Finally Home (21 page)

Emily jerked away, gaze stabbing to the left. Sonata stood five feet away, eyes steady, voice calm.

“But I suspected as much.”

“S. . . .” Max began, but she was already turning away.

“Don't bother,” she said and disappeared into the entryway.

“S.!” Max said again and hurried after her. The door slammed a moment later. Then slammed again as he rushed outside.

“I'm sorry,” Emily whispered. But she was entirely alone. Seconds ticked away.

“Did you know Lincoln is—” Casie began, then stopped short as she stepped into the kitchen.

Emily blinked, coming back to the present, back to reality.

“What's wrong?” Casie asked.

“I'm sorry,” she said again.

“For what?”

“I didn't . . .” She shook her head. “I don't know how—”

“What happened?”

She looked Casie in the eye for the first time since her arrival. “Do you think it's possible to beat genetics?”

“What?”

“My mother . . .” She swallowed and forced herself to go on. “She didn't know who my father was.”

“Emily . . .”

“That's what she said, anyway. And maybe it was true. Maybe I should hope it's true, because otherwise she was just too cruel to tell me.”

“What happened?”

“Max . . .” She shook her head.

“Max what?” Casie stepped up closer and took Emily's arms in a firm grip. “Did he do something to you?” Her voice had risen, but it was hard to focus. A thousand mistakes were roaring through Emily's mind.

“I'm a terrible judge of character.”

Casie swore under her breath and pivoted toward the door.

It took a moment for Emily to realize what was happening. A moment more to grab Casie's sleeve and swing her back around.

“It's my fault.”

Casie took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm herself. “What's your fault?”

“He . . . I kissed him.”

Casie blinked, exhaled, narrowed her eyes. “That's all?”

“All?
All?
” Emily asked and laughed. Agony vibrated through her. “He's practically married.”

“He didn't hurt you?”

“What's wrong with me?”

For a moment Emily thought Casie wouldn't respond. But she was wrong again.

“You're lonely.” She said the words slowly, succinctly, as if they explained everything, but it wasn't enough.

“That doesn't give me the right to . . .” She shook her head. “I'm no better than my mother.”

Casie stared at her for several seconds, then drew a deep breath and spoke. “You don't know that.”

Emily blinked at her, broken, pained. Even Casie saw the truth. Even Casie, with the golden heart, couldn't deny reality.

“You don't know that because she abandoned you,” Casie said. “Got high. Got wasted. And left her nine-year-old daughter to fend for herself.”

Emily shot her gaze toward the living room where Bliss slept. Fear rolled like a damp fog through her soul. “You don't know I won't do the same.”

“I do,” Casie argued. Her voice was very soft but ultimately certain, absolutely calm. “That's exactly what I know.”

“How—”

“Because you're good. Because you're kind and caring and smart and loyal.”

She shook her head, but Casie squeezed her arms and caught her gaze again. “And maybe Max knows that, too. Maybe he sees it in you. Maybe he can't resist it.”

They stared at each other. The world went silent. Colt Dickenson stepped into the quiet a moment later.

“Did you know that Lincoln kid is—” He stopped, eyes darting from one to the next. “What's going on?”

Emily winced.

“Case?” he asked.

“Max Barrenger made a move on Emily.” She spewed the words out in a rush.

For a moment the world went absolutely still, then he nodded and turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Casie asked.

“To rip his head off,” he said and slammed the door behind him.

CHAPTER 20

“C
olt!”

“Mr. Dickenson!”

“Colt!” Casie said, and running after him, grabbed his sleeve just as he reached the first step.

He swung toward her with a snarl. “What!” His chest felt tight. His muscles vibrated with the need to be called to action.

“You can't kill him.”

He snapped his gaze to Emily. She looked small and terrified in the backlit doorway. “Why the hell not?”

“Because it was my fault. I was—” Emily began, but at that moment, the Escalade's lights flipped on. It roared to life and fishtailed down the driveway, leaving a lone figure in its wake.

All three of them stared at Max Barrenger, standing alone in the frosty yard.

“Excuse me,” Colt said and tugged at his arm, but Casie held on like a pit bull. He scowled at her hand.

“Come back in the house,” she ordered, but he shook his head. Rage didn't visit him often.

“Later,” he promised and tugged again.

“I'm sorry,” Emily said. “Don't blame him. Please—” she began, but he pointed a gloved finger at her.

