Baby's First Homecoming (13 page)

What was wrong with her? She wasn’t the jealous type. And yet, here she was, spying on Clay, fuming because Caitlin’s maid of honor had fawned over him at the wedding and he’d shown the photographer around the arena.

Maybe she should ask Dr. Brewster about it in her individual session on Friday. No, that would be too humiliating.

Big whoop. Sierra and Clay had kissed. Twice. That didn’t mean there was anything between them.

She was about to leave the window when Dallas and Clay suddenly hugged. A second later, she slid into her car, and Clay shut her door.

What the—! Did he hug all his business associates?

When he came into the office, a smile splitting his handsome face, Sierra met him in front of her desk and did as Dr. Brewster suggested, staring into his eyes for a full sixty seconds.

Just what she thought. She didn’t trust him any more after the exercise than she had before.

Chapter Eleven

Clay craned his neck in an effort to see over the block wall to the casita. Nothing. Sierra still hadn’t emerged from inside.

Did she have a case of cold feet? Had she allowed her anger to win out?

Frankly, he’d been a little surprised that she’d agreed to let his father meet Jamie today. When he’d initially broached the subject a couple of weeks ago, she’d been resistant.

Perhaps the counseling sessions they’d been attending were responsible. The positive effects were evident in other areas. Sierra was now able to leave Jamie with either Wayne or Clay’s mother for a full hour with only mild anxiety. She and Clay were mostly on the same page regarding Jamie’s upbringing. And the trust exercises—Dr. Brewster had added two more—were beginning to eradicate the barriers between them, enabling them to develop a sincere respect for each other.

Clay wasn’t so optimistic he didn’t anticipate setbacks. Like today, for instance.

He paced back and forth beside his truck, repeatedly checking the time on his smart phone. If they didn’t leave soon, they’d be late for the picnic.

A Sunday afternoon at the park had been chosen for Jamie’s first get-together with his other grandfather. Neutral territory, kid-friendly activities and plenty of other people providing a buffer. Sierra would feel less pressured, or so Clay hoped.

Dr. Brewster supported the meeting and the location. She believed Sierra and Jamie would benefit greatly from the experience.

Had Sierra changed her mind?

Or maybe something was wrong with Jamie. Forget pressuring her or being too controlling—her major complaint about him to Dr. Brewster—he was going to the casita to find out what the hold-up was.

He didn’t get far. The side gate opened, and Sierra emerged, Jamie in one arm, an overflowing diaper bag in the other.

Relieved, Clay rushed toward her. “Here, let me help.”

“Sorry I took so long. Jamie wasn’t cooperating.”

They added her diaper bag to the assortment of picnic stuff crammed in the truck’s back seat.

“Should I bring the stroller?” she asked once Jamie was situated in his car seat.

“Probably.”

She hurried back to get it.

Clay watched her, noticing her jeans and sweatshirt were far more “countrified” than her usual attire. It was a style that looked good on her. Almost as good as the little black dress and heels she’d worn to dinner the night they’d spent at the Phoenix Inn.

He winked at Jamie. “Your mama sure is pretty.”

“Ma, ma, ma.”

“That’s right.”

Sierra reappeared and, after loading the stroller in the truck bed beside the three folding lawn chairs, they left for the park.

She alternated between yapping a mile a minute and long stretches of silence.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“Some.”

“We don’t have to stay long.”

“Will you mind greatly if I don’t join in too much?”

“Naw. I’m just pleased you’re going.”

Clay had considered and reconsidered telling Sierra about his conversations with his father and mother, that his father had given Wayne ample opportunity to repay the loan. Ultimately, he’d decided against it.

He didn’t know everything that had happened between his parents and Wayne. As the old saying went, there was more than one side to every story. If Clay interfered, Sierra might wind up angry at him, too, not just at his dad. It was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

He’d casually suggested on several occasions that she speak to Wayne about what had happened. For Jamie’s sake. She’d refused. Her last reply was “Why rehash a past we can’t change?”

That sounded more like Wayne than Sierra.

