Once Touched (32 page)

“Mom and Grant are still going through the list of applicants.”

“At least Josh is willing to wait until we find a replacement. Mom called it, by the way.”

“Called it?” Reid must have noticed the mucusy discharge leaking from Gertrude's posterior, for he put the kidding kit next to her, its items including rolled sheets of brown paper she'd begged from Harry Whiting, their local fishmonger.

“Thanks. And could you hand me those folded towels, too? Yeah,” she continued. “Mom said she thought Josh would want to return home to Texas.”

“And take Maebeth with him?”

“Yeah, that too.”

“Have you ever considered that Mom might be a witch?”

“Yeah, but since she uses her magic for good we don't have to burn her.” It felt lousy knowing she was her mother's sole matchmaking failure to date. “Nancy's going to miss Maebeth something fierce.”

“I heard that Estelle's cousin is going to take her place.”

“Oh, good.” Usually she was the one who caught all the scuttlebutt and news around the ranch and town. She really had to get her head together. “Don't know if she has Maebeth's personality.”

“Few people do. She's raring to take Texas on.”

“The state won't know what hit it. That's right, take a load off,” she told Gertrude as she dropped to her knees. “So, we'll soon be getting a new wrangler who doesn't long for the sight of bluebells, and the food at Mia's auction is going to be so good the bids for the wine will go through the roof and she and her uncle Thomas will be able to relax.”

“From your lips to God's ears, sis.”

“We do have a good relationship, He and I. I'll see what I can do,” she quipped, making him grin and making her feel so good. “Anything else go down at the staff meeting, or did you just gorge yourselves?”

“Reservations are up. All the spring touch-ups to the cabins are complete, and we're going to wait to shear the sheep until two days after the auction so our hands are steady on the clippers.”

“Excellent plan.”

Gertrude's ribs were rising and falling. Between pants she would bleat, lock her thin legs, and strain.

“So what else can I tell you? Oh, yeah. Dad took a pass on Joe Trullo's piece of land.”

With her attention on the laboring doe, Reid's comment took a minute to register. She looked up with a frown. “What? Last time he mentioned it, he'd decided to make an offer so the property didn't end up in someone else's hands.”

“Must've changed his mind.”

“And Ward didn't try to change it back? After all, Dad could buy it and then lease it, or at least sell it to a business we approved of. Do we know who the buyer is?”

“Um—oh hey, look!” He pointed at the ground. “Her water broke.”

Discussion forgotten, Quinn knelt and cleared away the wet straw by Gertrude's rump, replacing it with a fresh armful. Lifting the doe's short tail, she spied another sac. Inside it, she made out a nose and a tiny hoof. “Almost there, sweetie,” she encouraged softly, and then sat back to avoid interfering with Gertrude's labor.

The kidding didn't take long after that. Healthy and young, Gertrude needed no assistance from Quinn or Reid, who were both adept at reaching inside and straightening out a lamb, kid, calf, or foal that was attempting a cockeyed exit from the womb.

When the kid's head and shoulders emerged, Quinn laid several sheets of the brown paper on the straw. A few strong heaves later, Gertrude pushed a tiny body out into the world. The baby goat slid onto the paper square. Carefully Quinn cleared the mucus away from its nostrils with a soft towel and then moved the paper close to Gertrude's head so she could tend to the newborn herself.

She sat back against the pen's railing with a smile on her face. “This never gets old, does it?”

“No. We're damn lucky. And when we forget, these are the moments that remind us.”

“Yes.” So the pity fest and grief—in all its tedious stages—were at an end. She was going to see to it.

The kid, freshly licked and nuzzled by its dam, was already trying to work its legs. There were a few comic failures and then all of sudden, it was standing on splayed legs.

“Looks like you've got another healthy one. Congrats.” Reid patted her shoulder. “I'll let Mom and Dad know. Hey, Mia and I were going to The Drop tonight to unwind before we get caught up in the auction prep craziness. Want to join us?”

The Drop. She hadn't been in months, and she and Ethan had never made it there, so no memories to haunt her. “Sure,” she began, only to hesitate when she remembered that it was at The Drop that she'd fleshed out her plan to adopt a dog for Ethan. Silently she used one of the new curses she'd added to her vocabulary and then repeated, “Sure, I'd love to go.”

And she was going to enjoy herself.

B
ETWEEN
T
ESS'S UNFLAGGING
energy, Silver Creek Ranch's staff, and Leo and Johnny, Mia's devoted pair of cellar rats—assistants to her winemaking genius—preparations for the auction at the Bodell Family Winery were proceeding without a hitch. Quinn had been assigned the task of greeter and director for the entertainment and extra help they'd hired.

