The Rancher's Dance (16 page)

She settled for sectioning a few oranges and arranging them in a pretty dish, only to decide then that the dish was
too
pretty and switched to a simple white bowl.

She didn't want Beck thinking she was making a fuss.

Even if she was.

Satisfied that everything was cooking merrily along, she started to race upstairs and change out of her dress only to turn right around when the phone rang in the kitchen. “Hello?”

“We're getting a new baby,” J.D.'s voice sounded jubilant.

Lucy grinned. “When did Angel go into labor?”

“A bit before dawn, I guess. Brody just called a few minutes ago, though. Said she's probably got a few hours to go yet. Mom and Dad are driving over now.”

“Are you going?”

“Can't, unfortunately. I have a horse coming in sometime today from Idaho. A real trauma case, from what I understand. I don't want her to arrive without being here, so I'll drive over either later this evening or in the morning. So dinner's still on at our place. Bring that sexy neighbor of yours. I'll let you know when the baby comes.”

Before Lucy could caution that Beck wouldn't likely want to go, her cousin had rung off.

She realized the bacon was starting to smoke, and hustled back to the stove, flipping the strips before they burned to a crisp.

And then she had to fan out the kitchen from the smoke.

Which left her no time to run upstairs and change out of her dress, or to talk herself down into some semblance of calm because the doorbell was ringing.

Beck had arrived.

Forget calm.

She hastily poured a measure of waffle batter onto the sizzling hot griddle, spilled some down the side and grimaced because the bell rang again. She left the mess and hurried to the door, yanking it open.

And there he was. Cowboy hat, jeans and all.

She wasn't sure which look she preferred. The cowboy hat. Or the tool belt.

Both were rapidly finding their way into her dreams.

“You gonna let me in?” he asked after a moment.

She flushed and stepped out of the way. “Sorry. Mind's elsewhere. My, um, my cousin. Angeline. She went into labor this morning.” Thank goodness she had a viable
excuse to fall back on rather than admitting that she'd been simply ogling him. “Just got off the phone with J.D. They're sisters, you see. Oh. Well, maybe you noticed Angel that night at Colbys.” She turned and led the way back to the kitchen, knowing she was babbling and not seeming able to stop. “She was out to here,” she held her hands way out in front of her belly. “And still looked like she could have stepped off a magazine cover.”

The bacon was smoking again when they got to the kitchen and she stifled on oath, hurrying to turn the heat down even more. Then the hashbrowns were sizzling dangerously and she quickly flipped them around in the pan, too.

At this rate she certainly wasn't going to be impressing him with her cooking skills.

Beck coughed a little and squinted against the smoke. “Maybe the window,” he suggested drily, and moved past her, taking the matter in his own hands as he threw open the one window the room possessed.

She wanted to groan. “I
can
cook without burning everything.”

“Okay.” His tone was smooth as glass as he sat at the table and lifted one of the juicy orange sections out of the bowl and popped it in his mouth.

She made a face at him. “Skeptic. I can. I bake, too.”

He dropped his hat on the table and nodded agreeably, but there was a faint smile hovering around his lips.

“I made those cakes yesterday,” she told him. “The gooey ones that I noticed you had your fingers in more than once.”

“They were good,” he said mildly. “So were those brownies you made. What're you getting so upset about?”

She exhaled and turned back to the bacon only to remember the waffle iron and pry it open, too.

The waffle stuck. On the top. On the bottom.

And instead of the perfectly golden crisp-on-the-outside, tender-on-the-inside results she'd planned on—based on plenty of past experience, too—she had a stuck-on mess of a waffle that was split clean in half.

“Oh, for the love of Pete!” She tossed her hands out, grabbed the cast iron skillet off the stove and dumped it—and its charred remains—in the sink.

So much for the perfect, casually tossed together breakfast.

She gave him a look. “Don't tell me, the oranges are sour, too.”

He had the grace not to grin too widely. “Sweet as can be,” he assured.

