When the Rancher Came to Town (3 page)

“You're right, I should at least hear the whole plan,” she finally said.

“It sounds like fun,” he said. “And those widows are a riot. Mind if I go?”

She gazed at him curiously. “I don't think you'll meet many ranchers there.”

“I know, but I don't have any plans, and maybe we can get a drink afterward.”

He was asking her out! It had been so long that she almost didn't recognize the signs. But there had been that moment where she'd thought about kissing him, and she was pretty certain he'd been thinking about it, too. She felt as fluttery as a high school girl before her first prom. It had been
way
too long.

“I—­maybe,” she said. “I guess it depends on how long the meeting lasts.”

“Fair enough.”

“And I made a pie for your evening snack and—­” She gasped and pulled her phone out of her pocket. Whew, the timer said she had a few minutes to spare. “I better get it out of the oven before it burns.”

“We can't have that. What time do you want me to meet you in the front hall tonight?”

Part of her wanted to decline, and part of her was desperate for a man's flattering attention. “Uh . . . we can walk. It's only a block away. Is quarter of seven okay?”

“Sure, gives me time to get a quick bite to eat.”

She prayed he wouldn't ask her out for dinner, too, and when he didn't, she was relieved. Mostly.

“If you don't want to traipse all the way back to your room to look at your binder, I can recommend the Silver Creek Café. It's just a block east of here.”

“Great, thanks. See you this evening.”

He grabbed a towel she kept stacked in an alcove. As she hurried away, he began drying off his feet.

Oh my God, she had a date. She should be excited—­and she was, she thought, opening the screen door that led to the kitchen. But she was nervous, too, a feeling that cramped her stomach uncomfortably. She didn't like being nervous; she had spent too many years feeling that way. It was just a drink.

And a meeting with lots of ­people who would try to persuade her to participate in a town event. But it was time for her to take these next steps in her recovery.

 

Chapter 3

M
ASON ATE O
UT
on the deck of the Silver Creek Café, surrounded by an abundance of potted ferns and flowers, with greenery laced in an arbor overhead. The occasional kayaker paddled by down the creek. Drinking a cup of coffee at the end of the meal, he found himself remembering his talk with Amanda.

He couldn't believe he'd opened up about his dad's situation, something he never usually did. It was a family matter, and there was no need to bring other ­people down. But she'd been a compassionate listener, and he'd found himself confiding in her in a way that wasn't possible with his sisters or mother. Amanda had sympathized, without making him feel awkward or regretful.

Then his thoughts focused more on her, and the kiss that had almost happened. It had seemed to shimmer in the air between them, a promise of pleasure. He'd like to try that again, this time culminating in an actual kiss.

But first they would attend the committee meeting together. He wasn't sure what had made him propose it, except that something about her reaction to the Wild West Weekend bothered him. And just now, he'd discovered another piece to the puzzle that was Amanda. When he'd told the server at the café about Amanda's referring him there, the server had been surprised, saying they'd all seen her from a distance, working in her garden, but she'd never come in for a meal.

Now all that could mean was that she was a snob for fine dining. But he hadn't gotten that impression about her. And she'd recommended the café first thing. He was even more curious about Amanda Cramer, and intrigued enough to even want to attend a committee meeting held by little old ladies.

T
HAT EVENING, AFTER
three changes of clothing, Amanda ended up in sandals, white jeans—­her skinny ones didn't quite fit, dammit—­and a pink, cross-­draped sleeveless shirt. With her hair down and wavy around her shoulders, she thought she at last looked presentable.

But she was still nervous. She'd certainly liked Mason when they'd been sitting side by side on the deck and she'd looked longingly at his mouth.

Maybe he was taking pity on her.

She groaned aloud. Where had her self-­confidence gone?

She went down to the dining room and busied herself laying out the peach pie, linen napkins, china plates, and coffee cups, even though she'd only have one guest tonight. Just as she finished adding more water to the Keurig coffeemaker, she heard a sound behind her and whirled.

Mason, all dark hair and eyes, leaned against the doorjamb, the pearl buttons on his Western shirt gleaming in the shaft of sunlight coming through the lace curtains. His jeans were slung low and hugged his hips, and she couldn't help following the long line down to the toes of his brown cowboy boots.

She swallowed heavily. God, he was beautiful, and he was looking at her like some ­people look at peach pie. She felt another pang of doubt. She was a little too chubby, a little too tall—­surely ­people would think they looked strange together.

