The Rancher's Dance (8 page)

“Tabby Taggart,” Lucy provided. She stood, too, only to gasp and pitch toward Beck as her knee gave way.

He caught her and his pulse skyrocketed as he took her weight against him.

“Sorry,” she muttered breathlessly. Her hands pressed against his chest. “Guess I'd better work on that balance or I'll be pirouetting off the stage when I get back to New York.” She laughed lightly as she stepped away from him and moved around the bench. “Tabby Taggart,” she said again. “Your son shows good taste. She's a nice girl. Her brother's married to my cousin. Evan Taggart. He's a vet. Has an office not far from here.” Switching her virtually untouched beer from one hand to the other, she extended her right one toward Stan and introduced herself. “You're Shelby's grandpa,” she added quickly.

Too quickly to Beck's mind.

She was flustered.

Because she'd stumbled? Or because she'd stumbled against him and with that full-body contact had realized what sort of state
he
was in?

“It was really kind of you to send Beck over with the spaghetti the other evening,” she was continuing. “I should have felt guilty making such a pig out of myself eating every bit of it, but it really was delicious.”

“My pleasure,” Stan assured, though he gave Beck a telling glance.

“I, um, I'll be sure to get the container back to you soon.” She was scooting toward the entrance of the bar.
“I'd better get back to my family.” Without looking at Beck again, she sketched a quick wave and slipped inside the door.

“Well,” Stan said after a deliberate pause once she was gone. “That was interesting.”

“Don't start.”

“She's quite a looker.”

Beck eyed his father.

Stan tossed up his hands. “Fine. Fine. I won't remind you that you've still got a life to live.”

Beck only stared harder because, of course, that's what Stan had just done. And over the past year or so, those reminders had been coming more frequently.

He moved around the bench, heading for the door, too. “It's late. I'm going to get Nick.”

“You think this is what Harmony would want for you? She made you promise to move on, remember?” His father followed him.

Just as he always had before, Beck ignored the question.

But as he worked his way through the bar, looking for his newly “officially adult” son, his eyes strayed toward Lucy.

She was standing next to a pool table where one of the teachers he'd seen at Shelby's school was pushing her long red hair behind her slender back before lining up a shot. As if Lucy had felt his attention, she looked over her shoulder at him.

The skin on his forearm went warm, as if she'd reached out to put her hand there again, and he deliberately looked away.

Yeah, he'd always ignored Stan's nagging about moving on.

It had never been difficult.

But tonight, it was.

 

The weekend passed with no sign of Beck at the Lazy-B.

Not that Lucy had expected him to come over and work when his son was home to visit, or even to work on the weekend, for that matter.

But she still found herself watching for his truck. Listening for the whine of one of his power tools.

It was a good thing, then, that she hadn't spent a whole lot of time at the ranch herself. Not when her grandparents decided to throw a barbecue on Saturday at the Double-C that lasted until the wee hours. And then, on Sunday, she drove back into town again to attend church.

She rarely went to church in New York.

But get home to Weaver? Then it was just the thing that people did.

Weaver had a few churches. More now than they'd had when she was growing up because the town had easily doubled in size since then. She knew that Beck didn't attend the same service she did. One, because she didn't see him. And two, because Sarah, who'd been sitting behind her, had leaned over Lucy's pew to whisper—sounding like innocence personified—that Beck didn't attend there at all.

Which meant she spent most of the service listening with half an ear while wondering if he went to
any
church.

She wasn't exactly being the model worshipper, she figured, and diligently tried to listen more closely to the sermon.

But it was hard because the good reverend was preaching about loving thy neighbor.

Then after church was Sunday dinner, which the
extensive Clay family always held every week at one or another's house. Didn't matter how many people could make it. Those who could, did. Those who didn't, usually made it the next week.

It was tradition. And going there felt right to Lucy, too, even though it meant another round of concerns expressed about her knee.

This time, the meal was at Ryan and Mallory's place. They had a seven-year-old daughter, Chloe. Which only reminded Lucy of Shelby, who was a year younger.

By the time Monday morning rolled around, she had to face the fact that even when the man was out of sight, he definitely wasn't out of mind.

Didn't seem to matter that she was perfectly aware of his grieving. Didn't seem to matter that she knew focusing on anything other than getting herself back in dancing form was most likely just another way of not dealing with the uncertainty of her future.

Whether he liked it or not, he was attracted to her.

That particular fact had been more than apparent.

Equally as apparent as the fact that he didn't want to be.

When Beck hadn't shown up by the middle of the day—about the same time that Caleb finally showed up from wherever he'd been all night—she was a bundle of nerves from waiting.

