Unforgettable (The Dalton Gang #3) (14 page)

FIFTEEN

P
ARKING IN THE
main yard of the ranch house, in the same spot she’d chosen when she’d come for Monday’s interview, Everly waited for the dust stirred up by her tires to settle before opening her door. The October evening was still warm, though not uncomfortable, the sun setting sooner these days than it had just a week ago.

Autumn was her favorite time of year. The arrival of the cooler air, the crisp early mornings, the short evenings spent enjoying the sunset and the arrival of the dusky chill, one holiday after another leading into the new year.

Granted, the holiday season in Crow Hill was a far cry from those she’d spent in Austin, but she loved the cookie exchanges, and the garland hung on the town’s streetlamps, the colorful lights adorning the windows of the local businesses, the popcorn balls and homemade fudge dropped at the office by advertisers and friends.

Exiting her SUV, she lifted a hand to shade her eyes, looking beyond the corral into the far pastures, their ragged fences like stitches quilting them together, the whole cloth vanishing into the distance like a sea of spun gold. She took a deep breath, blew it out slowly. Oh, but Boone must love the view from here.

What would it be like to wake up as light first broke over the horizon, turning the grass in the fields the colors of thick cream and buttered toast? To spend the day in the elements, skin baked by the heat, lips parched by the dry breeze, hair turned to straw by the sun?

To come home, to sit on the back porch and nurse a beer or a glass of wine, watching the sky, so blue throughout the day, going pink and orange and purple as night fell, as the stars appeared on the stretch of canvas the color of ink?

And . . . wow, she mused, laughing to herself, leaning against the front of her vehicle and soaking in the scenery and the absolute peace it evoked. That had certainly come out of nowhere. She was a journalist, not a poet, and she was certainly not the philosopher she’d seen in Boone. And, to boot, she was a city girl at heart. She’d only come to Crow Hill because Faith had made the suggestion.

Faith had also been the one to convince Whitey his personnel budget would be well served by new blood, a fresh perspective, and Everly’s experience. And that made Faith’s questioning of her intentions for the Dalton Gang story sting a bit. Faith should know better. Everly hadn’t grown up here. She had nothing to prove, no wrongs to right, no revenge to mete out in print.

After four years, Crow Hill felt like home as much as Austin ever had. And that surprised her. Oh, she still stuck out—driving a luxury hybrid SUV, wearing labels other than Wrangler and Tony Lama, doing much of her shopping online because she couldn’t find the brands she wanted in town. But she couldn’t remember the last time she’d thought it was time to leave.

Crow Hill was a close-knit community, family-owned ranches, family-run businesses. Her own family had long ago scattered across the Lone Star State. Missing them was made easier by friends who gave her life an abundance of riches, who were there when she needed them, always.

She wouldn’t want to stay here alone, however, and that had nothing to do with Boone; they’d only just started seeing each other, and she’d never believed in love at first sight. But from what she’d learned of him over the last week, he was the type of man she would want to spend her life with.

There would be hardships, of course. Making a living off the land never came without them. And she knew from her girlfriends what the three members of the Dalton Gang faced daily, the struggles they worked to overcome. Struggles made worse by their lack of money.

All of it was a viciously unrelenting cycle—raising stock, feeding stock, selling stock at a loss, yet
having
to sell to afford to raise and feed the next season’s calves, which depending on beef prices and the whims of Mother Nature, might have to be sold for even less in order to do it again.

Snagging a twist of hair and tucking it behind her ear, she wondered what it had been like here for Tess Dalton, no children of her own, the three Dalton Gang boys coming into her life as teens, her days spent at Dave’s side, or seeing to the homestead to free him from having to take care of those chores as well.

Could Everly do that? Be a rancher’s wife? Work dawn to dusk, see her husband doing the same, wondering each and every day whether the next would be easier, bringing good news or just more grief? Neither Faith nor Arwen had ever lived on a ranch. Their men were the ranchers, but Casper and Dax both left the job
at
the job when they went home at the end of the day.

Boone did not. He lived in the Dalton house and was rarely off the property. When he did leave, it was still work that most often brought him to town—though lately it had been her. And that had her feeling as guilty as it had her feeling, well, special.

What, besides taking him into her bed, had she done to deserve his attention? How had she managed to snag his affections? Why was he taking time for her? Surely he’d made arrangements for sex elsewhere, ones that didn’t involve any local women who might want more than his—

“What’re you doing here?” Boone’s voice broke into her reverie, derailing her rather disturbing musings and startling her as he approached from the direction of the barn. His tone broadcast his surprise, the smile breaking across his face declaring his happiness that she’d decided to visit.

“Enjoying the view and the evening,” she said, feeling a thrilling rush at his reaction, then adding as he drew near, “And waiting for you.” She watched his eyes flash as he walked, his nostrils flare as he reached her. And then he was there, looping an arm around her neck and bringing her close for a kiss.

It was a sweet kiss, a tender kiss, his mouth tasting of salt and a day spent in the sun, his lips dry as he pressed them to hers, lingering, though not as long as either of them would’ve liked. But oh, what a welcome. As if he’d been waiting all day to see her. As if she were his reason for coming home.

How easy it would be to get used this . . . this . . . joy. Utter joy. His at finding her waiting. Hers at being what he wanted, what he needed, at giving him what no other woman could because she was meant to be his.

And, good grief, what a ridiculous train of thought to be traveling, just because his kiss had her bones melting and her heart swelling in the cavern of her chest.

He was slow to pull away, asking as he did, “What did I do to get so lucky?”

Stepping out of his embrace, she circled the SUV, reaching into the backseat to bring out the picnic basket she’d packed. “I brought you supper.”

