Finally Home (19 page)

Casie scowled, moved a little farther into the hall, and plugged her free ear with the pad of her index finger to drown out the laughter that bubbled from the kitchen.

“I'm sorry, I'm not sure what—”

“She's been a little . . . blue. I thought it might be a good idea to get her out of the city. I'm thinking maybe she'd enjoy some time on a ranch somewhere. She's good with . . .” She paused. “She's always liked horses.”

“That's very nice of you. When were you thinking?”

“Do you have any openings for the middle of January?”

Laughter rang in the kitchen. Casie glanced inside. The people gathered there could have been on a movie poster, beautiful, happy, and bursting with possibilities. Emily was chuckling. Even Sophie was smiling. Casie felt her heart lurch. The way things were going, the Lazy could be entirely empty by New Year's.

CHAPTER 18

“H
ey.”

Ty jerked toward the noise issuing from the dim depths behind him. Though the building was referred to as the cattle barn, the south end housed enough rusty equipment to make a redneck hoarder jealous. Lincoln Alexander stepped out from behind Emily's ancient Dodge.

“Sorry.” His brows were low over winter-sky eyes. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “Didn't mean to startle you.”

Ty lowered his head. Fear made him angry; he was angry a fair amount. “What are you doing out here?”

The older boy lifted one boxy shoulder. “Just looking over that old truck.”

Ty's first instinct was to remind him that the Dodge was none of his business, but that's not how Casie would handle the situation. Come to that, neither would Colt.
Monty
Dickenson, however, had once told him to speak his mind and ride a fast horse. But Ty had learned early on that sometimes there wasn't no horse fast enough. “How come?” he asked.

Lincoln shrugged. “It's a classic.”

Ty didn't respond. Even under normal circumstances, he rarely had a clue what was expected of him. Since Monica Day-Bellaire's arrival at the Lazy, he'd felt as if his tongue were looped in a hangman's knot. Worry rolled from Sophie like stink off a pig, and he had no idea what to do about it.

Lincoln shifted his slight weight. “I was wondering if you'd mind if I tinker with it some.”

Ty stared at him. “It ain't my truck.”

The other boy glanced toward the house and shuffled his feet a little. He wore black high-tops with white laces, shoes reminiscent of the fifties' shows Em favored. His jeans rode low on his hips. And his sweatshirt wasn't thick enough to do much of anything in these inhospitable temperatures. Maybe in L.A. he would have looked cool and felt warm. In South Dakota he looked like a frozen nut-job. “Maybe I could get it running.”

Ty scowled. “Why would you wanna do that? It ain't your truck.” His words sounded too aggressive. Not what Casie would want. He backed off a little. “You're a guest. You don't owe us nothing.”

A tendon jumped in the other's throat, testament to tension or anger. Ty wasn't sure which. “What do
you
owe them?”

“What?”

“This isn't your place, either.”

Ty lifted his chin a little, fighting unacceptable emotions. “What are you getting at?”

“I'm wondering what keeps you here, working like a slave.”

“I don't work no harder than anybody else.”

“You must be getting
something
out of it.” He narrowed his eyes a little more. His thin lips turned down at the corners. “Or maybe you're just
hoping
to.”

Ty squared his shoulders. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Maybe you think this stuff
should
be yours.”

“What stuff?”

The other boy glanced toward the house, teeth gritted. “The sun hasn't even thought about getting up yet, but you're out here . . .” He waved toward the two horses that occupied the stalls. “Slopping muck. Either you're trying awful hard to impress someone or you've got something planned. I'm just wondering which it is.”

Ty felt his face flush. He didn't roll out of bed at five thirty every morning to impress anybody, he told himself, but Sophie's lost-girl eyes flashed into his mind. He pushed away the mental images. “That ain't none of your business.”

“You're not her type. She—” Lincoln began, then drew a deep breath, shook his head, and glanced toward the stalls again. “How's that old horse doing, anyway?”

Ty scowled, trying to keep up. No one had to tell him that Sophie Jaegar was light-years out of his league, but who was this city dude to weigh in on the situation? “What you talking about now?”

