Finally Home (16 page)

“Okay.”

“It turns over but it doesn't start,” Max said.

“My
dad
was the mechanic,” Lincoln said and accepted the cider with a nod.

“You must miss him,” Casie said.

“Sorry, Emily,” Max said as she set a large cast-iron pan in the center of the table. “I guess there's no one here who can help you.”

Lincoln tightened a white-knuckled hand near his plate and glanced at Max, brow furrowed.

“Don't worry about it,” Emily said, and lifted the lid from the pan. She had mixed bacon and bits of apple into the bright yolks. Eggstacy, she called it. “Help yourselves.”

“It's your truck?” Lincoln asked, addressing Emily.

“Yeah,” she said but didn't glance toward him.

“What year is it?”

She merely shrugged.

“I'm not sure,” Max said and reached for the ladle that protruded from the pan.

Lincoln watched him, unmoving, as the other man filled his plate.

“This smells terrific, Em,” Max said.

“Thank you,” she said, but her tone seemed tight. “Isn't Sonata coming?”

“She's not a breakfast person. Guess I'll have to eat her share.”

“You don't know the year it was made?” Lincoln asked, body absolutely unmoving.

Max shook his head and turned toward Colt, who had just returned with a clean cloth diaper.

“Forty-eight maybe,” he said and draped the unbleached cotton over Ty's arm. Easing into a chair, he reached for his coffee again. “Could be a little older,” he added and narrowed his eyes against the steam as he took a sip.

“You the one that bought it?” Lincoln asked.

“What?” Colt asked, and setting his mug aside, took the basket of biscuits Em handed him.

“The Dodge,” Lincoln said. “Did you buy it?”

“No. Emily came home with that herself.”

Lincoln nodded, lips pursed. “You mind if I take a look at it?”

“You'll have to ask her.”

He raised his attention to Emily. Their eyes met. She smiled, but maybe the expression was a little too bright, a little too brittle. “Of course not. But don't go getting any ideas.”

He stared at her, unspeaking, and she laughed.

“It may look like a piece of modern art, but it's not,” she said and turned blithely away.

“Do you need more coffee, Mr. Barrenger?”

“Will you call me Max? I feel like I'm a hundred years old already after last night.”

“That's right,” Colt said. “I'd almost forgotten. How are you feeling?”

“Like an idiot.”

Colt chuckled. “It might not be a bad idea to take it a little easy today. Maybe soak in a hot bath for a while.”

Sophie shifted her gaze to Casie, who didn't look up from her plate. What was that about? Ty wondered and tried to dish up some eggs while holding Bliss steady. Emily came up behind him.

“I can take her.”

“Naw, that's all right,” Ty said and hoped like hell they didn't realize the baby was a shield of sorts. Something to hide him from the world.

“Don't you have to . . . oh shoot,” Emily said as the lamb burst into the kitchen, tail switching rhythmically through the hole in its ridiculous diaper.

“I'll get her,” Sophie said, and pushing back her chair, stood up.

The lamb trotted over, bleating hopefully. Sophie scooped her up, one hand under her belly, just as the doorbell rang.

“Are you expecting more guests?” Max asked.

Casie made a face. “I'm afraid three's all we can handle. We're not exactly a convention center,” she said and scooted her chair back, but Sophie turned automatically toward the door.

“Just sit.”

Her footfalls were light and quick across the floor. The door just creaked a little as it opened, then, “Mom?”

“Darling!” The voice from the entry was polished and enthusiastic. “It's so good to see you.”

CHAPTER 15

“A
lamb! In the house! How adorable. But don't just stand there, sweetheart. Invite me in.” The words were singsong, bursting with buoyancy and confidence. Emily stood frozen in place beside Ty's chair, one hand just resting on Bliss's head until the twosome appeared side by side in the kitchen.

Sophie's mother entered the scene like a celebrated starlet, head thrown back and eyes alight. “Well, Sophia,” she said, smiling at each of them in turn, her neatly tailored jacket moving with her like a second skin. “Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?”

Sophie looked as if she had swallowed turpentine. Even Lumpkin seemed to be in shock, but Soph did as told, marching out the names like a death roll before turning slightly toward the older woman.

“This is my mother.”

Absolute silence filled the kitchen until Emily was able to shake her brain loose. “Mrs. Jaegar . . .” She was trying to sound unfazed, but she could barely manage lucid and ran out of words right at that point.

“Day-Bellaire,” Sophie's mother corrected, and dropping her arm from around her daughter's waist, strode farther into the kitchen, heels clacking assertively against the aged linoleum. “But you must call me Monica.” She pronounced her name with a long e sound and lifted her chin just a tad when she said it. Her hair was a color so bold and light it dared you to call it platinum. Combed smoothly back on the right side, it lay in a cool sweep across her brow on the left. She had high cheekbones, full red lips, and not a line on her patrician face. “You must be Emily.”

“Yes, I . . .” It wasn't often that she was at a loss for words, but just now every syllable was at a premium. “Yes.”

“I've heard so much about you.”

From who?
Emily wondered, but even in her current state she knew better than to voice such a question out loud.