“Yeah?” His grin grew at least two sizes. “I’m just about hungry enough to eat a side of rhino.”

She opened the top and peered inside, fighting a grin of her own. “Well, I’ve got grapes. Dried cherries and apricots. A baguette. Gruyere and Camembert and Danish blue cheese. And a bottle of CapRock Roussanne.”

He screwed up his face. “Then what you meant is that you brought
you
supper.”

His disappointment made her surprise that much better. “I also have a double brisket platter with all the fixin’s
and
a whole pecan pie from the Hellcat Saloon. It’s not quite a side of rhino, but . . .”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about.” He reached around her and grabbed the big basket. “C’mon. Let’s go in.”

Hooking her arm through his when he offered, she fell into step beside him, wishing they could spread out a blanket in the closest pasture and share their meal as the day fell away. “I felt bad after lunch took the turn it did yesterday. Not the . . . part where we ended up in bed. But the stuff before. When we were talking.
And
the decided lack of anything filling to eat.”

“Nothing there to feel bad about,” he said, frowning as he looked down at her. “Man
can
live by grilled cheese alone if he has to. I should know.”

“You didn’t eat much,” she said, feeling even worse about that.

“You didn’t eat much either. Of your lunch anyway.”

She stopped, squeezing her thighs together as she looked around the ranch yard. “Could we eat out here? Do you have a table? Or we could let down the tailgate of your truck?”

He laughed, a big loud guffaw that made its way up from his chest to spill from his mouth. “Afraid if we go inside I’ll want dessert first?”

“Actually, I’m more afraid I will,” she said, the admission fluttering in her belly.

“Then your wish is my command,” he said, leading her to the far side of the house where an old picnic table sat beneath the huge spreading oak that shaded the structure. He started to set the basket on top, then stopped. The surface was covered with dried acorns and bird droppings and cicada shells, and looked like it hadn’t been used in a decade or more. “Well this wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Hang on a second,” she said, opening the basket and pulling out the blue and green plaid blanket packed on top. She shook it out and covered the table, realizing too late the benches were just as filthy. Of course if not for her heels . . .

“Here, help me up,” she said, bracing a hand on his shoulder as she stepped onto the bench that was worn but still solid, then turned to sit on the table. Boone did the same at the other end, leaving the basket of food between them. “Perfect.”

“If your idea of perfect is you being down there, me being over here. But since I’m about to keel over from lack of rhino,” he said, setting her bread and grapes on a plate on the table, “I guess it’ll do.”

She pulled out the bottle of wine and two glasses. “I read once that Michael Phelps burned something like ten thousand calories a day while training.”

“Not sure I’ve ever had ten thousand calories’ worth of food in the house, but I could probably give him a run. Eating. Not in the pool. Never got in much swimming time.”

“You weren’t born in Crow Hill, right?” she asked, handing him the corkscrew when he reached for it. “I seem to remember Faith saying your family moved here when you were kids.”

“We did. We were. We came here for my dad’s job at the high school.” He pulled down on the corkscrew arms, worked the cork free, and poured her a glass, pouring himself one as well instead of heading to the house for a beer. “Been coaching for about thirty years. Mom waited until Faith and I were both old enough to enroll, then went to work at the middle school. She moved to the high school the same year I did. They’ve both been there long enough that they’re as much an institution as the bronzed hurricane in the school’s courtyard.”

“Is that what that is? A hurricane?”

He snorted, found a fork and the pie. “Looks like a big turd, if you ask me.”

“Was that what you thought when you played football?”

“I did.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t make your feelings known to the sculptor. Or to your coach.”

“The Coach got to hear me make fun of it over the dinner table for years.” He said it around a big bite of pie, then set aside the dessert and found the aluminum to-go pan of brisket.

“How did that go over?” she asked, pinching a grape from the cluster, a gust of wind lifting her hair from her neck.

“I think he held the same opinion, but wasn’t about to say so. He just stared me down anytime I opened my mouth about it. And then I closed my mouth, and waited until I could come out here and laugh about it with Dave. He didn’t work for the school, so he didn’t mind that particular disrespect.”

“But he minded others.”

“Oh, yeah. As laid-back as he was, Dave was not an easy man to work for.”

“Really,” she said, because nothing could’ve surprised her more. The three Dalton Gang members had done nothing but sing the other man’s praises. “I’ve never heard anyone else say that about him.”

“Did you ever meet him?” he asked, digging a spoon into a container of
charro
beans. “He was still alive when you moved here I think.”

“He was. But, no. I didn’t meet him. I did see him in passing. And he was always scowling. But I see that a lot on you rancher types.” Another grape, then she tore off a hunk of bread, and found a knife to spread the cheese. “I figured it was all that time spent squinting into the sun.”

“Part of it, yeah, but I think Dave did that on purpose. He was a gentle kind of guy, I’d guess you’d say. Didn’t like raising his voice. The scowl probably helped when he wanted things done a certain way.”

“His way?”

He nodded as he moved to the potato salad. “It was always a way that made sense. I never stopped to wonder if another way or method might be better. I guess that’s why I had so much trouble after Casper and Dax left.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“They both took off not long after graduation. Pretty much back-to-back, leaving me the only one who knew Dave’s routine, his preferences, his rules, if you will. He brought in some hands, but they didn’t like taking orders from a seventeen-year-old who’d only been ranching part-time for a little over three years.”

She reached for an apricot slice. “Was it hard after they left? Dax and Casper?”

“On the ranch? Or just in general?”

“Both.”

“Is this going into your story?” he asked, his eyes finding hers over the pan of brisket he’d returned to.

“Some of it might,” she said, popping the fruit into her mouth. “I’ll have to rely on my memory. My notebook and my digital recorder are both in the SUV.”