Finally Home (5 page)

“I didn't see the wild band again. But everybody else looked good out there 'cept this little one here.” He nodded toward the abandoned lamb.

“She'll be fine once she gets something warm in her belly,” Emily said.

Ty shifted his gaze to the girl. To look at her you'd think she was an urban brat, but she was an earth mother at heart, always ready to nurture and console and feed. If life made any sense at all he'd be in love with
her
instead of . . .

He stopped his thoughts abruptly.

“I'll mix up some milk,” he said, and bumped gracelessly to his feet, jostling the table as he did so. “ 'Cuse me,” he added, but Emily was rising with him.

“What about dessert?” she asked.

“I don't need nothing. Thanks anyhow,” he said.

“It's a new—” she began, but just then someone knocked at the front door. They turned toward it as Colt Dickenson stepped inside.

“I forgot to drop off the groceries,” he said and set a reusable Monsanto bag on the floor. The irony of the behemoth chemical company stamping its name on an environmentally friendly sack wasn't lost on anyone.

“Mr. Dickenson!” Emily's eyes lit up like firecrackers at the sight of him. Ty glanced at Sophie, but if she was thrilled by the cowboy's appearance, she didn't let on. Casie just looked tense, her cheeks somewhat pink. “You're just in time for dessert.”

“Thanks,” he said. There was a stiffness to him this evening that didn't usually exist. Colt Dickenson was generally as smooth as river water. “But I promised Mom I'd fix the bathroom faucet tonight.”

“It's a new recipe,” Emily prodded. Emily was aces at prodding.

“I'm sure it's top-notch,” Colt said. “But I should get going.”

“Plum cobblers. I'm thinking of adding them to my list of for-sale items, and I need feedback.”

A few months earlier Emily had started selling jams and pies to their neighbors. Shortly after the denizens of Hope Springs had tasted her wares, she'd been invited to deliver breakfast pastries to the Pony Espresso in town. Increasing sales had made it necessary for her to find a vehicle in which to deliver her goods since Puke, Casie's old truck, wasn't exactly reliable. Colt had offered to give her a loan, but true to her frugal nature, Emily'd found an ancient pickup truck that appealed to her. Its dented fenders and broken headlights made Puke look like a thoroughbred by comparison. But it ran, if the wind wasn't too strong and God was feeling generous.

“They're still hot,” Emily added and pulled a pan of steaming cobblers from the oven. Sugared cinnamon wafted from them like fragrant dreams, firing up Ty's salivary glands.

“Well . . .” Colt said, already weakening. “I don't want to mess up your experiment.”

“Have a chair,” Emily chirped and hurried to the cupboard for additional crockery.

Fetching mismatched bowls, she placed a cobbler in each and delivered them to the table.

“There you go. The topping's fresh from Bodacious,” she said, referring to the goat she'd brought to the Lazy just a few months before. “I used honey from Colt's mom and plums from that little tree out back.”

“Geez, Em,” Colt said, settling into the chair next to Sophie, “if you grew your own cinnamon you'd never have to leave the farm.”

She blinked. “Does cinnamon grow this far north? How would I plant it? Do you know anything about harvesting—”

Colt chuckled. “Don't go getting all riled up,” he said and sliced into his cobbler. “I was just kidding.”

She fell silent as the four of them tasted their dessert in unison. “What do you think?” she asked, brow already beetled.

“Man!” Sophie murmured and paused for a moment to stare at her cobbler.

“What?” Emily said, unclasping her hands.

“I just don't understand it,” Casie said, ruminating slowly.

“Is it good?” Em asked, but just then Bliss made a noise from the other room and she scooted out to fetch her. By the time she returned, cuddling the baby against her shoulder, the topic had not changed. Sometimes Emily's experiments were gut-wrenching disasters, but when they worked, they worked.

“It's just . . .” Casie tasted another spoonful. “I mean . . .” She shook her head. “
I
can cook.”

“Really?” Colt asked.

“No,” Sophie murmured, not lifting her gaze from the cobbler as she took another bite.

The kitchen went quiet. Ty glanced from one woman to the next.

“I made that oatmeal once,” Casie said.

“Oh yeah,” Sophie agreed, savoring another small spoonful. “That wasn't bad.”

Casie licked the back of her spoon, looking thoughtful. “And when Em was still laid up I made that pizza.”

“It was frozen,” Sophie reminded her.

