Welcome Home, Cowboy

Silence shrilled between them for a long moment before Cash said, “Just not enough to let me know.”

“Hey. You wanted answers? These are the only ones I’ve got.”

Another second or two of that hard, unrelenting gaze preceded his stalking to his SUV. After much door-yanking and slamming, he gunned the car out of the drive, mud spraying in a roostertail of epic proportions.

Zoey came onto the porch, snuggling up against Emma’s hip. “What was that all about?”

Good question, Emma thought on a sigh, fingering her daughter’s soft, tangled hair. “When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”

Although what was there to figure out? she mused as they went back inside. Wasn’t like she’d ever see Cash Cochran again. And thank God for small favors.

Because some aggravations, a body does not need.

Chapter Three

Still breathing hard fifteen minutes later, Cash stomped through the front door to the secluded adobe on the other side of Tierra Rosa he’d impulsively bought a few months before, when coming home had—for whatever reason—seemed like a good idea. When, despite how screwed up his past had been, at least it’d been simple.

Or so he’d thought.

Stacks of still-unpacked boxes silently jeered as he strode toward the recently remodeled, no-frills kitchen and a cold Coke; seconds later he stood on the deck off the dining room, overlooking the village tucked up in the valley below.

He took a swig of the soda, forcing air in and out of his lungs until the brisk spring breeze siphoned off at least enough of the tension so he could think. Sort through the hundred thoughts and images ping-ponging inside his head, some real, others imagined: of Lee, the last time he’d seen him, his brown eyes shiny when he clapped Cash on the shoulder and wished him well; of his father, crying—crying?!—as he listened to the CD; of the contradiction of compassion and intolerance, of patient reserve and brutal honesty, that was Emma Manning, her steady, funny-colored eyes seared into his brain.

Cash gave his head a hard shake, trying to dislodge the image. Images.

Had he really been looking for answers, or justification for the resentment he’d been hauling around like a worn-out suitcase for the past twenty years? And now that he had those answers … what, exactly, did he intend to do with them?

About them?

About Lee’s request?

Gritting his teeth, Cash parked his butt on the deck railing to lean against a support post, one booted foot on the railing. Now the breeze skimmed his heated face like a mother’s touch. Except instead of soothing, it only further stoked his anger, that by making it impossible for Cash to stay, his father had stolen from him the skies and forests and mountains he’d loved so much.

His home.

His identity, when you got right down to it.

Not that it mattered, really, once his career took off, and Cash had figured he’d be tethered to Nashville for the rest of his days, anyway. Well, except during those years where he was on the road more than he wasn’t. “Home” became whatever stage he was on in whatever city, his “family” his band, the crew. His fans, to a certain extent.

A turn of events he’d been okay with, for a long time. Especially since focusing all that energy on Cash Cochran, The Star, let him basically ignore the messed-up dude behind the name. Until Cash eventually realized that he and his music were becoming obsolete, save for those few diehard fans still clinging to country’s grittier roots.

What came next, careerwise or lifewise, he had no idea. But a few months ago—about the time he’d stumbled across that letter from Lee—it occurred to him returning to his roots might give him breathing space to figure it out. Coming to terms with why he’d left, what’d happened between him and Lee, was supposed to have been an added benefit. Who knew that instead of a quick get-in, get-out, get-on-with-your-life scenario he’d be facing a dilemma he never in a million years thought would even be an issue.

There’d been no excuse for what his father had done to him … except maybe there was. Just like Cash had been more than justified in holding a grudge against his best friend, in using the hurts done to him as an excuse for being a lousy human being … except maybe he wasn’t. Justified, that was.

He finished off his Coke and crushed the can, banging the mangled aluminum shell against the deck railing as it dawned on him that, in this case, getting answers wasn’t the end of the journey, but only the beginning.

“Emma! Emma!”

Moving as fast as the balled-up human being inside her would let her, Emma hauled herself out of the kitchen, drying her hands on the tail of one of Lee’s old denim shirts. A blur of excitement or anxiety, Emma couldn’t quite tell which, Annie stood at the living-room window, her quilted robe buttoned wrong. Outside, Bumble was doing the guard-dog thing. Inside, cats perched on the window sill and backs of chairs and sofas, ears perked and eyes huge.

“For heaven’s sake, Annie, what—”

“You got company.”

Frowning, Emma joined her grandmother-in-law at the window.

Oh, for pity’s sake.