“The horse with the bad feet.”

“Angel?”

“Yeah, I guess. How's she doing?”

“ 'Bout the same as usual,” Ty said and turned away, but Lincoln stopped him with a raised hand, then hurried off in the opposite direction. In a moment he had returned. “I was thinking this might help,” he said and held up an odd mesh structure shaped into a rough oval.

“What's that?”

Lincoln deepened his scowl and handed it over. “It's a horseshoe.”

“No, it ain't.”

The high-tops shuffled.

“It's big as a barrel,” Ty added.

“Well, her feet hurt, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So maybe if her weight was distributed over a larger area, it would get rid of some of the pain.”

Ty scowled and hoisted the odd metal in his hand. It felt as light as thistledown. “What's it made of?”

“Nickel phosphorus tubes.”

Ty lifted it closer to his face. “Don't look like tubes.”

“They're small, mostly air. It's what makes them so light.”

“Where'd you get it?”

“I brought it with me.”

“Why?”

Lincoln shrugged and shoved his right hand into his pocket again. His left looked chapped and cold. “I like experimenting with stuff.”

“Don't you have nothing better to do?”

He hunched his shoulders. “Listen, if you don't want my help, you can just say so.”

Ty shifted his weight and glanced toward Angel. She bobbed her head over her stall door, impatient for breakfast. “I can't pay you nothing.”

The wintry eyes were steady. “Let me work on the truck.”

Why the hell was he so fired up about that damned truck? It wasn't worth a hill of beans. “Like I said, that ain't my decision.”

“You're her friend, right?”

“She's . . .” His stomach tightened as he thought about how Emily looked with Bliss in her arms. How she made Casie laugh. How she made the Lazy feel like home. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess.”

“Then she probably won't make a fuss if you ask her.”

“Why do you want to—”

“Just ask her,” he said, and snatching the metal oval from Ty's hand, hurried stiffly from the barn.

 

“Hey, Ty,” Emily said. She looked sweet and young as she glanced over her shoulder at him, the exact picture that had made his stomach queasy only a half hour before. Bliss's fuzzy head lay against her chest. “Want some coffee?”

He nodded and moved toward the counter, but she had already poured him a cup. It felt warm and friendly as he wrapped his chilled fingers around it. He nodded toward the tiny bundle slumped in her arms. “She keep you up again?”

Emily smiled, eyes tired. “Sleep's overrated.”

He didn't necessarily think that was true. His room at the Red Horse was as pink as an antacid tablet, and there was still a My Little Pony poster on the wall beside the window, but the bed was soft and the space his own. He'd never admit to anyone how much he loved that room. “Maybe I could make your deliveries today.”

Her grin amped up a notch. Mischief lit her eyes. There wasn't no one like Em to upend the ugly side of life and see the funny underneath. “It's a long ways on horseback,” she quipped.

He shook his head at her. “I have my farm permit.”

“But nothing to drive.”

Disappointment coiled in his stomach. He glanced out the kitchen window. Being a burden was getting pretty damned old.

“But hey, walking's eco-friendly, right?” she said, and after dipping a piece of bread into a bowl, dropped it into a hot skillet where it sizzled happily.

“Maybe Casie wouldn't mind if I borrowed Puke,” Ty said, stomach queasy at the thought of asking for favors.

“You're kidding me, right?” she asked and faced him square on.

“I've drove it before.”

She stared at him, then laughed and shook her head. “Ty, Casie would lend you her
liver
.”

“What are you talking about?”

She raised one brow. “You gotta know she thinks you walk on water.”

He felt his face heat up, felt his chest swell and his psyche crumble. Yeah, he was pretty sure Casie thought well of him, but he was absolutely
certain
he didn't deserve it. “I don't know what you mean.”

She stared at him, then shook her head. “Tyler James Roberts,” she said. “When are you going to realize you're the best thing that ever happened to this place?”

The bile in his stomach turned to turpentine. In the past, he had combated taunts with aggression or silence. Neither had improved his life much. Still, words could hurt more than bare knuckles to the face. “It ain't nice to tease, Em.”