“Well, yes,” Casie agreed. “It was frozen before I started.”

“And afterward it was burned.”

“But I
did
make it and . . .” Casie took another bite and closed her eyes to the sensations. “Holy cats, Em, I just don't have any idea how you do this.”

She sounded honestly upset, which, naturally, made Emily euphoric. “You really like it?” she asked and zipped her gaze from one to the other. Colt lifted his bowl. It was already empty.

Still cuddling Bliss, she snatched the dish from his hand and hurried to the stove for a refill. A shade of pink showed through her mocha complexion. “You sure it's not too tart?” she asked.

“I'll know more after my third or fourth helping,” Colt said.

“You've gotta be careful,” Emily said. “Or your cholesterol's going to be higher than your dad's.”

He shrugged. “Mom's got him on starvation rations. So it's my duty to hold up the consumption standards of the Dickenson men. It's a tough job,” Colt said.

Emily rolled her eyes but her smile spoke volumes.

Ty let the soft sounds of domesticity seep into his soul, spilling like mulled cider into his system, relaxing his gut and tilting his world toward perfect.

The remainder of dessert was consumed while a half dozen topics were discussed. In a matter of minutes, Sophie was mixing up milk replacer for the lamb, Emily was gathering up the dishes with one hand, and Ty was running hot water into the sink. Steam curled up like morning mist. The water felt heavenly as he dunked the first dishes inside.

“I can wash,” Casie offered, but Colt shook his head.

“Let the boy do it,” he said. “It's the only time he gets his fingernails clean.”

“Can you dry, Soph?” Emily asked.

“Sure.”

Ty didn't glance her way. Standing beside her at the sink would be almost as horrible as sitting next to her, almost as hideous as an early morning ride down a sunlit trail or earning an A on a poetry project.

“I'll feed little Lumpkin then,” Colt said.

“Lumpkin?” Emily glanced at him.

The cowboy shrugged. “I'm running out of names.”

“I'm sure glad I didn't ask for your input for Bliss.”

“Well, I would have come up with something better than . . .” He glanced at the far wall, apparently thinking back to the traumatic months before the baby's birth. “Ixapos.”

“I was never going to name her Ixapos.”

“I'm pretty sure it was in the mix for a while,” Colt said. “Sophie, wasn't Ixapos one of the ten thousand options?”

“I'm not sure,” she said, pouring the freshly rehydrated milk into a funnel that sat atop a glass bottle. “But I do remember an Enheduanna.”

“Enheduanna.” Colt nodded. “That was it.”

“Well, yeah! She was the first known author. It's a revered nomenclature,” Emily said, using some of the ten-dollar words she'd practiced almost constantly during her pregnancy.

“Were you hoping to scar her for life or just—”

“Here you go,” Sophie said and handed the bottle to Colt before hurrying out of the room. “I'll be right back.”

“And wasn't there a Beelzebub?” Colt asked, raising his voice after the departing girl. But she was already out of hearing.

“Oh, for Pete's sake, there was no Beelzebub,” Emily said.

“I'm pretty sure you're wrong.”

“Why would I name her after the devil?” Emily asked and plunked the baby into Casie's arms. Bliss stared at her, dark eyes serious as storm clouds beneath gathered brows.

Casie's expression softened. Reaching up, she smoothed her hand over the baby's downy head, then sighed and closed her eyes as she cuddled Bliss against her heart.

The kitchen went silent. Colt stood absolutely motionless, watching, expression unguarded as he held the forgotten bottle in one large hand.

Ty glanced at Emily. Her eyes gleamed as if she'd just won the lotto, but in a second Colt jerked toward her with a scowl.

She struggled to squelch her grin.

“Bethany,” she said.

“What?”

“I was going to name her Bethany.”

“Who are you trying to kid?” he asked, seeming to come back to himself with some difficulty. “You never considered a single normal name in the whole twelve months you were pregnant.”

“Gestation's only nine months,” she reminded him.

“Well, it seemed like twelve.”

“You should try carrying an elephant around in your belly.”

“No matter how long it took, you did a first-rate job,” Casie said and smoothed the baby's hair behind one seashell ear.

“Yeah,” Colt agreed, staring at the duo on the nearby chair. “Not half bad.”

“Do you want to hold her?” Casie asked.

Their gazes met for a second, calling a truce to whatever argument they had shared.

