The Rancher's Dream

She bent over the baby again, first taking care to tuck her gold necklace into her shirt. Molly had recently become fascinated with anything shiny, and consequently Crimson had stopped wearing most jewelry. Except the necklace, a small shamrock. That, she never removed.

“Where is Kevin, anyhow?” She glanced briefly at Grant and then returned her attention to Molly, who was starting to get fussy again. “Molly needs feeding. You dropped him at the law firm, right? I thought the meeting was supposed to be over by now.”

“Guess it ran late.” Grant leaned back in his chair and stretched. His impatience was palpable, which Crimson understood. Horse breeding was a demanding job, and he couldn’t afford to cool his heels in town all day just because his houseguest’s car was on the fritz and the man had hitched a ride into town.

“I certainly hope this law firm is paying him enough to buy a house, and a new car...and hire a nanny.” Grant raised one eyebrow. “I know you and I would both like to see the man move into a place of his own.”

Again, that tone—as if Crimson must be dying for some privacy with Kevin, so they could take their relationship to the next level.

If Grant only knew! The fact that Kevin lived in Grant’s spare bedroom was probably his most attractive quality. She lived in a tiny efficiency apartment with paper-thin walls and never, ever brought anyone home. So if Kevin didn’t have privacy, either...well, that settled the whole “will we or won’t we” debate before it could even get started.

She smiled neutrally. “I take it the charm of having a boarder is fading?”

“The charm of having a boarder is nonexistent.” Grant scooped up the check, waving off her protest. “It’s killing my love life. Correction—it’s already killed my love life. Ginny broke up with me last night, after about three hours of listening to Molly cry.”

Crimson wouldn’t have thought the woman was that foolish. She frowned. “Molly cried all night? Why? What was wrong?”

“Beats me. My guess is Molly’s an undercover operative with the morality police. Her assignment, and she’s definitely chosen to accept it, is to ensure I never have sex again.”

Crimson shook her head. “Seriously. Was she sick?”

“Seriously. She’s the president of the Abstinence Vigilantes.”

“Grant.”

He grinned. “She’s probably just teething. As I recall, this is about when the first ones start coming in. I told Kevin to buy one of those nasty plastic rings you can put in the freezer, but he hasn’t done it yet. Apparently, he’s the vice president of the abstinence club.”

As he recalled?

For a minute, she couldn’t move past that comment. What did he mean? Grant didn’t have children...

Or did he? Crimson hesitated, her curiosity warring with her vow to always, always stay out of it. Still, it was strange. If Grant had children, he’d certainly never mentioned it before. In her experience, people who had kids couldn’t stop talking about them—how good they were, how bad they were, how underfoot they were or how much they missed them.

Her mind sifted through the possible scenarios. She had the impression he was divorced—though she couldn’t pinpoint what made her think so. Perhaps she just couldn’t believe a man like him could have reached his thirties without getting scooped up by some lucky lady. But he’d never hinted anything about children.

Maybe he had siblings, and those siblings had kids. Or maybe he was divorced, and he’d lost custody for some reason. Or maybe, like Kevin’s runaway ex, he’d left his family behind to pursue his dream of a horse ranch in Colorado.

Or maybe...

She shook herself irritably. Maybe it was none of her business. She knew all too well that when a person imposed total silence on a subject, those wishes should be respected.

For instance...heaven help anyone who brought up Clover’s death with her.

Molly had begun to strain at the strap that held her in the baby seat. As she squirmed, she grew red-faced, and the whimpering escalated into full-blown crying.

“Sweetheart.” Crimson stroked the baby’s cheek. “Poor little thing.”

Grant glanced at his watch. “Maybe I should go see what’s keeping Kevin. I’ve got to get back to the ranch. With all this rain, I’m worried about the stable roof. Any chance you could...”

She was already unfastening Molly’s strap. She lifted the warm, damp baby out and folded her up against her shoulder.

“Of course,” she said, patting Molly’s back. She was well aware he hadn’t been asking if she’d pick up Kevin. “How about if I take your truck because you’ve got the car seat, and you take my car? I’ll stop by the pharmacy and grab a teething ring and then meet you back at the ranch. If I get there first, I’ll feed her, change her and put her down for a nap.”

