Coming Home to Texas (7 page)

“So you ended up here by accident?”

He didn't believe it was an accident, but he wasn't at a place where he could confidently say God had led him to Martins Gap, either. “Wouldn't Pastor Theo tell us to consider it providence?”

“Well, I know a good Christian woman would say I trust God's hand is at work in my failed engagement, but I'm afraid I'm not there yet.”

Yes, it was smart to remember Ellie Buckton was a woman in the throes of serious rebound. A romantic land mine best kept in platonic territory. “It's been what, nine days? I think you're entitled to pitch a few fits.”

She smirked. “Thanks. If you need anything hammered to bits, give me a call. I've got a lot of aggression to work out, and there are only so many holes you can dig on the ranch before the bison start to complain.”

It was a good thing it was only a lunch break, or he might be tempted to remove the T-top inserts so that the Z was nearly a convertible and take Ellie out on the open highway. She'd like the way the wind and the engine noise could wash a problem off—for a little while, anyway. He'd come to depend on how a drive could blow off the residue a bad day could leave all over his mind and body. The unnerving notion that they weren't so different settled persistent and itchy in the back of his mind. Instead, he looked at his watch. “I'm back on shift in ten minutes. Thanks for the treats.”

“Sure thing. I'll see you on the eighth, then?” The program was scheduled to start the first Wednesday after Easter.

He wasn't that surprised to realize he was looking forward to seeing her every week. This was going to take a little discipline on his part, especially if she kept plying him with baked goods and warm smiles. He rose and piled the rest of the blondies onto the pizza box while he picked up the files with his other hand. “Yep. See you then.”

The little wave she gave as she headed out the office front door stuck with him for hours. That was not necessarily a good sign.

Chapter Seven

T
he crickets were singing loudly as Gunner's wife, Brooke, walked out on to the porch clutching a glass of ginger ale. “I don't need to read any test results to know this is a boy,” she groaned as she eased herself into the wicker rocking chair. “No female would do this to another woman. It's got to be a boy. I was never this sick with Audie.”

Ellie finished the last row of the sample squares she was knitting for the first girls' class next week. She'd found a clever pattern that took a small square and stitched it up into a slipper sock—an excellent first project for teen girls. It was a fun pattern to make up in bright colors of inexpensive yarn, but the resulting slipper socks would feel extra wonderful and last a long time if done in bison fiber. As such, they perfectly suited her program. “I'm sorry you've had such a rough time of it,” she offered to her pale sister-in-law.

Brooke produced a weak smile. “I could say the same for you. You were awfully quiet at dinner. Did something happen in town?”

Ellie put down the finished square and picked up her basket full of yarn. She moved over to the chair next to Brooke. “Shows that much, does it?” She reached into the basket and pulled out two balls of fluffy pastel yarn, one a sunny yellow and the other mint green. “I'll be okay. Which color do you like?”

Brooke considered a moment and then chose the green yarn. “I take it word's gotten out why you're home?”

Sitting back in her chair, Ellie fished the correct set of needles out of her case and began to cast on the required number of stitches for a baby-size version of the slipper sock. The sky was a still, perfect lavender dusk. The night had fallen soft and warm on such a jarring day. “It was bound to happen. I can't hide out at the ranch forever.” She stopped stitching for a moment. “I just didn't count on feeling so...exposed. Like the whole world thinks they know my business, even though they only have half the story. It made me want to run around explaining the other half.” She returned to the stitches. “Does that make any sense?”

Brooke sipped her ginger ale. “What's the half you think everyone knows?”

“Ellie Buckton's fiancé cheated on her with her best friend. Oldest story in the book, isn't it? It feels like everyone in Atlanta knew my relationship with Derek was on the rocks before I did. How can you feel that close to someone and in reality be so far away?” She'd cast on the full amount of stitches—not many for such a tiny pair of booties—and now turned the needles to start the first row. “I feel stupid. As if I was too dazzled to see Derek wasn't head-over-heels in love with me anymore—if he ever was at all. It's humiliating to think all my friends are all saying ‘Poor, ignorant Ellie' behind my back.”

“Don't you think there are some saying ‘Ellie's better off without a cheating louse like Derek Harding'?” Brooke shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I know that's what Gunner is saying. Quite a bit worse than that, if I'm honest.”

Ellie managed a giggle. “Is it wrong that I love how ticked off Gunner is at Derek? Makes me feel...I don't know...defended.” She continued stitching, delighting in the softness of the yarn and the hopeful feeling it gave her to make something for her coming nephew. She loved Audie, happily considered herself Audie's aunt, but to know the child to be born this September would be the first Buckton in so many years and the start of the next generation of Bucktons on the Blue Thorn? That was a blessing beyond counting. “I'm glad to think Gunner's in my corner, you know?”