“You . . .” He shook his head, a thousand wild thoughts romping through it. “Go to your room.”

The porch went silent. Emily raised her brows and took a surprised step to the rear.

“You can't make me,” she said, then turned to Casie. “Can he?”

“I . . .” she began.

Max took a step toward the house. Colt squared off, sequestering the women behind him. A noise issued from his throat. It sounded a little like the growl of a mad dog. He felt Casie's grip tighten on his arm.

“Maybe you'd better go, Em,” she said.

There was a moment of indecision before the girl turned and sprinted into the house.

Max was getting closer. Colt stepped onto the porch stairs, all but dragging Casie with him. He heard her swear quietly but barely noticed.

“What the hell's going on?” he asked.

Max Barrenger stopped short. “Sonata, ahhhh . . . forgot something in town.”

“Yeah?” Colt said. “Did she forget you were a two-timing bastard?”

“Emily told us what happened,” Casie rasped.

“Oh.” Max exhaled heavily. His breath was frosty white in the darkness. “I see. I'm sorry if that distressed you, but she's a grown—”

“
Distressed
me?” Colt said. Honest to God, he could feel the hair rise on the back of his neck. “You think it distressed me?”

Casie slid her hands lower, clasping his right fist with both hands. “Emily's been through a lot,” she said. “We . . .”

“You're damn right it distresses me!” Colt growled. “You've got no right to come here with a woman on your arm, then make a move on a girl half your age.”

“I know it was a mistake,” Max said. “I just . . . Things haven't been right with Sonata and me for months. When I met Emily . . .” He shook his head. “She's like a breath of fresh air. Everything just fell together like—”

“Fell together?” Colt rasped. “You think things just fall together for her, you f—”

“She's very special to us,” Casie said and dragged down the fist Colt wasn't aware he had raised.

“I know she's special,” Max said. “That's why I . . .” He stopped himself, maybe because of the growl that was rising from Colt's throat again. “Listen,” he soothed, lifting both hands in front of him as if to ward off any forthcoming violence. “It's colder than a witch's . . .” He shifted his gaze hopefully from one to the other. “Can we finish discussing this inside?”

“Of course,” Casie said.

Max gave her a grateful nod and headed toward the kitchen, but Colt crowded him back. “Not that way. The bunkhouse,” he ordered.

He turned reluctantly. Colt dogged his heels.

The interior of the guests' room seemed uncomfortably bright after the dimness outdoors. Max turned. “Listen . . .” he began, but Colt didn't.

“No,
you
listen!” he snapped, jabbing a finger at him. “Emily Kane is our
daughter
—”

“What?” Casie said.

“What?” Max echoed. “I didn't even think—”

“Well, don't bother starting now,” Colt said, crowding in a little more. “All you need to know is that she's ours.”

“You and—” He turned his attention from one to the other.

“That's right,” Colt said.

“Okay.”

“You mess with our daughter, I'm gonna mess with your face.”

Max puffed out his chest. “Just hold on a minute. You can't—” he began, but Colt pressed forward.

“I can,” he countered.

“I didn't even—”

“And you're not going to,” Colt said. He leaned forward, teeth grinding.

“Okay. All right.” Max backed away, but tension still hung in the air like a toxin.

Max cleared his throat. “I just want you to know that I really care about her.”

Colt narrowed his eyes. “Not like Sonata then,” he said, and turning, walked out the door before he did something Max would regret.

Casie delayed a moment, then hurried after him, catching up after a few strides.

“Well . . . that was . . . weird.”

“What did you expect me to do?”

“Not claim her as your daughter.”

He shrugged. The movement pulled the muscles tight across his shoulders. He rolled his head a little, trying to ease the tension. It was patently ineffective. “Well, I thought you'd get mad if I killed him.”

“It was just a kiss.”

“Just a . . .” He turned toward her. The porch light shone on her face. Her eyes were bright, her lips canted up the slightest degree. He raised his brows at her. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” she said, but there might have been a whisper of humor in her voice. “No, obviously it's not—”

“That bastard made a move on Emily!”

“I'm aware of—”

“She's just a kid.”

“She's eighteen.”

“That's my point!”

“I was
sixteen
when you kissed me.”

For a moment he felt like he'd been gut punched, but he carried on. “I wasn't engaged to be married.”

“You were dating Mandy Fenno.”