She let out a resigned laugh. “Well, we've still got hashbrowns.” Because she hadn't managed to burn them yet. “And waffles, once I clean off this mess.”

“I'd have been fine with just a waffle,” he said, still smiling. “It's one of my favorite things, actually.”

“Now I'm pretty sure you're just being nice.” She made a face and turned away from that disarming smile to scrape away the ruined waffle. His wife, the maker of homemade Gertrudes, had also probably been a wonder in the kitchen. “Better stop,” she warned lightly, thinking just as much of her own pointless thoughts as she was his words. “I'm not entirely used to it.”

“Harmony couldn't make waffles to save her soul,” he said.

Almost as if he'd been reading her mind.

She glanced at him. Lifted her eyebrows a little as if the matter was only a mild curiosity. “Oh.”

“I always made the waffles. Every Saturday morning like clockwork. Otherwise it would've been those frozen things.”

She couldn't help smiling at that. “I see. Any…anything else you were in charge of making?”

“Coffee.” He lifted his empty mug. “Yours is better than mine, though.”

She shot him a surprised look.

He smiled faintly. “I've helped myself a time or two to the pot you always make in the morning when you're over in the barn doing your…stuff.”

She figured she ought to be embarrassed on behalf of all womankind for the pleasure that flooded her. “Glad it hasn't been going to waste,” she said faintly. Because he was still holding up the mug—the still-empty mug—she flushed all over again and quickly poured him some.

Then she finished picking out the hot waffle bits, greased the iron better and poured another measure of batter in. It didn't ooze out the sides and satisfied, she scooped up the piping-hot hashbrowns. They, at least, had a satisfyingly crispy look, and she set them on the table in front of him. “Hope you don't mind a few onions.” She'd already set out the syrup and butter and she grabbed an orange section for herself before turning back to the waffle.

Sticky juice dripped down the front of her white dress.

She exhaled. Okay. There was just nothing graceful about the way the morning was going. She shook her head, finished eating the segment, popped out the waffle—perfect, at
last
—and forked it onto his plate. “Eat up.” She went to the sink and wet a clean towel to dab against her bodice. “I'm just going to go change into something that won't matter what mess I make next.”

“Lucy.”

She glanced up at him.

“Sit down and just relax, would you please?” He split the big waffle in two and dropped half on her plate across from him. “And eat.”

“Oh, I never eat waffles anymore.”

He gave her a look as if she'd grown a second head. “Then why the hell are you cooking 'em?”

“Because I thought you'd like one. Caleb does,” she added quickly. “You
never
eat waffles.”

“Well, not
never.
” She sat down on her chair. “It's just a lot of starch. Lot of calories.” Particularly the way he was eating his half. Drenched in butter that was melting across the hot surface and swimming in syrup.

Her mouth watered.

She grabbed another orange segment.

“And being a dancer you don't want the calories,” he guessed the obvious.

“Well, right. Every ounce shows, you know? It was bad enough when I pigged out on that spaghetti your dad sent over for me that first night.”

He shook his head a little and forked an enormous bite into his mouth. His eyes narrowed in obvious pleasure. “If you ask me,” he said once he'd swallowed, “you could use some extra pounds, not just ounces.”

“Well,” she wasn't sure that was a compliment or not, and reminded herself that she had no business fishing for one from him. “That's not what Lars will say if I go back to New York.”

“If?”

“When,” she corrected hurriedly. “When I go back.”

His gaze skimmed over her face. “Why do you even want to go back and work with him?”

Her lips parted. “Because my job is there.” Such as her job would be if she weren't able to pull off a miracle.

“Dance somewhere else.”

She propped her elbows on the table and picked another orange section out of the bowl. “If it were only that easy,” she said wryly. “I was with NEBT for nearly ten years. And I worked really hard to get there. Starting over now…” She shook her head. “It's not really an option.”

“Because of your knee?”

She grimaced. “Or my age.” She'd already admitted that particular fact to him. “Take your pick.”