Time stood still. The expression on Colt's face was inexplicable, a nearly painful blend of hope and hopelessness. It made Ty almost hurt for him, though God knew there would never be anyone good enough for Casie Carmichael.

“What? No!” Colt said, finally shaking himself free from Casie's gaze. “I'm a manly man. Manly men don't hold babies.”

“She's really soft,” Casie said, and turning her face toward Bliss, drew in a deep breath. “And sweet-smelling.”

“I like things hard,” Colt said. “And stinky.”

“She's growing like a buttonweed,” Casie added. “Pretty soon she'll be asking for the keys to Puke and bringing home strange boys with tattoos and blue—”

“Oh for God's sake, give me that baby,” Colt said, and setting the lamb's bottle on the table, reached for the infant.

After that there was crooning and teasing and laughter.

The kitchen felt as warm as summer sunshine. Steam and contentment swirled together in a moment of magic as old as time until . . .

“Emily!” Sophie yelled. “Why are there dirty diapers in the toilet again?”

CHAPTER 4

“W
elcome to the Lazy,” Emily said. The couple that disembarked from the rented SUV was handsome, svelte, and polished. Jack circled them, keeping this new human herd tightly packed. “I'd shake your hands, but . . .” She jostled Bliss a little. Baby was dressed in red cable-knit pants and a white sweater. The ensemble had been handcrafted by Cindy Dickenson and made the infant look a little like a Christmas balloon, arms and legs sticking out at incongruous angles. A red stocking cap with a tail as long as her body topped off the outfit. The white puff at the end was nestled near her little green booties. “I don't want to have to worry about shaken baby syndrome.”

Max Barrenger and Sonata Detric laughed on cue.

“You must be Casie,” the man said. He was five ten in his shiny new alligator boots. His hair was artfully tousled, and his coat was leather. Lambskin, if she wasn't mistaken. She'd have to keep him away from Lumpkin. Insecurity wasn't good for anyone.

“ 'Fraid not,” she said. “I'm Emily. Casie is . . .” She glanced around, but true to form, Case was nowhere to be seen. Generally speaking, the Lazy's owner would rather take a hoof pick in the eye than meet strangers. “On a tractor somewhere.”

“Oh,” Sonata said. Her hair was short, dark, and chic. “I thought Casie was a woman.”

Emily refrained from laughing out loud. She might have been similarly prone to gender profiling in the past. “Turns out being female doesn't preclude one from feeding cattle,” Emily said, and Max chuckled.

“What did you think, S.?” he asked. “That women were forbidden by law to operate heavy equipment?”

Sonata Detric raised carefully threaded brows at him. “Actually,” she said, “I thought women would be smarter than to want to.”

Emily felt a wave of protective resentment wash through her. An odd thing, perhaps, considering Casie was ten years her senior. “Well, I'm not sure if Case really
wants
to drive the tractor,” she said. “But cows seem to get hungry every single day, and they're not very particular about who feeds them.”

“So this really
is
a ranch,” Sonata said.

That statement stopped Emily dead in her verbal tracks for a second. “Were you expecting something else?”

“Well, no.” The woman tilted her chin up and laughed a little. The sound had a throaty musicality to it. “I mean, Max said it was, but—” She shrugged one trim shoulder. The coat she wore was winter white, probably cashmere, and belted snugly at a very narrow waist.

“Didn't you see our Web site?” Emily asked.

“Max made the reservations. I've been so busy with work that I just let him take care of things.” She glanced around. Emily didn't bother to do the same. She knew what people saw: pastoral snow-covered hills dotted with white-faced cattle, woolly sheep, and shaggy horses. It was impossible to say if they also recognized the hope, fatigue, or gut-deep contentment that were part and parcel of the struggle to put the Lazy in the black. “I just thought—” She shook her head, looking befuddled.

“What?” Max asked and grinned. “Say it.”

“Okay.” She faced him with a mild blend of challenge and amusement. “I thought you were putting me on.”

He laughed out loud. “I told you I'm a country boy deep down in my roots.”

She shook her head. “We'll see how country you are when your BlackBerry doesn't work while you're out punching cattle,” she said.

“Punching cattle?” He laughed. “Who have
you
been talking to?”

She grinned though she looked a little defensive. “I saw an episode of
Deadwood
.”

He chuckled again.

“Punching cattle is the correct term, isn't it?” she asked, turning toward Emily.

“Well, we don't do a lot of punching, per se,” Emily said. “More shooing, a little nudging, a lot of feeding.”

