My Montana Home

In Montana it was different. Time seemed to play tricks on him here. He’d be thinking about something inconsequential, and then, without warning, the years would seem to vanish, falling away and leaving him unprotected. Leaving him a kid again. And he would see the whole damn thing play over again in his mind, every detail as vivid as if it were happening right at that instant. Every sound, every whisper of pain.

So he’d stayed away. It had been up to Hannah to fly out and visit him. Sometimes she’d complained about it, but he knew that deep down she’d loved all the fuss and bother and adventure of her trips. She’d arrive in Dallas with far too many suitcases, take over his apartment and deluge him with the everyday dramas of her own life. On her last trip, she’d been full of stories about the boarder she’d taken in at her guest house. A vulnerable, redheaded woman who had a seven-year-old son.

Now Andrew stretched out again on the hotel sofa and clicked the game back on. Usually baseball could keep him occupied for an hour or two. But the image of lovely Cassie Warren kept intruding. The guarded look in her eyes, and then the dismay on her face when she’d fallen—quite literally—into his arms. Dislocated finger and all, it had been a rather intriguing experience. He smiled a little…a real smile this time.

The painkillers were making him drowsy, and he closed his eyes. The sound of the game drifted over him. And, for the moment at least, the old memories faded away.

WHAT WAS IT you were supposed to do with spaghetti? Throw a piece at the wall to see if it would stick? Ridiculous, of course, but Cassie never had been a whiz with pasta. Whatever help she could get…

She eyed the piece of spaghetti dangling from her fingers, and considered the wall beside the stove. Exasperated, at last she shook her head. Maybe she just should have chosen a frozen casserole and been done with it. But when you’d inflicted bodily harm on a man, you needed to make it up to him somehow—a home-cooked meal seemed a good way to go.

Cassie stirred the sauce simmering on the stove. There didn’t seem any way she could mess that up. All she’d had to do was open the jar. A familiar guilt stirred in her. She’d never been much of a cook, which was fine when you were on your own. But when you had a son to raise, surely you ought to provide him with nourishing, lovingly prepared meals. You shouldn’t rely on the local fast-food joint and the freezer section at the grocery store. But Cassie, usually so exhausted from her job, did exactly that.

So maybe this evening would help motivate her. If the spaghetti was successful, maybe she’d try a lasagna or a pot roast next. Feeling inspired, she went to the base of the front stairs and called up to her son.

“Zak…Zak! Dinner’s almost ready. Wash your hands and come down.”

The guest house remained determinedly quiet. Cassie waited another minute, and then climbed the stairs. She poked her head into Zak’s room. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, an oversize book spread in front of him. Cassie knew which one it was—an illustrated history of medieval castles that he’d chosen from the public library. Lately he seemed fascinated by stories of knighthood. At any time, Cassie could find him carefully turning the pages of that volume, and studying the pictures. Maybe she ought to feel grateful that Zak liked books at such a young age. Except that a book was like everything else in Zak’s life these days—another excuse to retreat, to hide. Cassie longed for disorder, chaos, noise…all the ordinary signs that a little boy lived here.

“Zak,” she said now. “Mr. Morris will be here any minute. I want you to get ready and come down.”

Zak continued to turn the pages as if she had not even spoken. She battled a growing frustration.

“Zak—” She heard the way her voice sharpened, and she tried again. “I think we’ve caused Mr. Morris enough trouble for one day. Let’s at least provide a pleasant evening for him.”

Zak finally raised his head and stared solemnly at her. “I’m not the one who fell on top of him,” he said.

“A mere technicality. If it hadn’t been for you taking off with the ladder, I never would have fallen…” She gave Zak a stern glance. “And, by the way, you haven’t had your punishment for taking the ladder.”

“Okay. I’ll skip dinner,” Zak said, and he buried his head in the book again.

Cassie gazed at her son. “You don’t get to choose your punishment,” she said firmly. “You’ll wash your hands, and come downstairs, and you will be exceedingly polite to Mr. Andrew Morris when he arrives.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched downstairs before her son could respond—or ignore her.

Back in the kitchen, Cassie found that the sauce had splattered. Cursing under her breath, she wiped the stove and then checked the spaghetti. Now maybe it was too soggy. The casserole in the freezer was starting to seem like a very good idea.

But then the doorbell rang. Cassie felt suddenly, unaccountably nervous. She hurried out to the hall, glancing in the mirror as she went. Perhaps she should have worn something less casual than jeans and her embroidered Mexican top. And she could have brushed her hair at least one more time—

She was behaving for all the world as if she’d invited Andrew Morris here on a date. It was nothing of the kind. It was an apology dinner, as simple and uncomplicated as that.