She forced a smile. “Hi.”

“Hi. You ready?”

“I am.” She grabbed her purse from the dining room table.

He glanced at the pie. “Looks—­and smells—­really good.”

“Thanks. You can have some when you get back.”

He smacked his lips. “I might eat the whole thing.”

“If you could actually do that, I'd bake you another.”

He smiled down at her, dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “I'll hold you to that.”

If she had to bake another pie just for him, maybe he'd be in the kitchen with her, leaning up against the counter, standing too close, sex appeal on a stick. She veered away from that distracting thought.

They walked through the house and out the front door. The street was deserted, but she felt watched. Reminding herself that the paparazzi had stopped stalking her years ago, she walked down the stairs and across Nellie Street, then headed north on Second.

“Is that the community center at the end of the block?” Mason asked. “It looks like a brick factory.”

“It once was,” she said. “They converted it into a center with conference rooms, a game room, and a big reception room where you can even have a small wedding. That's probably where our meeting will be tonight.”

There were cars parallel-­parked on the street and in the big parking lot behind the center. Groups of ­people crossed the deck and headed through the double doors, chatting with easy comfort. There would be a lot of ­people in there, ­people she didn't know, or ­people who might know her or her story. Several clustered in the doorway, as if it was already difficult to find a seat. She imagined the crowd, having to squeeze past ­people . . . a sudden wave of nausea made her briefly close her eyes. This was
not
going to happen again, she told herself, inhaling deeply and letting it out.

“Mason, if you don't mind, I'd like to sit by the door.” Her voice sounded faint, even to her own ears.

He was studying her with true concern shadowing his eyes, but all he said was, “Sure.”

Thank God the last row was totally empty, and she sank onto a folding chair, grateful that everyone else faced forward and didn't look at her—­except Mrs. Palmer at the front of the room, who beamed and waved at them both, causing several ­people to turn with curiosity to stare at her. Amanda's heart thumped against her ribs, as if trying to escape. When the ­people turned back to the front again, one by one, she told herself she could control her reaction. It wasn't like D.C., where cameramen and microphone booms had crowded her and reporters had shouted insulting questions.

She'd been thinking about it too much lately, with the five-­year anniversary of the Senate hearings coming up. A reporter, Melissa Shaw, had even called from CNN, claiming she was doing a piece on women in the workplace, what had changed and what hadn't. But as usual, Amanda had said, “No comment.” She wanted to forget that part of her life, and she wished the media would, too.

There had to be close to fifty ­people inside the community center by the time Mrs. Thalberg called the meeting to order. Amanda continued breathing evenly and told herself to concentrate on the brush of Mason's warm arm against hers. She wasn't alone, and a panic attack would only last minutes. She would get through this.

The widows took turns presenting the schedule of the Wild West Weekend on a projected computer screen. It would be held Friday and Sunday, bookending the rodeo, and include a historic tour of Valentine, where tourists could get their special passbooks stamped at each venue. A full passbook entered them in a drawing for a prize at the end. To get a passbook, a donation had to be made to the preservation fund. Vendors with carts would be selling food, and restaurants were encouraged to mimic nineteenth-­century menus. Volunteers would be patrolling the streets in costume to help tourists.

After a question-­and-­answer period, the widows ended the meeting by pointing out the rack of costumes ­people could choose from if they hadn't gotten their own. There was a rush toward the rack, and Amanda found herself perspiring.

“Yoo-­hoo, Amanda, come see what we have!” Mrs. Palmer called, an old-­fashioned bonnet barely able to encompass her big blond wig.

Amanda couldn't take a deep enough breath. Her biggest fear, that she'd panic again like she had in D.C., seemed to be yawning toward her, and she teetered on an abyss. Her chest was constricted, her stomach bile seemed to bubble.

And then she felt the firm grip of a masculine hand taking her clammy one in his own.

“Hey, hey, everything's all right, Amanda,” Mason said calmly, gently. “Turn your head and look at me.”

She did and found herself staring hard into his black eyes, desperate to find something, anything to focus on other than her nausea and trembling.

“Take some deep breaths. Go ahead, breathe in, deep as you can. Come on, you can do it.”

It was like her lungs had collapsed and wouldn't allow a breath of air through, though she'd been concentrating hard on staying composed. She almost sounded like she was wheezing, but she did her best.

“Okay, let it out now, nice and slow.”

Quivering, she forced air from her lungs and brought more in.

“Just look in my eyes. No one is paying any attention at all. It's just us.”