He swore in silence, then exhaled, removed his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair. His brain hurt. “Your father should have horsewhipped me.”

She laughed. The sound was like Christmas, lighting his life, settling his stomach. And suddenly he could think of nothing but her. “Marry me,” he rasped.

“I . . .” She sputtered. “Colt . . . I . . .”

“Just do it,” he said. He hadn't meant to ask her, not now. Not until he'd won her over, but life was unpredictable. Things happened. Men came along. People
died
. “Just say yes.”

“Colt . . .” She was holding his arms again. “You're upset.”

“Upset?” He was curious where she was going with this.

“You're feeling . . . paternal . . . or something. And I appreciate that more than I can . . .” She raised her right hand, then lowered it, carefully tucking her fingers against her palm. “I've got to go,” she said, and jerking away, rushed up the stairs and into the house.

Colt watched her leave. There was a clink of noise in the darkness. He turned to see Lincoln Alexander watching him.

A host of undistinguishable emotions swirled through him. Damned if he didn't really want to hit someone. But he supposed Casie would be angry if he did. “You need something?” he asked instead.

The boy shuffled his oversized feet. “You know where I can find a twelve-volt, hundred-amp alternator?”

CHAPTER 21

“S
o you think these will make her more comfortable?” Ty asked and stared at the two metal oddities Lincoln Alexander had crafted. Calling them horseshoes seemed overly optimistic.

The older boy shrugged. “Worth a try, maybe.”

Ty nodded dubiously. They were crazy-looking things, no doubt about that, but Sam was a farrier who seemed game to try new methods . . . and strangely willing to venture out to the Lazy day or night. But maybe that was because of Colt Dickenson. Ty mentally winced. It wasn't as if he
wanted
Colt and Casie to get together. God knew there wasn't a rodeo cowboy in the universe who was going to be good enough for her, but just maybe she wanted him anyway.

“Try them if you like,” Lincoln said and turned away, but Ty couldn't let it go at that. Debt weighed like grinding millstones on his back.

“What do I owe you?”

Lincoln shook his head. “I was just trying stuff. No guarantees.”

An odd meld of anger and appreciation boiled up inside him. Emotions were sneaky little bastards, especially after so many years of making sure he had none. “So what do you want for them?”

“It's payback,” he said. “For letting me tinker with the truck.” He nodded toward the vehicle behind him. A million unidentifiable parts were spread atop a canvas dropcloth. One corner of the plastic sheeting he'd hung from the rafters was folded back into a makeshift doorway. A portable heater blazed inside.

Ty scanned the area. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“You work on horses that aren't yours. I work on that.”

Ty stepped inside the enclosure. The gossamer plastic whispered in an unseen breeze. “How do you know what to do?”

“My old man was always trying to teach me about engines.” There was something unsaid in his tone, but before Ty could figure out what that was, Colt strode in. Months ago Ty had thought of his walk as a swagger, but now he wondered if it was a memento of some ride gone wrong.

“I see you found that alternator,” he said and eyed the draped area with interest.

Lincoln nodded. Truth to tell, he didn't seem a whole lot more socially adept than Ty himself. And that was saying something.

“Seems like a lot of work for somebody else's truck.”

The boy shrugged. “I'm thinking of getting my own someday. Just practicing on this one.”

Colt studied him in silence, then shook his head and turned toward the misshapen metal in Ty's hand. “What you got there?”

It was a struggle to remember that he didn't care what Dickenson thought. “Horseshoes.”

Colt's brows raised under the low brim of his hat. “You sure?”

Ty tightened his grip on the feather-light metal. “Lincoln thought they might help Angel.”

“Yeah?” Colt asked and reached for one shoe before shooting his attention back toward their guest. “You know something about blacksmith work?”

The boy shook his head and shoved his hands in the pockets of his ever-present hoodie. “I just know something about metal.”

“And trucks,” Colt said.

“A little.”

“That reminds me, Case said there was a delivery for you.”

Lincoln remained very still, but there was increased tenseness in him now. “I ordered a couple things.”

“They're on the porch.”

He looked eager to be gone. “I'll get them off of there,” he said and turned away.

“You need some help carrying them?”

“Nope,” he said and walked with long, measured strides out of the barn.

“Not a big talker,” Colt said.

