Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The job had fallen to him. Chance stood in Sparky’s old cabin and contemplated whether to leave the deer head on the wall and the bear skin rug in front of the fireplace.
He grinned. Wouldn’t Rafael’s sweet non-meat-eating wife love that?
Other than those two items, the cabin had been stripped bare by Eli and his men. Another ranch hand, one with plumbing skills, had replaced the toilet and sink in the bathroom and the rickety faucet in the kitchen. Otherwise, the place was in good shape. Hearty. Ready for many lives to fill its walls.
He took another glance around the place, including a look at the fireplace decor that any other foreman would love, and walked out to the small, fenced yard. Chance crossed his arms, sighing. From what he heard, Bella liked to garden, and here she would have a plot to tend.
Chance traversed the area, looking for gopher holes or other problems the couple might encounter. He kicked his boot at the sprinkler head shooting up from the earth, and it collapsed downward, as it should’ve when turned off. Chance scowled and considered his options. He could leave it that way for Rafael to fix. That was choice number one for him.
But his conscience always seemed to be on alert these days, redirecting his actions away from his thoughts.
He squatted down and unscrewed the cover of the sprinkler head. As suspected, the housing was filled with debris and dirt, which he loosened and cleared away with his fingertips.
“Good enough.” He muttered the words as he replaced the cover and watched it slip into position as it was made to do.
Chance might have hopped onto his four-wheeler then and sped away if a voice hadn’t caught his attention. He pulled the tip of his hat down, shading his eyes further, and stared into a small wooded area beyond the cabin, near where a grove of old olive trees sputtered along, alive despite the years of neglect.
Willow.
She was pacing, her phone to her ear, shoulders tense as she moved about. Not many realized that the wind that blew through that stand of trees often carried sound with it. Sparky liked to share the gossip he sometimes heard, and the guys never tired of hearing it around the campfire after a long day.
But listening in on a personal conversation wasn’t his style. People deserve their privacy. He, too, coveted his own. Still, he had trouble tearing his eyes away from Willow, a certain sadness tugging at him at the way she paced, her chin tilted downward.
“See something you like?”
“What in the …!” Chance spun around, his right hand clenched, ready to pounce. Ace stood behind him, round eyes penetrating beneath the wide brim of his hat.
Busted.
“Sent you over here to make sure the cabin’s in ship shape for Rafael and Bella—and their pipsqueak of a dog.”
“There’s an animal too?”
His father wasn’t deterred. “But it looks like you’ve become distracted by some … one.”
“Not at all.” Chance threw a nod to the cabin. “Just finished checking the hands’ work in there.”
“And?”
“It’s ready. And so is the garden plot. Hopefully, the mutt won’t dig it up.” Chance pointed toward the sprinkler. “I fixed?—”
Ace stared at him for a beat, his eyes shifting ever so slightly toward the earth. “Good. Your mother loved this little garden.”
A slow smile found Chance as he nodded. “I remember. Mom loved all the small gardens around here.”
“That she did.” Ace quieted a moment, as if remembering. His eyes surveyed the land, the cabin, the grove of olive trees, and back to the small garden. “She always planted something special for incoming residents—rosemary bush here, some sunflower seeds there, whatever struck her fancy, depending on the time of year.”
Chance nodded again. He remembered that, though he might not have had his father not pointed it out.
“So.” His father broke the silence. “I’m here to see the place myself. Stick around, why don’t you.”
Chance stayed put, despite his desire to hop on that four-wheeler and head out to the pasture. He had animals to check on. And some thinking to do.
Instead, he found himself joining his father to wander into the spruced-up cabin, its wooden floors recently swept, its windowsills dusted, the faint scent of burnt smoke in the place. Ace stopped. He lifted his chin, his gaze laser-like on the deer peering back at him, dead as a doornail.
“Left it up there to welcome them, I suppose.”
A smile played on Chance’s face, but he tamped it down. “You said so yourself that you wanted to offer them a warm welcome.”
Ace tipped his head toward his son. “The rug’s a nice touch, though.” After a brief silence, laughter bubbled up from him, followed by a cough, then a larger barrage of laughter.
Chance grinned. “I thought so.”
Ace shook his head. “It’s a good thing ol’ Patsy isn’t here anymore. Can’t imagine what she’d say about throwing veggie burgers on the grill.”
“Might have been worth it just to see her face.”
“That it would.”
“One thing’s for sure”—Chance crossed his arms, still grinning—“never thought I’d hear the word veggie come out of your mouth.”
Ace’s grin widened. “Oh, come on now. In addition to flowers, your mama had a beautiful vegetable garden. I miss all that fresh stuff she made me eat.”