Casie stood up, eyes wide, face pale. “Welcome to the Lazy.”

Monica Day-Bellaire turned with crisp precision and thrust her hand toward Casie. “It's so nice to meet you, Cassandra.”

“Yes, I—”

“How can I ever repay you for making my daughter so happy?”

Happy? They turned toward Sophie in unison. She looked shocked. But maybe if one looked closer, it would be clear that she was also angry. And confused. And scared out of her wits. Happy wasn't even on the charts.

“She simply loves it here, don't you, darling?” she asked and turned slightly to extend perfectly manicured fingertips toward her daughter.

Sophie shifted her attention to Ty for a second, but he dropped his gaze almost instantly to the tabletop. Emily could feel agony rolling off him in waves and almost winced. For those whose mothers were monsters, even someone like Monica Day-Bellaire was miraculous.

“Mother,” Sophie said, face pale. “What are you doing here?”

“Well . . .” She turned and swept her hand reverently down Sophie's loose hair, as if she couldn't be close enough. “You didn't think I'd be able to stay away forever, did you? I just had to see the ranch that has brought the color out in your cheeks. And don't you look fabulous!” Sliding her fingers down Sophie's arms, she stepped back a pace. “You've filled out, I—”

“Mother!” Sophie said, then drew a steadying breath. “I thought you were in Paris.”

“Well, I was of course. And it was just lovely. The cathedrals, the Louvre! But you remember how it was when we were there together. And I remembered, too. Remembered how you loved
les jardin
and suddenly I simply couldn't bear to be there without you another minute.”

“But your symposium—”

“Is already done,” she said and lifted an elegant hand as if to wipe away any lingering worry. “I was the keynote speaker. They wanted me to stay and expound on Munchausen syndrome, of course.” She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. There was still a water stain above the sink. “But I said no. It's Christmas, and I wanted to be with my beautiful daughter for a little while at least before her father insisted on whisking her away.”

Emily hadn't thought Sophie could look more miserable, but she was wrong. “You needn't have hurried,” she said. “Dad's in Saint Thomas.”

“What?” her mother asked and reared back a little.

“He has a business meeting there.”

“Oh, bunny . . .” Monica said and looked enormously mournful. “I'm so sorry he let you down again.”

Sophie pursed her lips, trapping whatever she was thinking inside her head. But her brows were lowered, a sure sign that such a miracle wasn't going to last for long. “You . . .” she began, but Emily leaped into the breach.

“Mrs. Day-Bellaire—”

“
Monica,
please,” she repeated, elongating the e sound again.

“Monica,” Emily corrected, careful to do the same. “Won't you have some breakfast with us?”

The woman scanned the table, then lifted one narrow hand to her chest. There was no diamond on her ring finger, but a good-sized rock adorned her pinkie. “My goodness! What a sumptuous spread, but I really mustn't.”

“There's plenty,” Casie said and stepped away from the table. “Please. You must be hungry after your flight.”

“Well . . .” She tilted her head as if fighting a losing battle. “Okay. The airlines are so tight-fisted these days. Maybe I will have a bite.”

Casie took her plate with her, though she'd barely touched her meal. Emily hurried to bring clean crockery.

“Coffee?” she asked as Monica slipped into the abandoned chair.

“Coffee would be heavenly. You're a godsend.”

Hurrying to the counter, Emily filled a mug and handed it off. Monica sipped it in silence as they all stared. She raised her brows with dramatic surprise. “
Mon dieu!
That's strong. But that's how we Francophiles like it, isn't it, Sophia? Remember the demitasses we had in Alençon?”

Sophie's eyes seemed to be shooting daggers. Colt spoke, sacrificing himself to the blades. “I can't believe you were able to get here so fast,” he said.

“Well . . .” She put down her cup. “I was already in New York when we spoke. And I must admit, Colton, I wasn't sure how long you would be able to keep our little secret. So when my friend, Captain Whittington, said he could pull a few strings to get me here early, I jumped at the—”

“Wait a minute,” Sophie said, turning slowly toward Colt. “You knew she was coming?”

Colt opened his mouth, maybe to lie, or plead the Fifth, or beg for mercy, but Monica spoke first.

“It's entirely my fault, honey,” she said and dished up a little eggstacy. “I made him swear to keep my visit a secret. I so wanted to surprise you. And I have, haven't I?”

Judging by the expression on her daughter's face, she was not only surprised but pretty damned mortified, too.

Sophie opened her mouth, closed it, then turning robotically, set the lamb on the floor. “Blue needs his bandage changed.”

“Now?” Monica asked and looked woefully crestfallen as she glanced around the room. “Surely someone else can see to it.”

“I—” Casie began, but Ty spoke over her in that deep-water way of his.

“She oughtta take care of him herself.”

Monica raised a brow at him. “Why is that?”

He gazed at her, cheeks a little pink, eyes so serious they could make you cry. “If you got a string girth that don't gall, you don't go switching to fleece.”

Monica Day-Bellaire blinked at him. “I don't think I—” she began, but just then the front door opened and closed. She scowled. Colt cleared his throat.

“Your daughter's been treating that wound herself for weeks. She knows what she's doing.”

