Chapter 6 Caleb
CHAPTER SIX
Caleb
Evening settles differently on the ranch than anywhere else.
The light gets soft, gold bleeding into purple, and the animals quiet in that way that makes you feel the whole place is finally letting out the breath it’s been holding all day.
I enjoy this time.
Less talking. Less expectation.
Just the barn, the horses, and a couple of barn cats stretched out near my boots, bellies up. One of them flicks an ear like she’s listening to the pages as I turn them.
Yeah. Pages.
I read the same paragraph again, even though I could probably quote it by now.
He held her like she was something precious, not like a burden, not like a chore to carry. Like she was a choice he would make again and again.
I snort under my breath.
“Must be nice,” I mutter.
There’s a hay bale under me, the light overhead is too yellow, and the book is a little dog-eared from going in and out of my jacket pocket.
But I’m here, and I’m reading, and nobody knows but me, the cats, and a gelding in the next stall who keeps blowing curious snorts through the gap under the door.
“Mind your business,” I tell him.
I don’t get far before I hear bootsteps on the barn aisle. Boone’s got a different rhythm than the hands. More weighted. More responsibility in every step.
Shit.
I stand, brushing stray bits of hay off my flannel, and slide the book between two old feed charts on the shelf behind me.
The door creaks a second before it opens.
Boone fills the doorway with that presence he carries around as armor. “There you are.”
I shrug. “Where else would I be?”
“Fair,” he says. “Dinner’s almost ready. Figured I’d come drag you in myself before Sadie starts a search party.”
“That kid doesn’t need a search party,” I say, stepping past him and into the aisle. Horses flick their ears toward us as we walk. “She’d ride Moose down here and haul me in by the boot.”
He almost smiles. Almost. “She would at that.”
We walk toward the house together, the air cooling now that the sun’s slipping behind the ridge. Crickets are starting up, and one of the ranch dogs trots past us with a piece of rope in his mouth, happy as sin.
“How’d it go at school today?”
Boone grunts. Which, in his language, could mean anything from fine to the apocalypse is nigh.
“What’d Carol do now?” I try.
He huffs out a breath, jaw ticking. “PTA meeting after school. She wants parents more involved in the Mother’s Day thing.
Volunteers, decorations, photo booth, all that.
Made a point again, saying some parents ‘opt out of participating in their child’s school life.
’” His mouth goes flat. “She looked at me when she said it.”
“Subtle.”
He ignores the comment. “Then she mentioned the ‘Mommy & Me breakfast’ like she wasn’t twisting the knife.”
I feel my hands curl into fists in my pockets. “Sadie hear that?”
“Yeah.” He stares ahead. “Went quiet after.”
I can picture it. Sadie, with her big eyes, soaking it all in, pretending it doesn’t hurt. That kid’s got more resilience than most adults, and people still manage to bruise her.
“We’ll make our own damn breakfast,” I utter. “Doesn’t have to be at the school to matter.”
He says nothing, but the tight line of his shoulders eases just a fraction.
This is how it usually goes with us. He stews. I listen. Neither of us says the soft parts out loud.
The porch comes into view, light spilling from the kitchen windows, warm and inviting. There’s a smell too, garlic and a rich butteryness that makes my stomach sit up and pay attention.
“New chef working out?” I ask. “I haven’t eaten anything of hers yet, and as you can imagine, after visiting Mom for a few days, I’m starving.”
Boone makes a low sound that could be a laugh. “She still trying that… herbal thing?”
“‘Food should taste like music,’” I quote, deadpan. “Her words, not mine.”
Boone huffs. “Your mom’s cooking has always tasted awful.”
“Regret and oregano,” I remark. “Mostly oregano.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling now, just a little.
Maggie Westbrook is a good woman. Big heart.
Big dreams. Very little understanding of seasoning ratios.
I love her, but every time I visit whatever state she’s currently travelling through, she sends me home with Tupperware full of vegetarian ‘creations’ she’s certain will change my life.
She always hugs me tight, afraid I won’t come back.
And she always cooks for me, trying her best.
Even if her best once gave me heartburn so bad I had to lie on the floor.
Boone gives another of those grunts. “Well, Delaney seems competent.”
Which, from him, is pretty high praise.
“Oh, and Sadie likes her.”
That’s more important than anything. You want into Boone Taylor’s inner circle, you go through his daughter.
I take a breath and follow Boone inside.
The warmth hits first. Then the smell. Then the sight.
She’s at the stove, back to us, stirring something in a big pot.
There’s a looseness to the way she moves that only comes from knowing what you’re doing.