“You can send the band to set up at the far end of the tent,” her mother told her. “Make sure the florist—we're using Samantha Nicholls from Seaside Lilies—puts one of the big arrangements in the tasting room and two more on the long tables near the podium. The smaller arrangements—”

“Are to be placed on the round dining tables. In the center.”

“Very good, dear,” her mother said without skipping a beat. “And the photographer, well, I expect he'll know what to do.”

“He? I thought Tess had hired Liz Reading to photograph the event.”

“Oh, didn't you hear? Liz got hired away from us. Bribed by some obscenely wealthy tech mogul to photograph a sweet sixteen party for his daughter.”

“Really? She threw us over? That's not very professional.”

“No, but she's probably paid her mortgage off. At least Liz gave us time to find a replacement, so eventually I'll forgive her. I better go off and check that Anna and Jeff have everything they need. Enjoy yourself,” her mother said with an easy smile, leaving Quinn standing at the top of Mia's long drive.

Samantha Nicholls and a van full of flowers, check. Four scruffily bearded musicians in another van, this one in considerably less good shape, check. Once the photographer arrived, she could leave her post, go find Mia's dog, Bruno, and sneak him some peanut butter treats.

At first she thought she was dreaming, a fantasy born of the word
photographer,
as if there could be no other one but him.

It couldn't be, she thought, staring as the apparition shut the car door and approached in a long-legged stride. But his features didn't morph into someone else's. They only sharpened. Those unforgettable gray eyes fixed on her as he closed the distance between them.

He was dressed in a light gray linen jacket, a white shirt, and jeans. The webbed strap of a tan camera bag was slung over his shoulder. “Hi, Quinn.”

“You're the photographer?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “I have been known to take a few pictures.”

As she stared at Ethan, Quinn became aware of a noise filling her ears. As the sound reverberated, it took her a moment to identify it. It was her heart beating, pounding with love.

The feeling was not without pain.

“You can go up to the winery.” With a wave she indicated the stone building behind her.

“I was hoping we could talk. The auction doesn't start for another hour and a half.”

Her mother was going to pay for this. Truly. Quinn had a long memory. “I'm busy.”

He looked around, taking in the scene. Inside the tent and the winery's tasting room and cellar, things were doubtless bustling. Outside, the only things moving were the sparrows sweeping across the afternoon sky.

“Yeah, I can see that.” He paused. “You look good, Quinn.” His voice was low. She could feel its effect like a caress on her skin.

She sniffed. And she would have crossed her arms to underscore her complete indifference to his comment except that she'd become absurdly vain in the past two minutes and didn't want to crease the silk knit top she'd paired with her long georgette skirt and cowboy boots.

“Quinn, I'd like to tell you what I've been doing these past—”

“Four months,” she finished for him. “You didn't call. Not once.” Her emotions got the better of her, and she whispered, “I thought you hated me.”

He took a step forward, close enough to stroke her face in a gentle caress. “Never. But I was pretty angry with you…because I knew you were right and I was being a chickenshit.”

“I don't think I used those words.”

“You could have. And a whole lot more besides.”

Their gazes met, searching. Afraid that he'd see the painful longing in hers, she looked away first.

He was silent, and she knew he was studying her. “The reason I didn't call, Quinn, was that I sort of wanted to sweep you off your feet, but I felt I had to earn the right to first.”

“Earn the right?” When all she'd longed for was to hear his voice? To know he was okay?

“Yeah, pretty much. I kept thinking of something at Tess and Ward's wedding. It was the moment you walked into the church. You looked so beautiful it hurt. But what made you beautiful to me was that I knew you. What you were like on the inside, Quinn. That you were smart, funny, and giving. Someone who truly cared. I remember asking myself, what have I done to deserve a woman like you in my life?

“I knew the answer even then. I hadn't. I've been trying to change that, Quinn. It hasn't been easy, but I hope you'll be pleased with the results.”

She looked out over Mia's vineyard with its neat rows. The grapes growing on the trellises had bright leaves just beginning to unfurl. The hope in her heart felt like that: bright and fragile, but growing.

“Fine. Yes, please tell me what you've been doing.” Her voice sounded strange. Clogged with so much that she was leaving unsaid. Like how much she'd missed him. Every minute of the day.

“The first month was hard,” he began. “When I finally pulled my head out of my ass, I got down to work developing my rolls of film and uploading the digital images onto my computer. For three weeks I shut myself in a room in Erin Miller's apartment—she'd insisted I stay with her. I think she was scared I was going to take off again. But I was done with running away.

“When I'd gone through all the images—there were hundreds upon hundreds of them—I called Roger Snowe, my agent, and he and I had a meeting with Erin and Dara where I showed them the work. Erin and Roger negotiated the terms for a new book deal. And Dara's offered me a one-man show later this winter.”

“Wow. That's great, Ethan. I'm really happy for you.” How inadequate a phrase to describe all she was feeling for him.