“But they're expecting you back. After Labor Day,” he prompted.

“Right.” Just not expecting her back as a performing member of the company. Which she
wasn't
willing to admit. Not to him. Not to anyone. Not yet.

She got up to retrieve the next waffle and glanced at him. “Yes?”

He held out his plate.

She smiled faintly and set the steaming-hot waffle in the center of the syrup that was still flooding the plate, then sat back down at the table. She would cook another waffle if he wanted it, otherwise she'd save the batter for Caleb in case he wanted one later.

She poked at a speck of onion with her fork in the portion of hashbrowns that he hadn't dumped on his plate and lifted it to her mouth.

“No potatoes either, I suppose.”

She shrugged. “Not very often.”

“Missing out on some of life's pleasures.”

She couldn't help but give him a look at that. “I think that's very much a case of the pot calling the kettle.”

His lips twisted. He spread more butter on the waffle and added syrup. “Maybe.”

She bit the inside of her lip. “Aside from the waffle
thing, what was your wife like?” And then she had to hold her breath, afraid she'd stepped too far over the line, particularly when his gaze lifted to hers for a long moment.

“Stubborn,” he finally said, looking back down at his plate. He didn't stop eating, which she was grateful to see. “Beautiful.”

“I could see that just from looking at Shelby,” she said quietly. Plus, she'd seen all the photographs of the woman in Shelby's bedroom that one day. “You obviously met at a young age?”

He swallowed another mammoth-sized bite of waffle and she got up to pour another helping onto the griddle after all. “High school,” he said. “She was pregnant with Nick when we graduated. We eloped.” Then he looked at her. “Not just because she was pregnant.”

“That fact didn't even occur to me.”

“Why not?” He eyed her. “It did to everyone else.”

“Because you're obviously still in love with her, even now.”

He looked at his waffle again. “She's gone.”

“I know.” She sat down across from him again and clasped her hands together in her lap to keep from reaching across to touch him. “I'm sorry.”

“I was never unfaithful to her.”

Unlike Lars, Beck was not a cheater.

She chewed the inside of her lip. “Do you feel like you're being unfaithful now?”

He set down his fork. “Lucy—”

“I shouldn't have asked that,” she said quickly. Wishing that she hadn't because she wasn't sure if his smile would ever come back now.

He just shook his head. “I used to hear her voice in my
head. Like a conscience. Telling me what to do. What was right. But it stopped. And for the record, when I look at you, all I see is you.”

Her mouth dried.

“I didn't expect that. And right now—” his hazel eyes collided with hers “—right now, I'm not sure how I feel about that.”

“Well.” She felt lightheaded. “That's honest at least.”

He gave a wry shake of his head. “Honest or freaking insane,” he murmured. “Take your pick.”

She moistened her lips. “I, um, I'm sure your conscience works fine all on its own,” she finally offered into the thickening silence.

His eyes met hers again. “Maybe. When you go back to New York, are you going back to Lars?”

She started, truly surprised. She tucked her hair behind her ear. Even in the beginning, her feelings for Lars had been lukewarm in comparison to what coursed through her just from sitting in the same room with Beck. “No. He hasn't asked me back. And even if he did, the answer would still be no. The only thing I want back is my career.” Which was something she needed to keep her focus on. But the reminder was faint and much too easily overlooked in favor of the man sitting across from her.

“Good,” he said flatly. “You deserve better.”

“I do.” She pressed her lips together for a moment knowing that she was sitting across from a man who was definitely “better” if his heart were only available. “You haven't been with anyone since your wife died, have you.” It wasn't a question. She was pretty certain of the answer.

His gaze slid across hers. “Is that an invitation?”

Was it? She swallowed and shook her head. “No.” Not yet. “It's just that three years is a long time.”

He picked up his fork and stabbed it into the waffle again. “Lately, it's started to seem that way.”

Dangerous warmth zipped through her. “Was she your first?”