The only way they’d ever discover the whole truth, once and for all, was to approach Wayne, and Clay wasn’t about to do that. Not when Sierra had finally consented to Jamie meeting his father.

She was staring out the window, gnawing on her lower lip.

“Dallas came up with a good idea the other day.”

“Dallas?” Her head snapped around. “She was at the arena?”

“No, she called.” Was it his imagination or did Sierra’s eyes narrow? “I mentioned we were brainstorming fundraisers for the wild-mustang adoption.”

The event was scheduled for next month. Sierra had been toiling diligently, often long into the evenings after Jamie went to bed. Ethan and Gavin had planned a demonstration to show how well-trained the mustangs were and their suitableness as Western pleasure mounts. Cassie was riding one of the older, gentler geldings. Dallas had volunteered to take pictures.

“She suggested we sell photos with Prince, charge people a nominal fee.”

“I’m not sure about that.” Sierra scowled. “Remember the wedding? Prince spooks easily.”

“Dallas suggested we practice with him.”

“Huh.”

“He’s a local celebrity. It’s a good idea. I’d like you to coordinate with her on it.”

“Whatever you say, boss. You’re in charge.”

Clay let the remark slide, attributing her surliness to nerves.

The entrance to the park came into view. Sierra offered no more than a murmured comment or two while they unloaded Jamie and the picnic supplies, which took an absurdly long time.

Clay surveyed the enormous pile. “I could use a third arm about now.” His attempt at levity was ignored. “Sierra, you okay?”

“Don’t worry about me.” Her weak smile barely lifted the corners of her mouth.

How could he not worry? This meeting was important to him. She was important, too.

“Why don’t we come up with a safe word? If things get too much for you, just say, ‘Jamie’s tired,’ and we’ll cut the visit short.”

“You’d do that?”

“After all you’ve done for me? You bet.”

She stared at him, as she did when they were practicing their trust exercises but not exactly. It was as if she wanted to see
him,
the real person inside, wasn’t merely going along with Dr. Brewster’s homework assignment.

Clay had been waiting weeks for just this moment.

* * *

J
AMIE
SAT
IN
THE
MIDDLE
of the blanket, picking raisins off the lint-ridden material and popping them into his mouth.

Sierra clasped her hands behind her back rather than whisk him away. She kept assuring herself babies didn’t get sick and die from eating raisins off old blankets.

Bud Duvall, who also sat on the blanket, inched closer to Jamie. “Are those tasty?”

The boy glanced up from his task but didn’t smile back at his grandfather. The older man’s exuberance faltered briefly before he shored it up.

“It takes him a while to warm up to people,” she said, then almost bit her tongue.

They’d been at the park half an hour, during which they’d laid out the blanket, set up the chairs and unpacked the food. This was the first Sierra had spoken to Bud.

“Well, that’s just fine,” he said, “because I’m in no hurry to leave.”

Sierra was, but she had to admit Bud was being cordial and considerate. Not the least bit annoying or overbearing, which was what she’d feared. He was, she almost hated to admit it, the man she remembered from her childhood. Her father’s closest friend. The husband of her mother’s best friend.

How could that be? How could a considerate man practically destroy her family’s lives and livelihood?

“He’s teething,” Clay explained. Like Sierra, he occupied one of the lawn chairs. “Makes him a little fussy.”

“I had a root canal a few weeks ago. Hurt like a son of b— Like a son of a buck.” Bud hooked a finger on his lower lip and tugged, showing Jamie his bottom teeth. “Right there,” he muttered.

Jamie gawked at him with hugely round eyes, then burst into giggles.

“You like that?” Bud pulled the other side of his lip down.

Jamie shoved his own fingers into his mouth.

Bud chuckled and pinched his chin.

If Sierra didn’t dislike the man, she’d have been enamored by the charming exchange.

“Anyone want a sandwich?” Clay popped the lid on the ice chest. “I have ham and Swiss, and peanut butter and bananas.”

Peanut butter and bananas? Her guilty-pleasure favorite.

He’d remembered.

She’d made them for him one day when they’d driven to Saguaro Lake to watch the sunset. They’d taken the sandwiches with them and strolled the lakeshore until they found a solitary spot. Such a simple date and a simple meal. Yet it had been the most romantic day of her life.