“He's so happy to have you on the ranch. Your gran is and I am, too. But—” Brooke seemed to choose her next words carefully “—he knows you won't stay.”

Ellie halted her stitching again. “I have to go back to Atlanta. I told him that the first night I was home. Who am I if I let a jerk like Derek drive me back home and away from my own life in Atlanta? I'm not saying I'll never come back, but today just showed me all over again why I left. I know you and Gunner are happy here, but this town is too small for me. I need bigger dreams than I can have here. I know Gunner understands that.” Gunner certainly
should
understand that. He'd left the ranch for several years—run as far away from it as he could, actually—before coming back after their father died. Those had been tense, raw times. Ellie was glad things were completely different now.

“So you won't even consider staying? What about this venture with the bison fiber? Couldn't that be a big enough dream?”

Ellie waved the thought away. “It's a good side venture for the ranch and absolutely worth doing, but it's nothing I could build a career on. If it works—” she pointed one of the needles emphatically at Brooke “—and it
will
work—the most it can amount to is a steady project for me. A minor income stream, my bit for the family ranch, a hobby venture if you will.”

“So why do it at all? It sounds like a lot of work for just a hobby.”

“Because I've always wanted to. I've been toying with the idea since Gunner brought bison onto the ranch. It's a way to put my mark on the Blue Thorn the same way Gunner has put his. Okay, I admit part of the appeal is to prove Gunner wrong when he thinks it's silly.”

“You're just going to make your point and then ride off into the sunset?” Brooke actually sounded disappointed.

Ellie finished the next row. “I'm going to make my point so I can have something that doesn't make me feel like a total failure.” She turned her work and thrust the needle into the fabric to start a new row. “And then I'm going to go back and repair my trashed life in Atlanta. Find a real guy with solid values and no online fan base of foodie groupies.”

That popped Brooke's eyes wide. “Foodie groupies? Really?”

“I ran the man's internet fan page, for crying out loud.” Ellie leaned in. “I ran all the chefs' fan pages, actually. Which means I know how to take Derek's down in flames, if I wanted to... If I were a lesser woman, of course. I'm trying to take the high road here, but I won't say I haven't been tempted. He is, as you say, a cheating louse.”

“You wouldn't publicly defame him.” Brooke paused. “Would you?”

Ellie went back to stitching. “No. At least I don't think so.” She pulled in a deep breath. “I mostly just want the whole thing to go away. I ran into my high school friend Dottie Howe today, with her happy family and her solid high-school-sweetheart marriage and her lovely but ordinary life, and I felt like some sort of failed social experiment. Local girl goes to big city and gets burned. She was so nice, but I couldn't help thinking she was looking at me like I'm some sort of social charity case. She invited me to dinner with the family and to girls' night out for pedicures at Wylene's.”

Brooke stuck her swollen feet out in front of her. “Someone rubbing my feet while they soak in warm water? Sounds so wonderful. I'll go if you don't. I may need a pair of those slippers before the month is out just because I won't fit into any of my shoes anymore.” Brooke sighed and wiggled her pudgy toes before setting them back down on the porch boards. She gave Ellie a pointed look. “Do you know, yet, how it all fell apart with you and Derek? Do you have a sense of what went wrong?”

Ellie tucked her legs up underneath her and kept stitching. “I still love him, I think, but I also think I was in love with the idea of him more than the man he was. Part of me was drawn by Derek's huge personality—the talent, the notoriety, the intensity, all that stuff.” Ellie turned a row, and the memory of Derek flooding her desk with roses the day after he proposed rose bright and vivid in her mind. He was enthralling, she'd give Derek that much.

“And that part of me blinded me to the bad side of his over-the-top nature—the tantrums, the need for attention, the blowups at even the smallest criticism, all those ego things chefs are known for. For a long time the roller coaster was fun—exhilarating, actually—but then when I had work pressures or wedding details that needed attention, he'd act like my problems or needs were too much for him to handle. As if it were my role to support Derek but not his role to support me.”

“Did you fight a lot?” Brooke asked, picking up the green ball of yarn again and stroking it with such an air of maternal love that Ellie could only smile.

“I didn't think we argued more than any other couple, but looking back I suppose you could say yes. I expected Derek to pull his weight in the relationship, and I don't think he saw marriage that way. Work made it worse, too. My job at GoodEats was to support him, bolster his image, tout him to the press and all. His job was to be spectacular and promotable—and believe me, he was.” She let the knitting drop to her lap. “It's just that he seemed to think those roles should carry over into our personal relationship. He'd get mad when I'd call him on dropping the ball on something. He wanted a fan, not a wife.”