“Perfect.” He nodded. “Mine’s right out front, so you won’t have to get wet.” He frowned, glancing at the front windows. “You drive carefully, though, okay?”

“I will. The truck’s four-wheel drive will be safer in this weather, anyhow.”

And wow, what weather, even for late May! The rain had grown steadily more intense while they were in the café. She’d heard about these wet Silverdell springs. The gully-washers were mostly short-lived and profoundly welcomed by the ranchers, who appreciated the free irrigation—as long as none of their own gullies got washed out.

Plus, the storms apparently were a boon for the wildflowers. She’d been hearing for weeks about how, if the drought continued, the annual wildflower festival might have to be canceled. Apparently, that would be a historic failure for Silverdell, and everyone had been eying the skies glumly, calculating the chances of rain.

“I’ll be careful,” she promised again, holding out her key ring. “You do the same, even if Kevin keeps you waiting and you’re ticked off.” She held his gaze sternly, daring him to deny he could get impatient behind the wheel, especially when he wanted to get home to check on the horses. “Deal?”

He smiled. “Deal.”

From her perch on Crimson’s shoulder, Molly wailed, suddenly at the end of her rope. Standing quickly, Grant leaned over and planted a firm kiss on Crimson’s cheek.

“Thanks, Red,” he said. “You’re the best. Be good to Auntie Red, kiddo.”

He patted Molly’s head perfunctorily as he moved away. He had paid and disappeared to the notes of “Danny Boy” before Crimson could even get the baby reinstalled in her carrier. Molly definitely wasn’t happy to be strapped in again, but she had found her fingers and begun to suck on them.

Crimson watched as Grant’s silhouette dashed past the front windows, his head ducked against the rain. He appeared in one window, then another, then the third, and then he finally disappeared.

“Interesting, isn’t it, sweetheart?” She bent low to rub Molly’s pink button nose with her own. “I’m pretty sure our friend Mr. Campbell is allergic to crying babies. What I can’t quite figure out...”

She glanced back at the windows, but no one else was walking past, not in this weather. All she could see was a thick sheet of silver rain that sparkled as it caught the reflected brilliance of streetlights that had blinked on, fooled into believing it was night.

“What I can’t quite figure out is why.”

CHAPTER TWO (#u5f0c784e-21dd-5391-a617-57d2448ced16)

AFTER SHE LEFT the tattoo parlor, Becky drove around Silverdell for a long time.

Even when the storm broke, she didn’t stop driving. She cruised down Elk Avenue, around the square and over to Callahan Circle, which Dellians always just called Mansion Street. She didn’t stop when she got to the blue French château with the mansard roof, even though she’d called that particular mansion home for twenty-one years.

She didn’t even look at it. Didn’t make any difference whether her dad was home or not—she wasn’t going to stop. She just kept driving. North, and then west onto Cimarron Street. After that, she went back into town to start the figure eight all over again.

Truth was, she really, really didn’t want to go back to Rory’s apartment. He was going to be mad about the tattoo...or the lack of a tattoo. And when he was mad, it was awful.

It was actually more awful than it ought to be, considering he didn’t scream or yell or break things. She almost wished he would. At least that kind of anger made sense.

Her dad was a yeller. He blew up like the storm that was turning Silverdell black as an eclipse right now, flooding the streets and shaking the traffic lights as if it wanted to yank them from their wires. But, like this storm, his anger blew over. Things might be damp and uncomfortable for a while, but the sun always came out again eventually.

Rory was different. He didn’t ever let loose. He got snake-eyed and sarcastic, but behind those curled lips and cold eyes, you could tell the same storm was raging. It just didn’t have an outlet, so it never blew itself out. It kept building, and it spit out in little scalding spurts, like when you overheated grease in a pan. It shot out in small, oddly painful insults, in little unexpected cruelties.

As her car sped through a pool of water so deep it sprayed out like a white fan from her tires, she realized she was going too fast. She had a headache from peering through the rain, and she’d been gripping her steering wheel so tightly her hands hurt.

Consciously flexing her fingers, she took several deliberate deep breaths. She should go home. So what if Rory was mad? She lifted her chin. She wasn’t afraid of him. That wasn’t why she didn’t want to go back. She wasn’t afraid of anybody.