She chuckled, eyes steady with a softness that confused him. “Someday you'll know your worth.” She hefted the baby a little. “Can you hold her for a minute?”

He set his coffee mug aside, trying to battle the uncertainty in his soul as he reached for little Bliss. She sighed, soft as a bunny as she snuggled against his shoulder. Dandelion-down feelings settled over his being, tightened his throat, stung his eyes.

“What have you been doing out there?” she asked. The sun had not yet risen, but he wasn't the only one who was awake, he thought, and remembered his conversation with Lincoln Alexander.

He shrugged. “I like to get Chester's pen cleaned up first thing.”

“Colt could do it,” she said and added three more slices of French toast to the pan.

“It ain't his job,” Tyler said.

“No,” she agreed, “it's Casie's.” She tilted her head a little. “Or Soph's.”

He felt his cheeks heat up. “That colt can get a little rank sometimes. I feel better knowing the job's done before I head out.”

She stared at him again. Such direct attention always made him feel itchy. “I'll try to stand by with a boat,” she said.

“What're you talking about?” he asked and stroked Bliss's back when she mewled.

“In case the water gets too rough for walking on.”

He scowled and reached for his coffee to hide the heat in his cheeks.

She smiled. “I'd be jealous as heck if . . .” She paused, shrugged one shoulder. “Ah, fudge, who am I kidding?” She flipped a piece of bread. “I
am
jealous as heck.”

He felt his heart lurch. What were the chances that in six months' time he would meet so many people who made life worth living?

“Oh, don't look so hangdog,” she said and laughed. “Hey, did you know that Mr. Barrenger wants to market my recipes?”

“What?” He paused with his mug halfway to his lips.

“Sit down,” she said and motioned to a chair. He did as told. “He thinks he can make me a brand name. Put my products on grocery shelves from sea to shining sea.”

“Is that what you want?”

She flipped another piece of toast. The scents of nutmeg and tranquility filled the kitchen. “Who doesn't want to be rich?”

It was a question he had never contemplated. “Would you have to leave the Lazy?”

“I'd need more room than we have here to experiment with new recipes and stuff. He says he could build me a state-of-the-art kitchen.”

“I thought him and that lady were pretty serious.”

“Sonata? Of course.” She looked surprised and a little insulted. “They're engaged.” She flipped three pieces of toast in rapid succession. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He watched her closely. Her movements seemed jittery, her body tense as she sprinkled the bread with cinnamon and sugar. “Seems to me a man don't go hunting deer when he's got venison cooking at home.”

She stared at him a silent moment, then laughed. “You've got this all wrong. There's nothing going on here.”

“Then why's he driving you all over the county?”

“He's a nice guy,” she said and placed his breakfast ceremoniously in front of him before taking Bliss from his arms.

He kept his gaze centered on hers. “Even a snake can say please.”

“I don't even know what that means,” she said and sat down across from him.

He frowned. “I don't want you getting hurt no more, is all. You gotta think of the baby.”

“I
am
thinking about the baby. I don't do anything
but
think of the baby. That's why I have to make some money.”

“You
are
making money.”

She made a dismissive sound.

“More's not always better, Em,” he said.

She shook her head. “Like you and I would know that.” Her words drilled painfully through him, reminding him of his past, of his family. Shame and regret and guilt all in one ugly muddle.

He cut into his breakfast. Dakota toast, she called it. “I'd just feel better if you had your own truck.”

“I do,” she said. “But as it turns out it's too old to be modern art and too big for a paperweight.”

“Maybe we can get it running.”

“You and I?” she asked.

He shrugged, not exactly sure where he was going with this. Maybe he was being selfish. Maybe he just wanted to convince her so that Lincoln Alexander would continue with Angel's shoes. In retrospect, oversized lightweight plates might be just what the doctor failed to order. He glanced up at her. “That guy, Lincoln Alexander, he said he'd like to fiddle with it some.”

“When did you talk to him?”

He raised his head at her strange tone. “You don't like him?”

“No! I mean . . . I don't know if I like him or not. I don't know him.”