“Oh.” Monica forced a smile. “Well . . . my Sophia always did have a way with horses. Did she tell you about the time we rode in Central Park?”

“I don't think she did,” Colt said and rose to his feet. “Can I get you some spiced cider, Monica?” He, too, used the long e sound. Maybe it seemed a little silly in the warm comfort of the Lazy's battered kitchen, but maybe it was just classy. Emily wasn't the kind of girl who could necessarily tell the difference.

“I'm stuffed already,” Monica said and glanced down at her plate. Two and a half tablespoons of eggstacy languished there.

“It's high in antiphiliaries and low in calories,” Colt said.

They all stared at him, and he grinned.

“I don't have any idea what it's high in, but Em here made it herself and it's damn good,” he said and lifted the kettle from the stove. “Want to try it?”

“Well sure.” She laughed. “If it's high in antiphiliaries.”

Colt poured her a half cup. It steamed aromatically. She lifted it tentatively to her lips.

“That's excellent. Where did you get the recipe?”

Emily flushed with pride, then reminded herself that this wasn't
her
mother; she had no reason to try to impress her.

Ty stood up. “Guess I better be going,” he said.

Emily hurried around the table to take Bliss from his arms. The baby had dropped off to sleep long ago. “Already?”

“Got some things to do.”

“What things?” she asked and eased Bliss onto her shoulder.

“Just things.”

“What—”

“I asked him to check the yearlings' water tank,” Casie said. “The float keeps sticking.”

Hogwash. He just wanted to escape the suddenly uneasy confines of the kitchen, Emily thought, but when she glanced at Ty, she saw the flash of gratitude in his eyes. She shifted her gaze briefly around the faces near the table and wondered who was going to save
her.

 

Ty stepped into the cattle barn. It was quiet, dusty, cold. But it was still his favorite place on earth. The barn was where peace lived. But not right now. Right now Sophie Jaegar was in it. Making it seem alive and essential and scary as hell.

She was crouched beside the steel-gray colt, unwrapping the bandage from the foreleg he'd injured on a twisted wire fence. Blue fidgeted, but the girl didn't move. Six hundred pounds of horsepower, but she didn't retreat. She never retreated. Not until today. Leave it to a mother to make that happen.

The colt shuffled sideways again as she pulled the wrap free. She turned a little as she tossed it aside. In profile, she was almost too pretty to bear. She'd pulled a black stocking cap low above her brows. But she'd left the house without a coat so Ty had brought it with him.

“Just relax. We'll be done in a minute. It'll be okay,” she said. Her voice was raspy. She swiped the back of her hand across her cheek.

That was when something in Ty's gut clenched up tight. Sophie Jaegar didn't cry. And she certainly didn't allow others to
see
her cry. He should leave. Should back away now, but she looked so small and lost hunched beside the colt's wounded leg.

He cleared his throat and knew the moment she realized he was there by the stiffness of her body.

He shuffled his feet a little. “You're gonna catch your death.”

She reached to the side for the new bandage material, but her hair was an amber screen of silk, hiding her face from him. “I'm fine.”

He took a few steps forward, hoping he'd given her enough time to compose herself. “Casie wanted me to bring your coat.” It wasn't a complete lie. She
would
have wanted him to if she'd realized the girl had left without it.

She glanced up. Her mouth was pursed, her brows low. A storm brewed in those bottle-green eyes. “I'm not cold.” That
was
a lie, but he didn't call her out. Mothers could make people do a mess of crazy things. Lying was the tamest of the lot.

“Sure, I know,” he said. “But it'd make her feel better if you wore it anyhow.”

“She's not the boss of me!” She stood abruptly, scaring the colt. He reared a little, but she just stepped away.

“I know,” he said and held his ground in the face of her anger. “She just don't want you getting sick, is all.”

“You
would
take her side.”

He didn't comment. He wasn't sure where they were going, but he'd cinched up long ago for this particular ride. “If you'll put it on, I'll help you with the colt,” he said.

She glared at him for a second, then stepped forward. Snatching the coat from his hand, she slipped her arms into it. Her movements, usually as smooth as ice, were jerky and quick. She yanked her hair out from under the collar. “She knew!” she said and glared at him.

“I don't know what you—”

“Casie!” she said. “Your idol. She knew Mother was coming and she didn't tell me. She just let me be . . .” Her words stopped short. A muscle jumped in her cheek. She turned away.

He shook his head. “Maybe Dickenson knew, but that don't mean Case did.”

“Don't be naïve,” she said, but her voice was very soft. “They're all alike.”

“All who?” he asked and took a few steps toward her.

“Adults,” she said. “You can't trust any of them.”

Ragged memories whispered through him. “That ain't true.”

“Yes, it is. They don't care what—” she began and swung toward him, but when her gaze touched his face, her words trembled to a halt. The muscle in her cheek bounced again. He hoped like hell she couldn't read the painful thoughts that stormed through his mind, but her eyes clouded. Those little-lost-girl eyes that made him want to cry like a baby every time he saw them. She swallowed. Her throat contracted. “She's not perfect, you know,” she said. Her tone was rough but quiet, her eyes haunted.