The Trouble With Cowboys (7 page)
Rachel stopped moving and hunched over the porch rail, fiddling with her beer bottle.
“Might as well spit it out, Rachel. What’s on your mind?”
She sniffed. “My sisters are so smug. They think I’m oblivious, sheltered. Like I couldn’t possibly relate to their worldly sensibilities or the drama of their social lives.”
Okay.
Angling her face over her shoulder, she shot him a
kids-these-days
grin. “Contrary to their opinion of me, for the most part, I know them far better than they know themselves.”
kids-these-days
grin. “Contrary to their opinion of me, for the most part, I know them far better than they know themselves.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
She took a hit of beer and shoved off the railing, dropping to a chair. “You’re not good for Amy. I want you to stay away from her. From now on, with regards to Slipping Rock’s supply contract, you can deal with me.”
Apparently Rachel was aware of Kellan and Amy’s date . . . and possibly Saturday’s tryst. Seems she’d come to his ranch to assert her role as big sister. The problem was, why would Rachel think Kellan was no good for Amy? He was of a mind it was the other way around.
“Hold on. Is there something being said about me that I’m not aware of—an unflattering rumor or something? Because I don’t understand your opinion. I’m a model citizen, a responsible business owner, and a good man with friends who’d vouch for me. What do you find so bad about that?”
“Oh, please. I don’t deal in rumors. And I don’t have anything against you as a person. Hell, I don’t even know you.”
Crisis averted. “Then what gives?”
“The thing about Amy is that she feels too much, too fast. She’s spinning in all directions at once and looking for a man who’s steady, someone to be the calm center of her tornado life. I’m not sure how the notion got stuck in her head, because our dad was a farmer and she never got on with him, but for some reason, she thinks she can find what she needs in men like you. And maybe she will someday, but now’s not the time.”
“Men like me?” Ah. Now he was on to her line of thinking. “Cowboys, you mean?”
“Exactly. God bless her, she’s still optimistic about finding that ideal cowboy of her imagination, despite how many times she’s been hurt.”
“I’m not going to hurt her because we’re not having a relationship.” That probably sounded harsh, but truthfully, was there any way to tell a woman he was only interested in sleeping with her sister without sounding like an ass?
Someday he’d settle down—he wanted kids too badly not to work toward that end—but his ideal wife would be drama-free. A homemaker and peacemaker. A woman in good standing with the community. He’d built his perfect life from the ground up, brick by brick, carefully choosing his friends and his lovers, and molding his career as a rancher. He had every confidence that, when the time was right, he’d select the perfect woman to be his life-partner. And she wouldn’t be a tornado. Even if that tornado was a curvy brunette who set his blood on fire.
“Not having a relationship? You slept with her yesterday.”
Kellan rotated his jaw to ease the tension gathering there. “For the record, Rachel, casual sex between consenting adults is perfectly legal. Hence, the words
consensual
and
adults
.”
consensual
and
adults
.”
“You’re such a man to believe sex can ever be casual to a woman.” Something in her tone spoke of her personal experience in such matters.
“Look, Rachel. There’s no hurt to be had. Amy and I have an understanding. Neither of us wants a relationship. We’re just having fun.”
Her gaze, knifelike in its resolve, finally met his. “All the same, see that you stay away from her in the future so you don’t hurt her. Or, more to the point, so you don’t encourage her to hurt herself, jumping headfirst into shallow water, as it may be.”
Ouch.
Rachel pushed to her feet with a sigh and handed Kellan her empty bottle. “Amy’s been damaged enough. If you lead her into more hurt, you’ll answer to me. And that’s a promise you can take to the bank.”
He stood, nodding. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m glad we understand each other.” She offered him her hand to shake, which he took. Her grip was firm, her palm and fingers calloused. Rachel Sorentino was one tough lady.
“I’ve got something for Amy in the kitchen, if you wouldn’t mind passing it along.”
She snorted. “What did I tell you?”
“It’s produce, Rachel. Relax.”