She tromped to the front door and hauled it open, thinking only an idiot would pay a woman an unexpected visit before 8:00 a.m. Not that she was particularly surprised that Cash’d returned. Well, once the dust—or in this case, mud—had settled and she’d had a chance to mull things over. Something about the way he’d torn out of here yesterday, leaving all those loose ends dangling. But would it have killed him to have held off until she’d at least had a chance to comb her hair?

Then again, why should he care what she looked like? Or more to the point, why should she?

It was a mite warmer than when she’d fed and checked on the goats a half hour earlier, although that wasn’t saying much. Huddled inside the soft, worn shirt, Emma stepped outside, just far enough onto the porch to see Cash give last year’s flower beds the once-over.

“It’s okay, Bumble,” she yelled at the dog, who was circling and whining, worried. The dog shot her a “You sure?” look, but trotted a few feet away to lie in the dirt, keeping watch over the man surveying what even Emma had to admit was a sorry state of affairs. Shame and frustration washed over her as she saw Cash take in the pile of wood for the new raised beds she had no way of making, the greenhouse in sore need of repair, the three still-unplowed fields that by rights should at least be under cold frames by now, before his gaze swung back toward the spot on the roof where wind had ripped off a patch of loose shingles a few weeks back.

At last he looked at her, eyes narrowed in a face that was all unshaved cragginess underneath a cowboy hat, the shadow like his own personal cloud that tagged along wherever he went. The morning sun glanced off a belt buckle that on anybody else would’ve looked ridiculous.

“Who’s gonna help you fix all this? Get your fields planted?” He nodded toward the goats. “Stay up all night when these gals start having their babies?”

I’ll manage, she nearly said, because that was how women were programmed, as if a double dose of X chromosomes somehow endowed them with magical powers to make everything right. To make the pieces fit, no matter how jagged the edges might be.

Except as the sun climbed relentlessly over the horizon, rudely highlighting all the undone stuff blowing raspberries at her, it hit her upside her uncombed head that sometimes the pieces didn’t fit. Like when your husband suddenly dies and leaves you with all his work to do, besides yours, except you were already going full tilt before he died and now you’re pregnant and the economy sucks and your choice is somehow make it work or give up. But this is your home and, dammit, you don’t want to give up. You want to be strong and invincible—

“How bad is it?” Cash said.

—and here’s this man standing in your yard who in less than ten minutes has figured out what’s taken you months to realize:

That, basically, you’re screwed.

Emma sucked in a deep breath, shoving aside the panic that always hovered, looking for the weak spot. “Bad,” she said, feeling Zoey’s arms slip around her thick waist. “I think this is what you call one of those catch-22 situations. I’ve got seedlings and all started in the greenhouse, but that’s the tip of the iceberg. If I don’t get things hardened off and in the ground fairly soon, there won’t be enough to make good for my shareholders who’ll be expecting returns on their investments come summer. Then again, I couldn’t sell enough to hire on sufficient help to make up for … for Lee not being here.”

Munching on a piece of toast, Hunter wandered out of the house to stand beside her, his backpack slung over one shoulder. “Who’s that?” he said, blessed—or cursed—with the ingenuous curiosity of a much younger child. Her mama-radar on full alert, Emma slipped an arm around her son’s shoulders, watching Cash for signs of discomfort or awkwardness. Far as she could tell, there weren’t any.

“Name’s Cash, son. Your daddy and I were friends when we were kids—”

“Cash Coch-ran?” Hunter sucked in a deep breath. “The … sing-er?”

“That’s right. Except I’m kinda taking a break right now. So I thought it might be nice to come back home for a while. Think over a few things. And while I’m doing that—” those silver eyes skidded back to hers “—I could lend a hand here.”

Now it was Emma doing the breath-sucking, as both kids’ gazes locked on the sides of her face. “Excuse me?”

“Not forever, but until you’re through the worst of it. At least until the baby comes. I reckon I still know how to fix a fence and make a raised bed. Fix that roof,” he added with a nod. “And you tell me what needs planting where, I can do that, too. Don’t know much about goats, it’s true, but I’m pretty sure I remember how to navigate the back end of a cow. Don’t suppose it’s all that much different.”

Too stunned to cobble together a coherent sentence, all Emma could manage was a strangled, “Why?”

“I have my reasons,” Cash said, coming closer. Close enough to see there was a lot more going on behind those eyes than Emma could even begin to sort out. “And I’m guessing you’d probably be more likely to accept my labor than my check.” When she started, his mouth pulled into a tight smile. “Although if you’d rather do it that way, so you could hire whoever you wanted … well, I suppose that’d work, too.”