A Second-Chance Proposal

“Oh, just ignore him.” Cathleen pushed her empty plate away. “He knows there’s no way in hell I’d be stupid enough to give him a second chance.”

Poppy snapped the dishrag, then folded it over the sink. “I’m going to my room to work on my cookbook for a while. Mind if I do up a vegetable pie for lunch, Cathleen? I need to make sure I’ve got the seasonings right….”

“Be my guest.”

Which, of course, she was. Damned strangest arrangement Dylan had ever seen. Not that his arrangement with the lady of the house was much better.

Getting up from the table, he prepared to load his own dishes into the dishwasher. Cathleen made no move to stop him. This was definitely a self-serve establishment.

“Any chance we could go visit my mother later this morning? Afraid I don’t have a vehicle, so we’ll have to use your Jeep. I sold my truck in Reno before I caught the plane to Calgary.”

“I suppose. But I have work to do, too. Don’t expect me to be your personal chauffeur for the duration of your stay.”

“I won’t.” Duration of your stay? Obviously, she was weakening. Now was the time to strike. “About this arrangement in the barn. I think you should know I kept Cascade awake with my snoring last night.”

Cathleen’s smile had a most unattractive edge of self-satisfaction to it. “Really?”

“I was wondering if I could bargain my way up to a box spring and mattress?”

She shrugged. “A few postdated checks ought to do the trick. I’ve got a queen-size bed available, in the southeast-facing room.”

“Great.” He’d get a mountain view, to boot. He had no idea why she’d changed her mind about his staying, but it was an encouraging first step. Right after the dishes, he’d make out a check, for whatever sum she demanded. Then he’d have to start working on a new strategy. One that would see him moving from the guest bed into hers.

It was a nice thought, if a trifle optimistic at the moment.

CHAPTER THREE

DYLAN HATED HIS MOTHER’S new house the moment he saw it. Cathleen held the steering wheel of her Jeep with both hands, even though she’d already turned off the ignition. He supposed she was giving him time to take it all in.

The modern, California-style stucco three-story, with its triple garage and red clay-tile roof, stuck out like a monstrosity. An affront to the neighborhood of rustic, A-framed structures built of natural products like cedar and stone.

“Looks like a bloody movie set. I’m surprised they don’t have fake palm trees lining the drive.” Dylan jumped lightly from the passenger seat, his right hand automatically reaching to his left shoulder, protecting his injury from the jolt.

“Hard to imagine anything more different from your home on the ranch, isn’t it?”

He just shook his head. The large, traditional log house where he’d grown up was practically museum quality. Generations of McLeans had taken loving care of the original structure, preserving architectural integrity during subsequent expansions and modernizing.

Dylan hung back, waiting for Cathleen to precede him along the brick path to the front entrance. A minute or so after she’d rung the doorbell, he leaned over her shoulder and pressed the buzzer impatiently several more times.

“I told you we should have called.”

Cathleen toed her brown riding boot against the edge of a raised planter. The row of small globe cedars planted within looked dry and spindly. That surprised him. His mother was a formidable gardener.

Still no one answered the door. Bored, Dylan opened the mailbox and began sorting through the letters and flyers.

“What are you doing?”

“Just passing time.” Leaning against the stucco wall, he noted the return address on one manila envelope, then replaced the package in the mailbox.

Cathleen stepped back impatiently. “Let’s go. She’s not going to let us in.”

“Not so fast.” Dylan hooked her at the waist, stopping her midstride. “Let me try the door.”

He put a hand to the pewter handle and it immediately swung open. He gave her a wink. “Well?”

“We can’t—”

As he pulled her over the threshold, a white cat made an attempt to dart outside. Dylan caught the feline with one hand, then nudged the door shut with the heel of his boot.

“Mom? I’m home!” His masculine voice was loud and incongruous in the sparse perfection of the two-story foyer. Archways led on either side to a living room and den. Ahead, polished wooden stairs coiled to the upper rooms.

He began to worry. Were the rumors right? Was his mother too ill to get out of bed? From what Cathleen and Jake had said, it didn’t seem likely that she was out.

About to march up the stairs, he paused at the sound of a door closing from one of the upper rooms. The white cat scampered out of Dylan’s arms and bolted around the corner.

Finally, a slender feminine form appeared at the top of the stairs. “Where’s Crystal?”

The white cat reappeared from its hiding place, zooming up the stairs to Rose Strongman’s waiting arms.

“There you are, precious. You scared me. I heard the door and was afraid you’d run outside.”

Rose began to descend the stairs. Dylan felt strange standing there; he wasn’t sure if his mother had even seen him. In a way it was good. Frankly, he needed the moment to gather his composure.

He’d always thought of his mother as delicate. But dressed in a silk housecoat wrapped tightly around a too-narrow waist, Rose Strongman, née McLean, was now fragile to the point of brittleness. She had to have lost fifteen pounds, at least, since he’d seen her last. Her auburn hair had gone gray, and her skin sagged in grooves around her eyes, nose and mouth.

The changes were nothing unusual for a woman in her seventies or eighties. But his mother was fifty-seven.

As she came closer, Dylan saw more. The trembling in her hands, the watery film over her pale blue eyes, the crooked line of lipstick tracing a once-smiling mouth.

His mother had hurt him badly when she’d told him that she held him responsible for Jilly’s death. The night before his and Cathleen’s scheduled wedding she’d said he had no right marrying a wonderful girl like Cathleen and tainting her future with his past. She’d intimated that they’d all be much happier if he just made himself scarce.

Knowing that the source of these opinions was his stepfather, Max, hadn’t helped him deal with the pain of her attack. He just couldn’t understand why she would believe her husband over her own son. Couldn’t she recognize manipulation when she saw it?

Dylan had stored up a lot of resentment toward his mother. Now he forgot all of it and just held out his arms.

“Mom…”

“Dylan?” Rose paused, which was a good thing, because otherwise she might have tumbled down the stairs. She transferred the cat to one arm and clung to the banister with the other. “You’ve come back.”

“I have.” He stood his ground and waited for the slightest sign that she was happy to see him.

“Why? This isn’t your home anymore.”

Dylan dropped his arms to his sides. He should’ve known. “Can’t a son drop in to see his mother? I heard you’ve been under the weather.”

Rose raised her chin. No faulting her posture. “I’m perfectly well.”

Too concerned to bother with tact, he shook his head. “You don’t look it.”