He held the door open, then followed her in and rustled through the fridge for the bag of produce he’d selected from his greenhouse that morning. “I was going to deliver these tomorrow, but since you’re here, she might as well use them while they’re at their freshest.”
Rachel felt the bag. “Vegetables?”
“Cabbage, garlic, and two bunches of celery. In case she runs low before the stores open tomorrow,” he added with a wink.
Rachel nodded solemnly. “Guess you know her better than I gave you credit for.”
“You want to stay for dinner? I was fixing to barbecue some Slipping Rock steaks when you showed up. We’ve got plenty of food to go around.” He knew she wouldn’t, but found himself interested in gauging her reaction.
She cast a wary look toward the living room, mashing her lips into a straight line. Kellan followed her gaze to the sofa. Chris and Lisa smiled encouragingly. Vaughn stared at the television, his expression blank. “Thanks anyway, but I’m expected home for dinner.”
Kellan closed the door behind her. Vaughn wandered to the window, watching Rachel’s truck disappear over the hill.
“What was that about?” Lisa asked.
Kellan rubbed his neck. “She wanted to be sure I understood that if I hurt Amy, there’ll be a reckoning.”
“Gotta admire her,” Chris said. “Rachel takes care of her own. Always has. We were in the same grade, kindergarten through high school graduation. All those years, no one bullied Amy or Jenna more than once, I can tell you that.”
Kellan walked to Vaughn and slugged him in the arm. “You all right?”
A muscle in Vaughn’s jaw twitched; his eyes remained fixed on the horizon. “That woman sucks the air out of a room. I can’t believe you invited her to stay for dinner.”
Kellan hadn’t seen Vaughn so off his game in a while. “Did something happen with you and Rachel? Some kind of bad blood?”
Vaughn wiped his palms on his jeans. “I need a cigarette.”
“No, you don’t,” Kellan said. “You quit smoking in January. You’re almost at your one-year anniversary. How about another beer instead?”
That earned him a wry huff. “Isn’t that like fighting one vice with another?”
“I suppose. But beer won’t give you lung cancer.” He was already headed toward the refrigerator.
Chris wagged a finger in Vaughn’s direction. “You said you logged a lot of hours at the Sorentino farm, so you must’ve spent a fair amount of time around Rachel. Why don’t you like her?”
Vaughn ignored the question and motioned to the snack spread on the coffee table, a plastic-looking smile glued to his lips. “What’s the deal, Kellan? It’s half-time and I’m starving. You want me to fix the steaks myself? A man can’t live on cheese alone.”
After a split-second consideration, Kellan decided to follow his friend’s lead. If Vaughn couldn’t give voice to whatever was bothering him, then the least Kellan could do was play along with the topic change. “Nice try, but you know good and well no one touches that beef except me. I hand-picked the steer from my herd to butcher, then dry-aged the T-bones to perfection.”
He marched to the kitchen to grab his grilling tools and the steaks resting on the counter. Something on top of the fridge caught his eye. The manila envelope. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he glanced over his shoulder. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the half-time report on the television screen.
“A quick peek,” he whispered, grabbing it. “Who’s the unlucky bastard this time?”
He tipped the contents onto the counter. Several photographs fluttered to the floor. Kellan bent to retrieve them, but stayed doubled over, the wind knocked clean out of him as he looked on the whiskey brown eyes and full lips of the woman who’d been on his mind all weekend.
Amy Sorentino.
Amy’s hands moved unflinchingly as she piped filling over long strips of raw pasta she’d rolled out on the counter. Pumpkin puree seasoned with cloves, coriander, cinnamon, and pancetta tempted her nose and she hummed with delight. After folding the pasta over the filling, she pressed the edges, then rummaged in a drawer for a pasta cutter.
Jenna’s fingers paused over the laptop’s keyboard. “That smells amazing, sweetie. Which recipe are you working on today?”