Chance laughed. “There’s something all three of her sons could agree on.”
Ace pivoted, his expression serious again. “Need your expertise about something.”
The abrupt change of subject was nothing new when it came to Ace. Chance’s father could make merry in one moment and pound his fist on the table in the next. He wasn’t a particularly volatile man, just someone who had always been rather difficult to read.
Something else Chance’s brothers would back him up on.
“First, though, there’s much planning still to do this week. You are helping Willow with the party for Friday evening, I take it?”
Chance’s jaw tightened. “I am.”
“Good.” Ace kept his eyes trained on him for a few seconds, as if assessing his reaction. Then, “Stop by my office later this afternoon. I’d like you to review something in our books.”
Chance straightened. He cleared his throat, about to reply. But Ace doffed his hat, silencing him, then turned to go. “I will see you later.”
For once, Chance had no words. His father had always encouraged him to study numbers, to become educated about running a business from the financial end.
But after obtaining his degree, Chance had been nearly shunned for finding work far away from the ranch. Many times, after ordering supplies with the utmost care, he had offered to shepherd the ranch’s finances, only to be rebuffed: Stay in your lane, son. Stay in your lane.
Finally, Chance had stopped asking.
After leaving numbers behind and returning home to reutilize the skills he’d learned as a kid—maintaining machinery, choosing the best milk-fed hay, building fences for the horses, etc.—it had made sense for Chance to immerse himself in his new life here.
Which is why the sudden hiring of his cousin to replace Sparky stunned him. Still so many questions in his mind. Why Rafael? Why not offer it to him first? Or maybe lure one of his brothers back?
Of course, the money wouldn’t be an amount any of them had become used to. How could it? Still, there was sentimental value attached to the position. Chance had felt that from the moment he’d removed his dress shoes and tie, and replaced them with boots and one of his well-worn work shirts.
That was worth something.
Chance stepped outside, the midday sun’s heat landing on him. His father’s apparent change of heart was quickly replaced by a lingering thought: Willow.
He glanced toward the clearing again, wondering if she had found an answer to whatever dilemma had shaken her—and if there was anything he could do to help.
He would have to wait for an answer, though, because Willow was nowhere in sight.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Chance stepped inside the sunlit kitchen expecting to see dinner prep in full swing. Patsy always started around three o’clock, and a person had better have a good reason for showing up in her domain from that time until the meal was hot and served.
He wasn’t in the mood for following orders, though. Not after showing up in Ace’s office only to be asked to decipher a receipt for cattle cubes, rather than offer any significant advice on the ranch’s direction.
His jaw flexed. Instead of the spice of chili or hint of smoky beef in the air, his senses ballooned with the aroma of … yeast.
Willow hadn’t noticed him enter, her chin set with the harsh line of determination, her mind seemingly a thousand miles away. Another difference from Patsy, who seemed to have eyes, ears, and even her nose attuned to the entry of dirty ranch hands clomping into her kitchen uninvited.
For a half-minute, Chase leaned against the doorframe and watched Willow, her sleeves rolled up, flour dusting her hands. He couldn’t tell if this was the first time she’d made bread or the hundredth, but the way she sucked on her bottom lip and focused her eyes on the dough, he guessed the former.
“Smells good,” he said, finally.
She startled, then plucked a pinch of dough and held it out to him. “Want a taste?”
Was she serious? Wouldn’t that be … gross? He frowned, but pushed himself off the doorjamb and took one boot-shod step toward the island where she worked.
He reached for the dough.
Laughter poured out of her like stardust. His eyes turned to slits. She was laughing at him?
She brushed a wayward tendril of hair off her face with the back of one flour-dusted hand, still laughing. “Shoot. I wish I could’ve kept a straight face.”
“Oh, yeah?” He kept trying not to smile, to maintain a stern expression.
“Yeah. I really needed your honest feedback.” She gave him a deadpan expression.
A smile quirked the edge of his mouth, followed by a stifled laugh. It was no use. He hung his head, shaking it back and forth.
A sniffle escaped her, followed by a quick giggle. Their eyes met briefly before she dropped her gaze to a plate at the other end of the island. She nodded toward it. “As my penance for teasing you, go ahead and try one of those chocolate cookies I made for the party.”
He spied the cookies piled high on a plate, his mouth watering, his stomach stirring.
She raised an eyebrow. “Unless you think that might spoil your appetite for dinner?”
His face was a dare as he swiped a cookie. “That was never a joke around here.” He leaned against the counter that ran the length of the west wall and breathed in the scent of sugar, flour, and dark, rich chocolate. “Both my mother and Patsy would have chased us around with a fly swatter if we’d dared to ruin our appetites before the evening meal.”