For a moment Ty wondered if the cowboy's words were a direct reflection on Ty's own laconic nature, but Emily had once told him that not everything was about him. He had refrained with some difficulty from telling her he was pretty sure
nothing
was.

“Well . . .” Ty shuffled his feet, stirring a little dust in the cold winter air. “It don't take no words to mend a fence.”

“You think he's got fences that need fixing?”

Ty shrugged, jittery under the older man's gaze. “It's just something Grand used to say.”

Colt studied him, thinking his own thoughts. “Could be your grandpa was nobody's fool,” he said and glanced out the wide door toward the house. “Looks like Sophie's back.”

Ty resisted the instant and insidious need to peer around the corner just as he defied the urge to hide like a skittish toddler. The desire to see her fought almost constantly with the ache to run away. Painful curiosity won out. He stepped forward just as Ms. Day-Bellaire's rented car pulled up to the house. “You think her mom will buy that farm they talked about?” He tried to keep the gnawing angst out of his voice, but he wasn't likely to make it on the big screen.

Colt shrugged, then pinned him with a look that was somewhere between understanding and amusement. “Might be good for Sophie if she did.”

Ty was pretty sure it was his turn to say something, but a half dozen confusing emotions choked back his words. Colt spoke again.

“Could be it's time her folks came through for her.”

A few of those unwanted emotions spewed up, causing him to speak. “Her mother ain't never going to take Casie's place.”

“Wouldn't make much sense for her to try. But maybe she can just be herself.” Colt exhaled, dropping his head back a little with the breath. “Monica Day-Bellaire,” he added, giving her first name that long e sound she'd insisted on and shaking his head a little as he gazed out the door.

It was at that second that Sophie Jaegar stepped from the passenger side. She was like music come to life. Like poetry in motion. Her hair swung in rhythm to her movements. She was carrying three shopping bags and stood very erect, her shoulders drawn back, her chin high, like a mustang testing the wind. Like the wind itself. Like magic in—

He yanked his embarrassing thoughts to a halt as he sensed more than heard Colt speak.

“What?” Self-consciousness spilled warmth over his cheeks and down his neck.

“I asked if you were okay.”

“Oh, yeah.” He shuffled his feet and wished to hell he was more like the cowboy who would never be good enough for Casie Carmichael. “Sure.”

Colt's eyes crinkled a little at the corners, but his expression almost looked more like understanding than humor. Could be his own gut crunched up a little from time to time. Living this close to a woman who was too good for you was hell on a man's digestive system.

Laughter sounded from outside. Both men glanced in that direction as Monica exited from the driver's side of the vehicle. Sophie spoke and the older woman laughed again.

Ty felt his muscles knot up. “Looks like she's working on coming through for Soph right now,” he said. He didn't mean to make it sound negative, but where had she been for the last six months when her daughter needed a friend?

“Dad says sometimes all we can do is cinch up tight and hope to God,” Colt mused. Ty nodded, but in that moment he realized the cowboy's gaze had slipped toward the hip shed where Casie had disappeared some time before. Sympathy felt bitter and out of place in Ty's soul; he didn't even like Colt Dickenson. But losing the woman you loved would be like extinguishing the sun. He shivered and hunched his shoulders against the cold. “Casie ain't nobody's fool.”

Dickenson shifted his gaze back to Ty. “Maybe that's what I'm worried about,” he said.

From the yard, Monica Day-Bellaire laughed again, but Ty kept his eyes on the cowboy. “You thinking you ain't good enough for her?”

Colt drew a deep breath and narrowed his eyes as he glanced back toward the house. “That possibility
has
crossed my mind,” he said, lips twitching up the slightest degree. “What do you think?”

Ty drew a deep breath through his nostrils. “This is the first time I thought you was,” he admitted, and Colt laughed.

 

The kitchen was full for the first time in days. But the diners were atypically quiet . . . except for Monica Day-Bellaire.

If Sophie's mother felt the tension in the room, she was even better at fakery than Emily herself. And not many people could say that.

“So your lovely fiancée left already?” Monica asked, addressing Max.

Emily kept her eyes on her entrée, though she could feel Max's attention light on her face for an instant.

“I'm afraid she had to get back to work.”

Colt sat between Ty and Lincoln Alexander. The three of them hadn't spoken five words altogether. Emily sensed the stress like repeated hammer strokes between her shoulders and felt entirely incapable of doing anything about it.

