The Cactus Creek Challenge (24 page)

Everything had been fine until he’d showed her how to use the saw. His eyes drifted closed, and she was back in his embrace, her shoulders brushing his chest, her hair teasing his temple, and her hand tucked into his like a bird in a nest.

And in a flash, his brain had turned to damp gunpowder refusing to fire, and the world had done a buck-and-wing beneath his boots.

Cassie Bucknell. Hoyden, minx, and all-around pest. That was what she had always been, and that was what she was going to stay. Forever fourteen. A sort of courtesy little sister. The baby of the Bucknell family.

Except she wasn’t fourteen any longer, as she’d gone to great pains to tell him.

She’d sure felt all woman in his arms. And he’d come within a gnat’s eyelash of kissing that sweet little mouth.

He swallowed hard, trying not to imagine what that might’ve been like. Guilt and thrill chased each other through his veins, along with relief that he hadn’t done anything so stupid. She’d have smacked his face, and he would’ve deserved it, too. What on earth was wrong with him?

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, willing himself to forget this nonsense and get on with the job at hand. Digging through his toolbox, he found a flat piece of kindling and thrust it into the paint can, stirring the pigment.

Not for all the gold in the coming shipment would he ever tell a soul that he’d chosen the jade-green color at the mercantile simply because it matched Cassie Bucknell’s eyes.

Carl knocked on the back door of the bakery, peering through the screen mesh and inhaling yeasty, cinnamony, sugary scents. His mouth watered as he remembered he’d skipped breakfast to get a jump on the chores that had piled up during the week.

Jenny, be-aproned and with a flour smudge on her nose, stood on tiptoe, rocking the heels of her hands into a mass of dough on the worktable.

Her blue eyes widened when she looked up. “Come in.”

Hinges squealed, and the spring groaned as he stepped inside. Pots and bowls filled the sink, pans and baking sheets covered the counter, and every crock and tub and container stood open around the room. Evidently she couldn’t cook anything without using every implement in the place.

She dug her fingers into the flour crock and dusted her work surface before flipping the dough and kneading it again. “What can I do for you?”

Still frosty.

And he still hadn’t a clue why. They’d been getting along quite well, taking care of the foal, seeing to the sorrel’s comfort. But the minute he expressed any frustration with the Challenge, instead of commiserating with him and listing all the things he was doing wrong in the bakery, she’d gone chilly as an icehouse in January.

“I wondered if I could borrow Amanda for a little while.” He glanced up and whisked his hat off. Where were his manners? He’d clean forgotten he was wearing a hat.

Her hands stilled. “Why?”

No mistaking the suspicion in her voice.

“The foal’s nursing pretty well now, but she’s got some catching up to do. I thought Amanda could give her a bottle.”

She swiped at her hair with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of flour along her temple, set her jaw, and pummeled the poor bread dough. Probably wished it was his head.

“Mr. Gustafson, I made it clear that we could not receive the gift of a pony. There’s no point in letting Amanda get attached to either of those animals. It’s just going to mean heartbreak later. She’s already less than thrilled with me for refusing to let her have them.”

He leaned across the table and covered her little hands with one of his to force her to stop torturing the dough and look at him. She stilled for an instant, then jerked away, wiping her fingers on her apron as if wanting to remove any sensation of his touch.

For his part, her hands, even dusted with flour had felt like satin. Womanly, small, and dainty.

“Why do you do that?” He looked for a place to set his hat, but there wasn’t a spare inch of clean countertop. He wound up hooking it over the corner of the inside door, letting it hang by its stampede strap.

“Do what?”

“Wall yourself off? It’s like you’re afraid to let anyone get close, and it isn’t just you. You keep Amanda from getting to know people, too.”

Her arms crossed in a familiar stance, as if to ward off an attack. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you do.” He gestured toward her posture. “You’re doing it now. I watched you the other night at Doc Bucknell’s. You talked with folks, but you never started the conversation, and you smiled every once in a while, but it was like you were all tensed up inside, like you were waiting for someone to drop a platter or something.

“And after church on Sunday, you kept Amanda glued to your side, even though the rest of the kids were running and playing. I asked Ben about it, and he said Amanda hasn’t said a single word to him at the school, not in two whole weeks. She’s always by herself when the other kids are playing, reading a book or drawing pictures. And when she’s here, she barely speaks above a whisper, and she ducks in and out like a shadow.”

The pink in her cheeks deepened, and the ice in her blue eyes hardened. “I can’t see that my daughter’s behavior is any of your concern, Mr. Gustafson. You know nothing of our past or what we’ve been through that might account for our behavior.”

“Because you won’t tell me. You won’t tell anyone, unless it’s maybe Cassie. She seems to be the only person in this town that you think is good enough to talk to.”

She flinched, and regret stabbed him. He had a bit of a clue to her background, thanks to Amanda’s prattling, but he wanted to hear it from Jenny, for Jenny to feel comfortable enough with him to trust him with her past.

“I didn’t mean that. I’m just trying to help you and Amanda out.”

“Why?” Her golden brows crinkled.

He shrugged. “Because it’s the right thing to do. You don’t have anyone to look after you. It’s … neighborly.” He tried to inject some levity into the discussion. “Besides, I owe Amanda a favor. If she hadn’t made those cookies the other day, the town might’ve stormed the place and run me out of town. They’re tired of biscuits.”