“Something tells me your be-hind collided with that swatter often.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She tsked. He was enjoying this, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved … or more careful to keep his distance. No matter how pretty the cook was, or how much he’d rather stick around to banter with her about, well, just about anything, there was work to be done.
He took a bite of a cookie. A scowl found his face.
She froze, sudden worry lines etching her forehead. “Is it bad?”
“Is what bad?”
“That delicious morsel you’re crunching right now. Too much salt? Not enough sugar?”
His eyes slid to the half-eaten cookie in his hand, realizing he’d consumed half in one bite, his mind somewhere else. The beginnings of a grin quirked the edge of his mouth, but he wiped it away before polishing off the rest of it. He rubbed his hands together, letting the crumbs drop to the floor.
Willow followed them with her gaze.
The heat of something crept into his face. Chagrin, maybe? “Sorry, ma’am.”
She shook her head and turned toward the sink. “Don’t ma’am me.” She grabbed a wadded-up towel and tossed it onto the floor.
It landed at his feet. He caught her gaze.
She gave one quick, pointed gaze toward the mess he’d left on the floor.
“You want me to …?”
“Unless you have a backache, yes.”
Patsy wouldn’t have put up with him either. She would’ve run him out of the kitchen with the first crumb drop. Might’ve given him a stern warning on his way out.
But one thing she would never do was make him clean it up.
He licked his lips, staring her down. Then he toed the rag with a booted foot, swirling it around the spot on the floor where it had landed.
Willow rolled her eyes, letting out a sigh. “Incorrigible.” She snapped the towel up from the floor and spun it into the sink.
He chuckled. Hadn’t felt the sound of laughter in his throat in how long? He couldn’t remember.
“If you’re finished now, I’d like to see how this bread comes out.” She dumped it into a greased bowl and laid a tea towel over the top of it. When he didn’t move, she flashed a look at him. “Just trying to get a head start on this weekend’s festivities.”
“Looks like more than a head start.”
She let out a short laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It surprised him to realize he could tell the difference. “I like to be prepared.”
“Or maybe something else has got your attention today.”
Her brows dipped.
“Saw you out by that stand of old olive trees.” He spoke with a lowered voice.
“And?”
“Looked serious.”
“You mean it sounded serious because you were?—”
“Don’t say eavesdropping. I don’t do that.”
“But you heard my conversation.”
The lightness in her face faded away, bringing a twist to his heart. He hadn’t meant to rile her, just … just what? Keep your nose clean , his father used to tell him whenever he’d leaned too far into his business about the ranch, especially when it came to the place’s finances.
Is that what he was doing now? Being nosy?
Then again, if her troublesome conversation had something to do with the ranch, he ought to know about it. Was it a supply issue? A job offer somewhere else? He clucked his tongue and took a step back, remembering how his mother and Patsy used to laugh and carry on in the kitchen until he and his brothers came tumbling in.
He’d always thought it was because she doted on them, but maybe she was just trying to have a private conversation. Which means—he had overstepped. Chance turned to go.
Willow cleared her throat, stalling him. She forced a smile that was about as convincing as a rainstorm in the desert. “Just sorting out some personal stuff,” she said. “Nothing to worry about.”
Chance watched her for a beat, then nodded. Everybody had their secrets. As long as they didn’t affect the ranch, he had no right to them.
“Alright, then.” He searched his head for a change of subject to chase away the awkwardness. “I don’t suppose you’re having car trouble or anything. ‘Cuz if you are?—”
“I’m not.”
“One swift wind and that thing could go airborne.”
Willow shoved a fist into her waist. “Did you really come here to insult my car?”
“Your comically tiny car.”
She cracked a smile. “Stop it.”
He cracked one back. “No, I did not come here to talk about Lucille .”
She paused, looking upward, as if thinking. “Who in the world is Lucille?”
He shrugged. “Figured it was about time to give that pink puff of an automobile a name. Lucille fits her, I think.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Now that we’ve established that …”
Willow groaned.
“What I really came by to tell you, Miss Willow, is that I’m here to help when you need me. Can’t imagine why Ace wants us to make such a big deal about the new recruit, but”—he shrugged, not wanting to talk about it all that much—“I’m here to help. Call on me if you want. ”
Her eyes held doubt, but she said, “You mean that?”
“I said I’d help, didn’t I?” He hadn’t meant for that to sound so harsh. Even to himself, it had.
A slow, skeptical smile pulled at the corner of her lips. “Then grab an apron, cowboy. We’ve got a party to plan.”