But when she reached the front door, somehow she couldn’t bring herself to open it.

ANDREW RANG the doorbell again, then stood back to survey his grandmother’s guest house. In the dusk it looked like something out of a storybook—the kind of cottage you’d expect to find deep in a magical forest somewhere. It was two stories high, with dormer windows and vines growing up a trellis. It had been built almost fifty years ago, when both his grandparents had been young. Back then, they’d used it as mother-in-law’s quarters for Hannah’s mom—Andrew’s great-grandmother, a very independent and outspoken lady who’d lived to the impressive age of ninety-three. Andrew thought of his family enduring generation after generation in Montana. He had been the one who’d broken with tradition by moving away to Texas.

His gaze wandered back to the door. He was about to ring the bell a third time when at last the door swung open reluctantly. Cassie Warren stepped forward—and in the dusk she, too, seemed like someone from a storybook. Long red hair, a wariness in her hazel eyes, her skin beginning to take on the beguiling flush that highlighted her freckles.

“Before you apologize again,” he said just as she was about to speak, “no more apologies.”

She gave a shrug. “I constantly seem to be disrupting your life. I mean, when I called you at your hotel earlier, I could tell I’d woken you up—”

“I don’t usually fall asleep in the middle of the day,” he said. “Your doctor friend prescribed some pretty potent pain medication. But I’m glad you woke me.”

She treated him to a disbelieving glance. “Well, please come inside. I’ll warn you, though, I’m not the greatest cook—”

“You’re doing it again,” he said. “Apologizing.”

“Sorry,” she said, and then she laughed. It was a very pleasing sound. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Enough. It’s just not every day I maim someone.”

He proffered a bottle of white wine with his good hand. “Just to show there are no hard feelings,” he said.

She took it from him, surveying the label. “Very nice, indeed,” she murmured. “You have excellent taste, Andrew. Thank you.”

She stepped aside, and he entered the guest house. It looked a lot different than the last time he’d seen it. All the fussy details had been stripped away—carpet pulled up to reveal the pine floors, light curtains replacing the frilled drapes and valances, walls whitewashed over the yellow he’d never cared for.

“The place is better,” he said. “Your influence?”

“Hannah was open to suggestions,” she said diplomatically. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just finish up dinner. Make yourself at home.” She vanished into the kitchen, leaving him at loose ends. He wandered around, thumbing through a book without even reading the title, glancing at a painting without actually seeing it. Then he heard a bang and a muffled exclamation from the kitchen. He crossed to the kitchen doorway.

“Need some help?” he asked blandly.

Cassie had pulled something from the oven. It had landed on top of the stove, and now she was giving it a dour stare.

“Burnt,” she pronounced. “This means just ice cream for dessert, instead of ice cream and…apple betty.”

“Wonder why they call it that,” he said. “Apple betty.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Cassie muttered. “Who am I trying to fool, anyway? I hate to cook.”

“So why do it?” he asked. “You could have sent out for pizza, and I would’ve been just as grateful.”

“Right. Men say that, but they never really mean it. Deep down, they all want some beautiful, big-chested blonde who can whip up a batch of brownies to boot.”

It was an image that gave pause, to say the least.

Cassie sighed. “I didn’t mean all men. Just a lot of them—including my ex-husband. Not that he ever found the blonde of his dreams. He just always gave me the impression he was looking. And after hearing Gwen spill the beans, you know all about how my dad warned me against Jeff, and how I went ahead and married the guy anyway.” She gave another sigh, explosive this time. “What is it about you that makes a woman run off at the mouth?” Very purposefully, she got busy with some salad tongs and lettuce.

He liked watching her as she moved around the kitchen. She pulled a strainer from the cupboard and plopped it in the sink. He took it on himself to drain the pot of spaghetti over the strainer. It was a little awkward with his taped finger, but he managed. Cassie stood beside him watching.

“Don’t tell me you know how to cook,” she said.

“I do eggs,” he told her, “as long as they’re scrambled.”

A few minutes later everything was on the dining-room table. Cassie sat down, then jumped up. “I’ll be right back,” she said. She went up the stairs, and he heard the murmur of her voice.

A short while afterward a door shut rather forcefully and she came down again. She didn’t look happy. She looked peeved. “My son,” she said, “will not be joining us for dinner. You know one of the most aggravating things about parenthood? Sometimes you just give in, even when you know you should make a stand.”

Andrew tried to look sympathetic, but his experience with parenthood was pretty much nil. He and Cassie started in on the spaghetti. His bandaged hand did pose something of a problem. He tried twirling spaghetti noodles around his fork with his left hand.

“I should have thought about that,” Cassie said ruefully. “But, don’t worry—no more apologies.”