The deep truth of that realization caught her up short, raising a lump of pain and regret in her throat. “I guess he found one in Katie. She is a sous chef at another of our restaurants, and I always felt she was a little starstruck by Derek, but I didn't...” Suddenly she didn't want to finish that sentence. She wiped one eye with the back of her hand and sniffed as she picked up the knitting again. “Well, you know.”

“I'm sorry they hurt you like that.”

Keep stitching. Keep creating. Keep moving forward away from the pain
. “You and me both, sister.”

“I hope next week with the volunteer program goes really well for you,” Brooke offered, still touching the soft ball of yarn. “I think it's your turn to have a few fans.”

As she kept stitching and watched the stars come out over the herd and the pastures, Ellie said a prayer that next week's class would be fun and uplifting, not another reason to lick new wounds.

* * *

Nash had never been especially good with audiences, and today was proving no exception. The semicircle of eight boys gathered near the garage at the back of the church parking lot. Their “you'd better make this interesting” stares made Nash gulp. He'd clearly made a mistake in assuming the boys in his program would
want
to be here. These eight—sprawled across their chairs and glancing between him and their cell phones—looked as if they were in detention, even though Pastor Theo had told him this was voluntary. If this was voluntary, Nash dreaded to see what mandatory looked like.

He cleared his throat, earning a shred of attention from half of the group. “A few ground rules before we get started.” That earned groans of disapproval. “First, no phones.” The groans became yelps of protest. “Second, everybody gets their hands dirty.” That earned a few “well, duhs!” from the guys. “Third, everyone gets a chance to drive.”

Jose, a husky kid with thick black hair and angry eyes, looked up from his phone. “I got no car, so what am I gonna drive?”

Nash had been waiting for that question. He grabbed the handle of the garage door behind him and said, “This.” With that, he pulled the door up to reveal his shiny Z that he'd backed into the church garage earlier this afternoon.

“Whoa,” said Billy, who had clearly been proud of the old pickup he'd parked in the church lot ten minutes ago. “You kidding?”

“No, I'm not. But each of you is going to have to earn the chance to get behind this wheel.” Nash walked toward the car, pleased to see all the boys get up and follow him. The Z was a stunner of a car, and he planned to use that to its full advantage. “One hundred thirty-two horsepower may not sound like much today, but she was built to be fast and still is. Her aerodynamics were groundbreaking for the time. Only twenty-five hundred of these were ever made, so she's a limited edition, gentlemen.” He figured the lure of a chance to drive this would earn him loads of cooperation, and based on the looks on the boys' faces, that would be true.

“That's your car?” Leon, a beanpole of a guy with freckles, asked with wide eyes.

“It is.”

“And you're just gonna let us drive it?”

Nash opened the driver's side door. “No, I'm gonna let each of you
earn
the chance to drive it. And I expect each of you can and will.”

“Why would you let us drive your fancy car? We could wreck it,” asked Mick, the toughest-looking boy of the bunch. The kid looked suspicious, as if no one had ever trusted him with anything valuable. It was a face Nash recognized from boys in LA—a symptom of how low expectations of young men usually were bound to come true. Step one was always to set a high expectation, communicating the idea that these kids had potential. It always twisted his heart what a foreign concept that was for many young men—no matter what city or state.

With that, Nash opened the car door wider and gestured for Mick to sit in the driver's seat. Mick gave a classic “who, me?” balk, but then jumped right in to take his place behind the wheel. “You like cars. Guys who like cars can respect them. If you all show me you can respect the car we're going to rebuild, then I'll know you can respect a car like this. Once I know you'll treat her right, I'm happy to share the Z with you. But,” he continued, giving them his best “tough cop” glare, “if you show me, our project car or this car any disrespect, then I won't let you behind this wheel. Do we have a deal?”

Heads nodded around the room. Establishing a joint partnership was always step two. A goal—one that was separate and more tangible than “stay out of trouble”—got everyone on the same team. The Z was a big, snazzy and powerful incentive—provided it didn't get stolen or rolled by the end of the program. Based on the looks filling the boys' faces, Nash was pretty sure his baby was safe.

“Want to hear how she sounds?” When heads nodded again, Nash motioned for Mick to come out of the car, then slipped into the driver's seat and gunned the ignition. The lush, throaty roar of the car's engine filled the garage, gaining looks of admiration and outright envy from the boys, as Nash had known it would. The Z wasn't flashy in a rich-guy “look at me” way, but she was gorgeous in a classic way any car guy could appreciate. And these were car guys in the making.