A small smile tugged at her lips for a moment, and he thought he might’ve broken through her reserve for once, but it disappeared, and the distrust took over again. How had such a simple act of what he thought was kindness turned into such a chore?

She worried her lower lip, studying him in brief snatches, unable to hold his gaze. Finally, he shook his head and pushed himself away from the counter.

“It’s all right. Don’t strain yourself trying to find a polite way to say no. If you change your mind, I’ll be at the stable all day. And if you aren’t comfortable sending Amanda on her own, you are always welcome to come along.”

He plucked his hat from the top of the door. “If you do come down, I’ll send you home with something that might help you out around here.”

“What is that?”

“Well, Mrs. Hart”—he trod heavily on her last name since she insisted on using his—“as much as you enjoy getting on your high horse, that doesn’t help you when it comes to kneading bread. That table is about six inches too high for you to get good leverage. I’ll knock together a sturdy box for you to stand on, and I’ll even carry it over for you.”

He let the screen door slap behind him, wondering if he’d done any good at all.

Three hours later, with twelve loaves of bread cooling on the counter and all the dishes washed and order restored, Jenny could no longer find an excuse to ignore Amanda’s pleas. The little scamp had been sitting on the stairs out of sight and heard Carl’s invitation. Since the moment he left, her daughter had given her no peace, first pleading verbally, then subjecting her mother to a series of imploring looks and soul-sucking sighs.

When Jenny had hung the last dish towel out on the porch rail, she let go of her final bit of resistance. Silly as it seemed, she actually missed the stable. Surely a couple of hours in Carl’s presence wouldn’t hurt anything. Returning to the kitchen, she plucked a basket from a shelf and bent a motherly stare on her daughter.

“Fine. We can go. Take this into the shop and fill it with some muffins and cookies.” A peace offering to the livery owner probably wouldn’t go amiss.

Amanda skipped and hopped at her side all the way there, her long golden curls bouncing. It did Jenny’s heart good, and she couldn’t help but wonder if what Carl had accused her of was true. Had she contributed to Amanda’s guarded behavior? Was she holding her back from making friends?

But they both had reason to know that the world could be, and was quite frequently, a harsh and cruel place, and letting people get close meant being vulnerable to hurt. It meant becoming powerless, something Jenny had vowed would never happen to her again.

She paused, thinking back. Carl had been watching her, both at the dinner party and at church. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or irritated, so she settled on uncomfortable—the way she felt about Carl most of the time anyway.

“Can I really give the baby a bottle? Do you think Mr. Carl will let me brush Copper? Maybe we can take them outside. Sunshine would be good for the baby, don’t you think?” Amanda prattled on, not really expecting answers to her many questions and thus not pausing between them.

Carl closed the gate to the corral as they approached. He’d left his hat off, and his red-gold hair and beard gleamed in the sunshine. His suspenders bit deep into his broad shoulders, wrinkling the faded denim shirt he wore with the sleeves rolled up, baring his strong forearms.

“You came.” He winked at Amanda, an action that got him a shy smile and an adoring glance.

Jenny tried to work some moisture into her mouth, and blushed at realizing she’d all but ogled the man. She couldn’t think of what to say or where to look, so she raised the basket, holding it out to him.

“Tell me it isn’t sourdough biscuits.” He took the basket and raised the corner of the covering napkin, waggling his brows at Amanda, who giggled.

“No. Mama threw out all the biscuits from this last week. She said they were hard as doorknobs.”

He paused, probably at hearing Amanda speak in something above a whisper, then sent a rueful glance at Jenny.

Heat rushed up her cheeks. “You picked a fine time to break your silence, Little Miss.”

“Aw, she talks to me all the time, don’t you, dolly? And your mama is right. Those things would sink like bricks if you tried to skip them in the stream.” He sniffed the basket. “These muffins and cookies look a lot tastier than anything I could make. I can’t wait to gobble them up. Speaking of gobbling stuff up, there’s a bottle waiting on the bench in the equipment room, and a hungry, short-legged horse waiting for it.”

Amanda broke into a run, gliding up the earthen ramp and over the threshold.

“Thank you for coming.”

Jenny nodded, turning into the slight breeze and tugging a stray hair away from the corner of her mouth. “I’m sorry I was so hesitant earlier. It was churlish of me.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed you.” He motioned toward the barn, and she went inside ahead of him.

Amanda knelt in the straw, giggling and stroking every part of the foal she could reach while the little filly butted the bottle she held against her side.

“Here, stand up, or she’ll bowl you right over.” Carl hung the basket on a peg and raised Amanda to her feet. “Hold the bottle with two hands. She might be little, but she’s stronger than she looks.” He glanced at Jenny, and she had a feeling that perhaps he wasn’t just talking about the foal.

Copper came over to check Amanda out, sniffing her and blowing out, ruffling Amanda’s curls. The foal clamped down on the bottle—a store-bought affair with a rubber teat that replaced the vanilla-and-glove stopgap—closed her eyes, and flicked her fuzzy tail.

Carl bent and whispered in Jenny’s ear, his beard close enough to brush her skin, sending a shiver through her. “The foal doesn’t really need a bottle. The mare’s letting down her milk just fine now, but there’s something awfully sweet about this picture, isn’t there?”

Jenny had to agree. Amanda wore a grin wide enough to crease her cheeks, and her eyes shone with love.