“I’ll try one of the ham and Swiss.” Bud pushed to his feet with a grunt and sat in the empty lawn chair.

Clay rambled on about the wild-mustang adoption while they ate.

“That’s a worthy cause, son.” Bud dusted crumbs off his lap. “It does my heart good to know there’s mustangs in the valley again, even if they aren’t running wild.”

“Did you ever see wild mustangs here?” Sierra asked.

“I did,” Bud said. “I was just a boy. Nine or ten. The mustangs had all but disappeared before I was born. The tales my dad would tell…” He smiled, more to himself. “A small herd of horses made their way into the valley one winter from the mountains. They were skin and bones, and sick to boot. Didn’t put up much of a fight when we rounded them up. There was a yearling, his dam, another mare and a stallion. Never saw horses that abhorred captivity more. They refused to eat and almost died.”

“My dad saved them,” Clay said.

“I don’t know if I saved them exactly. I’d mix up a bucket of warm mash and feed the yearling by hand. The poor critter was timid as a church mouse but, eventually, he friendlied up and started eating. After that, the other horses did, too. Turned into some of the best horses we ever owned.”

“What happened to the yearling?” Sierra asked.

“I kept him. Rode him nearly every day for the next twenty-six years, then retired him. Damn horse survived to be almost thirty. I must have covered a million miles of mountains and valley on his back. Speaking of teeth, his were so bad at the end and he grew so frail, I was back to feeding him warm mash by hand. I buried him at the trailhead behind the back pasture.”

Sierra sat, transfixed. By the recounting and by Bud. His love of the land and the animals sang in his voice. She could see him as a young boy and an adult, patiently tending his beloved horse.

How could he have sold off her family’s land? It didn’t make sense.

“I’m sorry, Sierra. You must hate me, and I deserve it.”

She drew back. Were her thoughts that apparent?

“Dad, you don’t have to—”

“I do. Not a day goes by I don’t think how different things might be if I’d told that investor no.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Sierra’s question hung between them.

“At the time, I didn’t believe I had a choice.”

It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was evidently the only one Sierra was going to get.

Bud stood, gathered up their trash and disposed of it in a nearby barrel. “You think Jamie would like to play in the sandbox?”

“I don’t know.” Clay turned to Sierra. “Do you think he’s tired?”

Their safe phrase. All she had to do was agree with him, and, they could leave.

She started to say yes, but the desperation in Bud’s expression halted her, caused her to reconsider.

“No,” she told Clay. “I think he’s okay for now.”

* * *

F
OR
THE
SECOND
TIME
that day, Clay craned his neck, seeking a glimpse of Sierra. Tonight, he was in the great room, staring out the French doors at the casita. A light shone in the front window, an indication she hadn’t gone to bed yet despite the lateness of the hour. After almost three weeks of living with him—
at his place,
he corrected himself—he’d learned her habits. Sierra was early to bed, early to rise.

Should he check on her? What if Jamie was teething or coming down with a bug? The next instant, he changed his mind. She wouldn’t appreciate him knocking on her door at nearly eleven o’clock, even if his intentions were good.

Were they good?

Clay had wanted to talk to Sierra since they’d left the park. She’d been somber and distant on the ride home and unresponsive when he’d queried her.

They’d parted in the driveway, and he left her alone the rest of the day. It had been an emotionally draining afternoon for all of them. And, for Clay, deeply satisfying.

Yet, instead of sleeping, he was pacing the floor and borderline stalking Sierra.

Enough was enough. He had a full day tomorrow. Some of the bucking stock were returning from the Parada del Sol rodeo in Scottsdale, the feed bins had to be cleaned in preparation for Monday’s grain delivery and he had a conference call from a rodeo promoter out of Salt Lake City.

Clay was about to head to his room when the door to the casita opened. Sierra stepped outside, the exterior light bathing her in a hazy yellow glow. She wore scruffy slippers on her feet and a blanket wrapped around her like a cape. She went to the wrought-iron chairs in front of the kiva fireplace and plunked down.