Hair pulled up in a messy knot, loose strands curling at the nape of her neck, the fabric of her shirt pulling across curves she doesn’t seem to be thinking about.
The oven hums, a tray of golden inside, and the counter’s scattered with chopped herbs and lemon halves.
Silas is leaning against the counter nearby, of course, talking with his hands, probably flirting wildly. Sadie’s perched on a stool with a tiny apron tied over her clothes, swinging her legs and watching her intently.
Delaney laughs at something Silas says, but it’s quick and tight, her shoulders not quite matching the sound. She keeps her focus mostly on the pot, not on him.
Delaney is gorgeous.
Boone says my name, and three heads turn.
Silas grins. “Look who finally left his harem of horses to join the rest of humanity.”
Sadie slides off the stool and barrels into me. “Caleb! We’re having chicken and potatoes and carrots and magic gravy and real bread. Not the sad bread from the bag.”
“Sad bread, huh?” I say, scooping her up. “Did the bread cry?”
She giggles. “It tasted like it wanted to.”
“Good to know.”
I glance up, and Delaney’s watching us, spoon paused midair. Her eyes are a hazel that shifts in the light, and right now they’re somewhere between cautious and curious.
I’m suddenly aware of the hay in my hair and the dirt on my boots.
“Caleb,” Boone says again, slow with introductions he doesn’t give often, “this is Delaney Rivers. Our new chef.” He looks at her. “Delaney, this is Caleb. He keeps the animals from mutinying.”
“Hi,” she says, wiping one hand nervously on her apron before offering it.
I set Sadie back on her feet and take Delaney’s hand.
Her palm is warm. Slightly callused, same as mine, but in different places, knife handle probably. She smells of rosemary and lemon.
“Delaney,” I repeat, and it feels good in my mouth. “Nice to meet you.”
She gives me a quick, uncertain smile that hits me somewhere I don’t want to examine too long. “You too. Sorry dinner’s a little later than planned. I’m still figuring out how long it takes for… everything.”
I look around. Table set, food almost ready, Sadie not climbing the cabinets.
“Looks like you figured it out fine.”
Her shoulders drop a notch, as if she’d been braced for criticism.
Silas, never one to miss an opportunity, claps his hands together. “Everyone, sit. Eat. Tell Delaney how brilliant and life-changing her cooking is while I take all the credit for hiring her.”
Delaney’s smile goes a shade too bright at that, her hand tightening on the back of a chair like she’d rather disappear than be the center of attention.
Boone snorts. “You had nothing to do with it.”
“I absolutely did,” Silas lies, sauntering toward the table. “Emotionally. Spiritually.”
We settle in. Boone at the head of the table, Sadie next to him. I take my usual spot on the other side, across from Silas. Delaney moves around the table, setting down a roast chicken that could be out of a magazine. Crispy skin, herbs tucked everywhere, juices pooling on the platter.
Next comes a pan of roasted potatoes and carrots, edges browned and crisp. Then a bowl of bright green beans with slivers of almond. Finally, a plate of thick slices of bread, the crust dark and crackling.
I can’t remember the last time this table looked this good.
“Smells amazing,” I say before I think better of it.
She glances at me, surprised. “Thank you.”
“Sadie,” Boone declares, “say grace?”
She does, in her rushed little voice, making sure to bless the horses, the dog, and “Miss Delaney’s magic gravy.”
When we start serving ourselves, Sadie’s practically vibrating in her seat. I don’t think she misses our old housekeeper one bit. I thought she might when she retired, but Sadie looks much happier now.
And I can see why.
“Careful,” I tell her as she ladles gravy onto her potatoes with unnecessary enthusiasm. “You trying to drown them?”
She grins. “Maybe.”
I take a piece of chicken, some vegetables, and a slice of bread. Keep it modest at first. Having had some interesting experiences with food over the years, I learned not to commit until after the first bite.
First bite shuts that cynicism right up.
The chicken is juicy, skin seasoned perfectly, herbs and lemon cutting through the richness. The potatoes are crisp on the outside, soft inside, rosemary and garlic clinging to each piece. The bread is soft and chewy, with a crust that fights back just enough.
I don’t say anything. Just chew. Swallow. Breathe.
“It’s good, huh, Uncle Caleb?” Sadie asks, eyes big, waiting.
I nod. “Yeah, Sadie Bear. It’s real good.”
Delaney watches me from the other side of the table, a flicker of relief in her gaze.
Silas, never subtle, groans dramatically. “Real good? That’s all you’ve got? I’ve seen this man nod silently at five-star food, and I’ve seen him walk away from burgers that smelled of heaven. This is a ten-nod meal.”