It struck her then that he looked different. The obvious change was that his hair was longer. He obviously hadn't had time to cut it. Her fingers ached to run through the brown and silver strands. His face was different, too. The angles in it were as dramatic as ever, his eyes the same compelling gray—magnetic and intense. But the lines around his mouth had eased. He looked relaxed.

Still, there was more. It took her a moment to make out what it was. She was used to looking at animals like Tucker, who were hyperalert, ready to bolt. Ethan's body language had been different before, his stance more defensive. Now he held himself with confidence and assurance.

“Yeah, getting the book deal renegotiated felt good,” Ethan said. “But there was more I had to do before I could think about coming back here—to you. I had to face what scared me most: meeting the families of Casey Logar, Archie Donovan, and Aaron Smith, the soldiers assigned to escort me into Kandahar and to the university.

“I knocked on their doors, fully expecting to be vilified and spat upon as soon as the families saw who was standing there. It didn't happen, Quinn.

“These people welcomed me into their homes. They sat and cried with me as I shared my photographs with them and told them as much as I could about the lives these men had lived at Camp Nathan Smith. How hard it was, how boring and terrifying it was. How damn funny they and all the men stationed there could be. And I told them how proud I was to have known such brave and dedicated soldiers. When I was done, they thanked me. Quinn, they hugged me.”

The wonder in his voice made her ache with the need to hold him. But he was still talking, the awe in his tone unabated.

“You see, the guys had written and talked to their families about me and the project. They were excited to be a part of it because they saw it as a testament to their service, a service they were fiercely proud of.

“In the wake of the bomb attack and the guilt I carried, I'd lost sight of the fact that these men weren't me, Quinn. They were soldiers. They took the oath that they made when they enlisted to heart and wore their uniforms with pride.”

“My first visit was with Aaron Smith's family. He came from Detroit. His mother looked so much like him, I got this idea. I asked whether I could photograph her and Aaron's dad and their home. I photographed his childhood bedroom. Then I did the same with Casey's and Archie's families. I photographed Casey's newborn boy, Casey, Jr. The final chapter of the book will be devoted to the people who won't get to see their soldiers return home. Dara's going to create a room at the end of the gallery for those images when we hang the show.”

“I can already imagine how powerful that will be,” she said quietly.

“I hope so. The soldiers deserve it. Speaking of soldiers, here—this is for you.” From the pocket of his jeans he withdrew a piece of paper and handed it to her.

She unfolded it to find an email address. “Who's Randy Lytton?”

“Bowie's owner. I tracked him down. I've written and told him how Bowie's doing and that he'll be here waiting for him—Randy's tour of duty is up next year. He seems like a good guy, and he loved knowing Bowie was learning to herd sheep. I thought we could make a video of Bowie, to show Randy all the new skills he's learning, and email it to him.”

She willed herself not to cry because it hurt so much to see him and to be falling back in love as deeply as ever without knowing if he felt the same.

Nodding tightly, she said, “Sure, I'd like that. How long are you staying?”

His laugh was a short huff. “I guess that depends,” he said with a crooked smile. “I have something I need to show you.”

Stuck on what he could mean by “that depends” and what else he could possibly need to show her—except his love—she saw him shove his hand into the side pocket of his jacket. When he drew forth a distinctive white and black scarf, she blinked in disbelief.

“That's Anna's scarf.”

“I thought you'd recognize it.” Already his long fingers were working, opening the scarf and rapidly folding it into a blindfold.

She looked at it as she would a rattler. Her heart began pounding harder than ever. “Where'd you get it?”

He was holding the wide band by its ends. “From Anna.”

“When?”

“Ten days ago, after your mom contacted me about taking photographs for the auction. Anna called me, inviting me to the restaurant, where, instead of feeding me, she interrogated me. Then she gave me this and told me not to blow it. She wasn't friendly about it, either. We came on the same flight. She gave me the evil eye for most of it. I have a whole new respect for Lucas.”

Ethan's arrival yesterday with Anna explained Reid's weird reaction when she'd volunteered to pick Anna up at the airport. At least some things were becoming clearer.

“Where'd you stay last night?”

“In Ukiah, actually. I had some business to attend to this morning before I came here. Come on, Quinn.” Ethan made the scarf dance between his fingers. “Turnabout is fair play.”

She sighed, and shrugged in resignation.

He stepped behind her, and warm silk covered her eyelids.

“I can't believe this is necessary.”

“Have faith.”

The light touch of his fingers on her elbow had her jumping, her awareness of him acute.

“This way,” he instructed, the timbre of his voice lower, huskier. They began walking, he leading her God only knew where.

They'd gone about fifty steps when he stopped. “Just a sec.”

She heard an electronic click and felt him reach forward. A car door opened.

“Here, watch your head.” His hands shifted, guiding her down, and cupping the back of her head as she slid into the seat.