepped into battered flip-flops, and continued on to the kitchen. The young Sally would have rushed into the bathroom to brush her hair, slick on lip gloss, add a touch of mascara, and rub lotion into her skin. This one washed her hands at the kitchen sink and splashed water on her dusty face.

When she stepped out onto the deck again, Ben had removed the takeout containers from the bags, but he had disappeared. Setting the table, she decided to give him her usual seat with the best view. Not wanting to block that view—or have him look too closely at her—she didn't set her own place directly across from him, but across and to the side. Back into the kitchen she went, to run tap water into glasses and add ice.

When she took the water to the deck, Ben had returned, hatless now, to plunk a six-pack of beer on the table. He removed two bottles and said, “Want me to put the rest in the fridge?”

She grabbed the handle of the cardboard carton, which had a stylized caribou on it and the label
CARIBOU
CROSSING PALE ALE
.“I will.” Reaching for one of the two other bottles, she said, “This one, too. I don't drink.”

“Seriously?”

His disbelieving tone almost made her smile. Beer had been an intrinsic part of the scene she'd once enjoyed: Western bars, shooting pool, country songs, two-stepping with a cute cowboy. “Seriously.”

“How come?”

“Alcohol makes people do foolish things,” she said stiffly.

One corner of his mouth turned up. “What foolish things did it make you do, Sally?”

Laugh too loud, flaunt her body, flirt with men. At least according to Pete. The last time she'd had a drink was the champagne at her wedding reception. Later that night, her new husband had said she'd made a fool of herself and of him, and she was asking for trouble, coming on to men like that. She hadn't had a clue; she'd only been having fun, so excited about starting her life with the man she loved passionately. Pete had said that, for the sake of their marriage, they would ban alcohol from their house.

“Sally?” Ben, head cocked, was watching her.

The brown bottle's shape felt so familiar, as did the coolness, the damp condensation. Her taste buds sprang to life and saliva pooled as she remembered the taste of beer.

“Are you an alcoholic?” Ben gently asked.

“What? No! No, I just don't drink.” Because Pete had said so.

Had her husband been right about the way she acted when she drank? Even when she hadn't had a drink in years, he had still got on her case for coming on to guys although she'd had no intention of doing it. Dads of students, male owners of boarding horses, the large animal vet whom Pete had fired when he caught the man and Sally hunkered down in the straw examining a horse's cracked hoof. Even three years after Pete's death, she still couldn't figure out whether she'd been a seriously flawed wife and he'd been the doting husband everyone took him for, or whether he'd turned into an abuser once they were married, and she'd been too weak, too stupid to leave him. Neither was good; both reflected badly on her.

“I promise you,” Ben said, “a beer or two won't make
me
do anything foolish.” There was a teasing gleam in his chestnut eyes, eyes the same color as the bottle in her hand. “And one's not going to hurt you. Or half a one. A couple swallows. Come on,” he said in an exaggerated wheedling tone, “you know you wanna.”

She'd have been annoyed—if his tone wasn't so funny, and if he hadn't been right. Slowly, she put the bottle down on the table beside her place mat. A swallow or two wasn't going to make her lose her mind. It wouldn't make her flirt with Ben. As for him, she remembered him as a guy who didn't drink to excess, or get out of control when he drank.

By the time she'd stored the beer carton in the fridge, Ben had opened both bottles and taken the lids off the takeout containers. “I'm starving,” he said. “Driving back smelling the meat loaf made me crazy.” He handed her a serving spoon and took one himself.

She put a napkin on her lap and then dished out coleslaw as Ben served himself some meat loaf. “It's nice of you to do this,” she told him. Pete had never bought takeout. He'd had groceries delivered once a week and had expected her to cook. That was a wife's job, he'd said. He had, however, typically brought home a bouquet on the rare occasions when he went into town. To show her how much he loved his pretty wife, he'd said. Carnations, usually, but red roses after he'd hit her. Red roses to accompany an apology, even though the tearful expression of regret was framed as “but you shouldn't have made me do it.”

She shivered, then shoved those thoughts away. She refused to let memories of Pete ruin this dinner with an old friend. Deliberately, she picked up her beer bottle and took a sip.

“You're smiling,” Ben said. “You like it.”

“I do,” she admitted, taking a larger sip. Hoppy, slightly bitter, it hit her tongue like . . . like an old friend, she thought, this time keeping her smile to herself. Relaxed and hungry, she served herself some mashed potatoes and meat loaf, and dug in.

Oh my, this was good. She'd almost forgotten what it was like to taste food that had taken more than five minutes to prepare—much less to have someone else do the preparing. Her idea of luxury was having Dave toss burgers on the barbecue when he, Cassidy, and Robin came to help out and stayed to eat. “This is delicious. Thank you so much for bringing it.”

“My pleasure.”

They both ate enthusiastically, in silence, for a few minutes, though Ben made occasional
mmm-mmm
noises. Simple sounds of appreciation, but they struck her as sensual, and somehow increased her own enjoyment of the food. When she and Ben had taken the edge off their appetites, she said, “Please tell me about Penny. And did she say anything about our parents?”

He put his fork down and took a long pull from his beer bottle. “You're curious about your family, yet Penny says you've been out of touch with them for years.”

Sally lowered her gaze. “Mom and Dad didn't like me marrying Pete and moving away.”

“That's no excuse for cutting their daughter out of their lives,” he said firmly.

Her parents had let her know they disapproved. They'd given advice or, as Pete put it, poked and pried into her and Pete's business. Sally'd felt caught in the middle, although she did agree with Pete that her first loyalty lay with him. In the end, her family had solved her dilemma; they'd simply stopped communicating.

“These things happen,” she said neutrally. “And yes, I'm curious. What did Penny say?”

“To start with, she's married and expecting. Far enough along that it's like she has a watermelon under her shirt.”