“I should return to work, too,” Monica said, “but I just can't bring myself to leave this little piece of Utopia.” She smiled. “Not to mention my daughter.” Reaching out, she brushed a hand down Sophie's hair.

It was a silly act, singularly showy, Emily thought, and yet she felt jealousy curl like a smug cat through her system. She dragged her gaze away.

“So you had fun shopping?” Casie asked. She sat directly across from Ty and didn't seem a hell of a lot more relaxed than the men.

“It was wonderful. Just wonderful. I thought I'd miss the city, but you know . . .” Monica glanced at Sophie again, eyes soft. “That old maxim is absolutely right; it's not about the goods. It's about the company you keep.”

“Here, here,” Max said and raised his cup.

No one but Monica joined him. They clicked their cider-filled mugs. The sound was sharp in the stillness. Then Max cleared his throat, and Monica looked around, perhaps cognizant of the tension for the first time.

Her eyes settled on Lincoln Alexander. “Sophia tells me you've crafted a new type of horseshoe for Tyler's mare. Is that correct?”

Lincoln raised his gaze from his plate. His eyes looked silver in the overhead lights, his shoulders squared. He shrugged. “I'm just trying some stuff.”

“What?” Emily asked. The word escaped against her better judgment, too strident. Too coarse. All eyes turned toward her. She swallowed and dished coleslaw into an oversized bowl. Softening her tone, she tried again. “I didn't know you were an expert on horses.”

He speared her with his hoarfrost eyes. “There's a lot you don't know about me.”

The kitchen went silent. Emily forced a laugh into the abyss. “Well, I'm sure that's true. It takes more than a couple of meals together to know
everything
about someone.”

They all stared at her. She smiled. “More slaw?” she asked and handed the bowl to Casie.

“I don't think he plans on nailing the shoes on himself,” Colt said, shifting his attention away finally. “But I have to admit, he's got an interesting idea there.”

“How so?” Monica asked, high brows arched over carefully groomed lashes.

Colt settled back in his chair a little, stretching out his wounded leg and hooking an elbow over the back of his chair. He looked hopelessly alluring that way, as earthy as the miles of rolling acres outside their door. Either Casie Carmichael had the self-control of a saint or she was dumber than a post.

“I'm sure he can explain it better than I can,” Colt said.

Lincoln shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was twenty pounds underweight and had barely touched his meal. Maybe Emily resented that more than anything.

“The shoes are made of a bunch of tiny tubules filled with air.”

They all stared at him.

“It makes them extremely strong.”

“But they're metal, right?”

“Nickel phosphorous.”

“That sounds expensive,” Monica said.

Emily could feel Ty's tension crank up a notch at the mention of money. Sophie scowled.

“Exciting, though,” her mother added. “Cutting-edge technology right here at the kitchen table. It's probably where most great innovations begin.”

“I'm just fiddling.”

“Well, you never know,” Monica said. “Necessity is the mother of invention, and Sophia tells me Ty takes extraordinary care of his aging mare.”

For a moment Emily thought Sophie might dispute having said anything even remotely positive about Tyler Roberts, but the girl pursed her lips and turned her gaze back to the table. Her flushed cheeks matched the color of Ty's nearly to perfection.

“I didn't mean to embarrass you,” Monica said, watching Ty. “I think it's wonderful you have the desire and the wherewithal to care for her as you do.”

Ty shifted almost imperceptibly in his chair before he spoke. “Lincoln ain't charging me nothing.”

“Oh.” Monica raised her brows and smiled a little at the older boy. “An inventor
and
a philanthropist.”

“It's not like that. I'm just—” Lincoln began, but a knock sounded at the front door, freezing the conversation for a moment.

“You expecting someone?” Colt asked, looking at Casie. In the past six months he'd gotten a little jumpy about the number of men who wandered through the Lazy. Only a few of them seemed overtly interested in the ranch's owner, but apparently Colt Dickenson wasn't a complete idiot. He appeared to have a
modicum
of sense, even if he did think he could send grown women to their rooms like they were pouty adolescents. Emily felt tears well up as emotions mixed like fermenting alcohol. She hated being told what to do. And he wasn't her father. So why did her chest feel so funky every time she remembered his disappointment?

“Not tonight,” Casie said, snapping Emily back to the present as she placed her milk glass on the table. But Colt beat her to the punch, rising before she had a chance to push back her chair.