“Remind me never to trust HBO again,” Sonata said and glanced around. It was a fair bet that Sonata Detric had never ventured more than fifty blocks from her favorite Macy's.

“You're going to love it!” Max vowed and hugged her with daunting enthusiasm. “Isn't she?” he asked, one arm remaining around his fiancée's tightly cinched waist.

“Guaranteed,” Emily said, but one glance at the other's sleek boots made her a little dubious. Those things were not horse friendly. In fact, they might not even be
outdoor
friendly. The spiky heels were more likely to be seen in
Sex and the City
than in
Cheyenne,
which was Emily's current favorite. There was nothing like a little retro TV . . . and army boots, she thought, appreciating her own serviceable footwear. Paired with oversized cargo pants with enough pockets to house every conceivable baby necessity, they were killer. She turned away from her guests' rented Escalade. “Come on. I'll show you to the bunkhouse.”

“Bunkhouse?” Sonata sounded uncertain at best, but Emily kept an upbeat tone.

“It sounds better than the chicken coop,” she said, at which time uncertainty probably turned to terror in their new guest's mind, but when they had trudged up the hill and stepped through the rough timbers of the front door, the couple drew in their breath in unified surprise.

“My God!” Sonata said, eyes wide and lips parted. “This is . . . this is just adorable.”

Emily glanced around. The building formerly occupied by the Lazy's motley poultry wasn't a large space. Still, it had taken months to restore. While the foundation and the original log siding had remained intact, the roof and windows needed replacing. The process had seemed to take forever. But in retrospect, the exterior of the building had been completed fairly quickly. The threat of oncoming Dakota winters tended to hustle people along pretty efficiently. Casie's popularity coupled with Sophie's free riding lessons had inspired their neighbors to help speed the project along. Finishing the interior of the bunkhouse, however, had been almost entirely Emily's domain. Impeded by a nonexistent budget, a thousand chores, and little Bliss's impending arrival, decorating had been a challenge. But she was pleased with the results; the striped Navaho coverlet on the heavy timber bed contrasted pleasantly with the ragged-edged leather curtains, which had been salvaged from old coats bought at the local Salvation Army. The shutters, crafted by Colt from ancient barn wood, were weathered to a gunmetal gray and highlighted with olive lichen that had long ago dried but remained tenaciously intact. The basin used as a sink had been found in the Pollacks' abandoned attic. It was a copper hue that Emily had painstakingly matched to the hooks anchored beside the door. A few yards away, half hidden behind a privacy screen made from corrugated steel fencing, was a clawfoot bathtub. Sophie had discovered it half buried in a neighbor's shelterbelt. Neither removing it from the entwining roots nor scouring it clean had been a simple task, but, as Ty would say, “The best saddle horses can buck like mustangs when they first come out of the chute.” In other words, each piece had been a pain to find, and a nightmare to restore, but she loved every inch of space, every bit of tilted floor, every grain of rust and floret of lichen.

“Wow,” Max said, drawing Emily back to the present.

“
Who
is your decorator?” Sonata asked.

Pride bloomed stealthily in Emily's chest. Still, it wasn't difficult to be self-deprecating. Memories of her life before the Lazy, life with Flynn, had a way of keeping her humble. Had Casie not taken her in, little Bliss would have been born in a flophouse somewhere.
If
she'd been born at all. “We all just kind of pitched in,” she said.

“Well, someone's got a good throwing arm then,” Max said.

“I think you're being modest,” Sonata added.

“It takes a village.” Emily shifted Bliss a little higher against her shoulder. “Or in this case, about a dozen well-fed farmers and a lot of elbow grease.”

“You're kidding me,” Sonata said, and turning away finally, ran an analytical finger over a knothole in the nearest shutter.

“Believe me,” Emily said, “I have the capped elbow to prove it.”

“What's that?” Max asked.

“Capped elbow?” Bliss made a mewing sound. Emily bounced her a little more vigorously. “It's an inflammation on a horse's olecranon that . . .” She shook her head. Sophie was always spouting those ridiculous terms. Half the time Emily didn't even know she'd been listening. “I'm not the horse expert.”

“Well, you've got a great eye for decorating,” Sonata said. “If my people had this kind of talent, Pier One would be out of business.”

“Who?” Emily asked, and Sonata laughed.