She nodded, but couldn't manage the words that would dismiss his concern, that would gloss over what was happening to her.

“Have you had a panic attack before?” he asked conversationally.

His fingers were massaging her hands, and it felt . . . nice.

“Y-­yes,” she murmured through quivering lips. “I've been working hard to make sure it wouldn't happen again.”

“So you know what's going on. I don't need to have you checked out for a heart attack.” He smiled gently.

She tried to return it, but her trembling lips wouldn't move as she wanted.

“So . . . so stupid,” she murmured, breathing and breathing. “I need to get out of here.”

She lurched to her feet, but he didn't let go of her hand.

“The door's right here,” he said, leading her toward it. “Let's go admire the sunset.”

On the deck, amidst the flowers and ferns, she started feeling better, and a warm evening breeze made her close her eyes and just breathe.

“You want to sit down?” he asked.

She shook her head as angry tears filled her eyes. “No,” she whispered, then had to clear her throat. “Sorry, I need to walk. I feel like such a fool . . .”

She tried to remove her hand from his, but he didn't let her.

“Then let's walk. Isn't there a park just down the creek from you? Let's go there.”

The park was only a few blocks away. Mason steered her away from the gazebo, where ­people sat and talked on several benches, until they found a more secluded area overlooking the creek. Sitting down, he pulled her with him. When he released her hand, she clutched hers together. She raised her eyes and focused on the creek, the tree crookedly bent over it, water tumbling over shallow rocks with a soothing bubbling.

“You sound like you're breathing better,” he said at last.

“I am. I know I'm supposed to focus on deep breathing. After it . . . after it happened the first time, I did a lot of research to prepare myself in case it happened again. During my first panic attack, I was being pressed in on all sides by a crowd of—­of ­people. It was awful to have no one to help, to feel so alone and on display and to lose control.” She shuddered and briefly closed her eyes, before turning toward him. “But your calmness really helped. How did you know what to do?”

“My aunt used to suffer from panic attacks, so I recognized the signs. And just so you know, one of the worst things you can do is to retreat from the situations that trigger the attack. Then it's easy to keep imagining the worst, making it even more significant and scary for you.”

“I know,” she said wearily. “A ­couple months back I started realizing I was letting fear get to me. I avoided crowds, avoided going out.”

He nodded. “The servers at the café you sent me to say you've never been by.”

She stiffened. “So you're talking to ­people about me?”

“I just wanted them to know you'd given them business by suggesting that I come for dinner there.”

“Sorry.” Amanda sighed. “I used to say I didn't like to eat out alone, but I realized I was fooling myself.” She fisted her hands and whispered fiercely, “I hate crowds. I hate being stared at. It was a blow to discover that I was still letting it affect me so much.”

“Have you always hated crowds?”

She laughed bitterly. “No, I was a lawyer. I was
good
with crowds.” She almost started blurting out her past, then stopped. “I was nervous all day getting ready for this stupid meeting. I feel so foolish, so weak. I know what I'm supposed to do if it happens again, I told myself to let the panic wash over me, to calm myself, but . . . it's been years since I had a panic attack. I thought it was in my past, and to have a relapse like this . . .”

“Is this why you didn't want to do the Wild West Weekend?”

“I don't know. Maybe. God, probably. I like meeting new ­people—­but on my own terms.”

“Which is why you like having guests who go about their own business and then leave.”

“I don't ignore them!” she insisted.

“I can tell. I certainly felt welcomed and at home.”

She slumped back against the bench. “I realized a few months back that I started making the B&B my own little prison.”

He remained silent, which gave her time to think about all the trips to the grocery store she'd assigned her assistant, Erin. Amanda had gone from browsing antique shops to checking eBay online, telling herself it was a better use of her time. She'd stayed wrapped up in her own little B&B world, never letting herself realize what had been happening to her.

“I did a lot of research and realized I was slowly turning into an agoraphobe,” she confessed. “My garden was becoming my last ‘safe' place outside. I realized I had to get a grip on this. I thought I was doing better, running errands, forcing myself to confront tricky situations head on. And then tonight—­another attack. Dammit.”

“Do you know what triggered the first one? Telling me about it might help.”

She looked up at him, saw the concern and gentleness in his dark eyes.

“I . . . I don't usually talk about it.”

“I'm a good listener.”

She took a deep breath, and the words just burst from her. “I was the victim of sexual harassment. I hated being a victim, but this time, I'm doing it to myself.”