“A dish I developed at Terra Bistro. Pumpkin ravioli with a sage cream sauce. Give me about twenty minutes and I’ll plate a sample for you.”
“Good deal. I’ll be ready for a break by then, anyway.” She resumed typing. “The oil litigation attorney I’m contacting this week will want copies of our financial statements and the Amarex contract. I haven’t found the contract yet, but I’ve got a few more places to look on the computer and in the attic.”
“How’s your progress with Dad’s financial records going?”
“How do you think?”
“That bad, huh?”
Jenna chortled. “He didn’t leave any sort of trail for us to follow to figure out what he did with the money. The money he got from the second mortgage he took out, his and Mom’s IRAs, their savings accounts—it’s all gone. He leveraged everything he and Mom owned. You’d think if he’d gambled it away or had an addiction, we would’ve found some evidence. But I haven’t found anything.”
Amy rolled the pasta cutter between the bumps of filling. “All I know is Dad left Mom high and dry when he died. It’s no wonder she had a nervous breakdown.”
“I wish she would’ve opened up to Rachel and me about the money problems. She didn’t need to shoulder that burden alone. We could’ve helped her.”
Amy peeked into the pot on the stove to see how close to boiling the water was, then plunked onto a chair. “If there’s one thing we’ve learned, Jen, with Dad dying and Mom’s depression, it’s that we can’t let the
what ifs
get the best of us. Even when it’s the toughest thing in the world, we have to keep moving forward.”
what ifs
get the best of us. Even when it’s the toughest thing in the world, we have to keep moving forward.”
“You’re right, but it’s so hard. Especially with the lawyer requiring us to dig up the past. That was brutal, talking to a complete stranger about Mom’s condition. I understand his need to know everything to prove in court she needs a permanent guardian, but sitting there yesterday, describing the morning we found her . . .” She scrubbed a hand over her cheek, her eyes turned glassy with moisture. “That was rough.”
A stab of guilt pierced Amy’s gut as she hugged Jenna. She hadn’t been home when her sisters discovered their mother unconscious in a pasture next to empty bottles of pills and vodka. Rachel had been the one to call 9-1-1 while Jenna administered CPR. Amy had spent the morning peeling and slicing Yukon Golds for a potato challenge on
Chef Showdown.
She’d flown to the hospital in Albuquerque that night, but it made no difference. The damage to her mother’s brain and body was irreversible.
Chef Showdown.
She’d flown to the hospital in Albuquerque that night, but it made no difference. The damage to her mother’s brain and body was irreversible.
Jenna sucked in a slow breath, then seemed to shake off her sadness with a full-body shudder. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I finished designing our Web page last night. The Heritage Farm Web site is ready to launch, pending yours and Rachel’s approval.”
“I’ve got a few minutes before the water boils. Let’s check it out.”
Beneath the splashy title
Heritage Farm
was a description. Amy read it aloud. “‘Heritage Farm allows families to participate in the day-to-day running of a working farm. Guests pick produce grown in the ranch’s garden to be prepared for their dinner, assist in the feeding and care of livestock, and ride the fence line on horseback to take in the sweeping views of one of the most picturesque landscapes in the world.’” Jenna had done a terrific job. Amy had no idea that she was so savvy with computers. “This sounds great. You’ve got a real knack for marketing and the page design is fantastic.”
Heritage Farm
was a description. Amy read it aloud. “‘Heritage Farm allows families to participate in the day-to-day running of a working farm. Guests pick produce grown in the ranch’s garden to be prepared for their dinner, assist in the feeding and care of livestock, and ride the fence line on horseback to take in the sweeping views of one of the most picturesque landscapes in the world.’” Jenna had done a terrific job. Amy had no idea that she was so savvy with computers. “This sounds great. You’ve got a real knack for marketing and the page design is fantastic.”
“Thanks.”
Surprised and delighted, Amy read on. “‘Guests of the farm stay in luxuriously appointed rooms in the main house, where they begin and end each day with locally grown, gourmet, multicourse meals prepared by—’”
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