“Exactly,” she said, then sobered rapidly and turned with an entrepreneurial light in her eye. “Say, you wouldn't be interested in—”

“Just quit,” Max said and snagged her close to his side again. “We're on vacation.”

“That doesn't mean I can't—”

“Yes, it does,” he argued and shook his head as he turned toward Emily. “You'd better watch out, or she'll have you stashed away in the Village cranking out decorating sketches to pay for your caffeine addiction.”

“Already there.”

“What?”

“Not in the Village,” she clarified. “Just with the caffeine addiction. Listen, I'll let you get settled in. Supper will be ready in about an hour.”

“Great. I'm starving already,” Max said.

Sonata rolled her eyes.

“What?” He rocked back on his well-shod heels and rubbed his hands together. “Us cowpokes gotta get plenty of grub,” he said. “What are we having?”

“Chicken-fried steak, spiced yams, and pickled beets,” Emily said.

“Chicken-fried . . .” Sonata stopped short. Her perfectly groomed brows had risen a quarter of an inch, but didn't dare settle a single wrinkle into her forehead. “You're kidding, right?”

Emily blinked. Bliss whimpered. “I didn't know steak was intrinsically amusing.”

Sonata preened a smile. “Max told you I'm a vegan, didn't he?”

“Vegan?” Holy Pete. “No,” she said, turning her gaze to Max and trying to refrain from looking either accusatory or terrified. “I didn't know.”

“I haven't eaten animal products for . . .” She waved a slim hand. Her fingers were pale and delicate, her nails a perfect shade of pearl. “Years.”

“I see,” Emily said, but her mind was spinning. It wasn't as if she disapproved. After all, it was a wise choice for a crowded planet. Hell, if she had the discipline she'd go that route herself, but the Lazy went through about a gallon of heavy cream a day and butter . . . butter was like gold. And there were no substitutes no matter what the romance cover guy with the long hair said on TV.

“That's not a problem, is it?” Sonata asked.

“No. Of course not,” Emily said, mind scrambling. “It's just that Bodacious needs . . . never mind,” she said, smiling carefully as she turned toward the door. “It's not a problem at all.”

“Bodacious?” Sonata asked.

“Our nanny goat.” Emily glanced back at the woman. “Her previous owners were going to send her to slaughter, but Casie took her in. Well . . .” She shook her head and smiled. “I'm sure you're tired. I'll see you in a little bit.”

“They were going to kill her?” Sonata said.

Emily sighed sadly. “She kept having babies, and they didn't want more kids, and now the little ones are weaned, so Bo has to be milked or she gets pretty miserable.” It was a cock-and-bull sob story if she had ever made one up. And she
had
. But dammit, she didn't know how to cook vegan.

“Surely you can market the surplus,” Sonata said. “Raw milk is worth a fortune in the city.”

Emily shook her head. “I'm afraid it's illegal to sell unpasteurized milk in South Dakota stores. Otherwise the Lazy would be on the cutting edge. Our milk isn't just raw, it's produced by an all-organic, free-range, split-hoofed ruminant.” That meant that the bothersome Bo could be found outside her spacious pasture more than in. She was, in short, the Houdini of herbivores, but Emily had learned to sling verbiage before she'd learned to walk. “Don't you guys worry about any of this, though. You're on vacation. Do you have any other dietary restrictions?” Maybe they only ate food that was harvested on a Tuesday or fruits that were picked on the Sabbath.

“Well, I do try to limit my oils, even those that are vegetable-based.”

Emily refrained from rolling her eyes.

“Oh come on,” Max said, leaning away from his fiancée a little. “Like she said, we're on vacation.”

Sonata's scowl darkened. There was still not a wrinkle to be seen. “Fat molecules don't take a vacation.”

“Bodacious needs to be milked,” Max reminded her. “You don't want to make an innocent animal suffer because you're trying to keep innocent animals from suffering, do you?” he asked and winked at Emily.

Sonata scowled at him. “Okay,” she said finally. “No veganism while we're here.”

“Are you sure?” Emily asked. Inside, she was doing the happy dance even though Bodacious was about as innocent as Satan. “I don't want to compromise your morals.”

“I'll live on the edge,” Sonata said, then hastened to add, “but no meat.”

“Of course not,” Emily agreed, then hurried out the door before minds were changed. In a moment she was hustling into the sheep barn.

“Colt!” she called, storming through the scattering flock toward the isolated pen in the corner. “Colt?”