She'd mucked out half of the stalls in the stable, leaving the other half for Caleb. Fair
was
fair after all, and even though she took pride in being capable, shoveling horse manure wasn't exactly high on her list of favorite things to do, particularly when it took her three times as long to do it because her knee kept giving her fits.

She'd also mopped the floors, cleaned the kitchen and baked a triple batch of chocolate brownies from scratch.

All to keep from hovering in the front window watching and waiting…

For a woman who was supposedly “off men” she was showing all of the signs of being
on.

“Smells good.” Caleb wandered into the kitchen, obviously freshly showered because he still had a towel wrapped around his neck. He leaned over the large sheet pan that she was dolloping swirls of icing over.

“Don't touch.” She swatted away his hand.

“Hey.” He gave her an injured look. “I just wanted a taste. What's the occasion?”

“I'll give you a taste when I'm finished. And there is no occasion.”

His eyebrows went up. “Lot of brownies there. You planning to go on a major binge or something?”

She deftly lifted out a square for him and set it on a napkin.

He promptly shoved half of it in his mouth.

She grimaced. “You're the one looking like a pig. I figured I could take them to Sunday dinner.” And maybe next door to the Venturas. It would only be neighborly, after all, to return the favor of the spaghetti.

Her brother was grinning as he swallowed. “Think they'll even be around by the end of the week?” He tucked the remainder in his mouth and went to the refrigerator where he pulled out a jug of milk and poured it straight into his mouth.

“So this is what college has done for you? Made you forget
all
of your manners?”

His grin only widened and before she could stop him, he'd scooped another soft, sticky brownie right out of the
pan. “I'm heading out.” He turned to leave the kitchen. “Don't wait up, Grandma.”

“You better not be doing anything stupid like drinking and driving when you're staying out at all hours with Kelly like you have been,” she called after him.

He glanced over his shoulder at her and the grin was gone. “Who says I'm with Kelly?” Then he took another bite of brownie and disappeared, leaving Lucy blinking.

She went straight to the telephone and dialed Sarah. “Who is Caleb dating?”

“Kelly Rasmusson, of course. Why?”

Lucy licked the chocolate frosting from the end of her thumb. “Just curious,” she dismissed, although she was more curious than ever what company her baby brother was keeping these days. “Max still have a soft spot for homemade brownies? I made a huge batch and I'm willing to share.”

“My husband has a soft spot for anything chocolate,” Sarah said with a laugh. “And the only time
you
turn on the oven is when you're stressed out. So, what gives?”

“I turn on the oven,” Lucy defended.

Sarah laughed again. “When?”

“When I have to,” she allowed, then laughed a little herself because Sarah was right. If Lucy could find a way around cooking or baking for herself, she usually did. “I have to run into town anyway tomorrow morning, so I'll bring some by for you.”

“What's tomorrow?”

“Dr. Valenzuela is driving up from Cheyenne to see me. We're meeting at the hospital.” The renowned orthopedist was one of the same doctors who'd treated her when she'd been a teenager, and he still worked for her uncle Alex at the sports clinic located in Cheyenne.

“Ah. Checking on the knee?”

“Yeah.” Lucy drew her fingertip along the edge of the brownies, gathering up another taste of icing. “So
that's
the reason for the stress,” Sarah concluded. “I knew there had to be something, but sort of thought it might have something to do with your widowed neighbor.”

“I am
not
stressed.”

“Whatever you say,” Sarah soothed, clearly disbelieving. “Eli!” Her voice went sharp. “Do
not
bring that muddy dog in this house. Gotta run, Luce. See you tomorrow.”

The line went dead and Lucy hung up the phone.

Along with returning to all the comfortable, familiar things she loved, coming home also meant being among people who knew her too well.

She washed her sticky hands and arranged a dozen brownies in a container. Then, before she could do something really foolish—like go upstairs again and fuss with her hair or her clothes as if she really were trying to impress someone when her knee was already protesting all of her activity that day—she retrieved the keys for one of her father's ranch trucks and left the house behind.

She'd been on the road to the old Victor place often enough when she'd been growing up and as she drove it now, she figured it hadn't changed much.

It was still rutted and narrow and winding and more than once, she had to catch the brownie container from sliding off the seat beside her. But the moment she turned off the road and drove through the stone arch that marked the entry to the small spread, all she encountered was change.

It hadn't really dawned on her that Beck Ventura had money. The kind of money that went well beyond the purchase of a small parcel of Wyoming land.

She blew out a silent whistle as she drove along the smooth, paved road that was bordered by tall lilac bushes and acres and acres of rolling grassland on which a few
head of cattle were grazing. The lilac bushes had been there for years, she recalled. Overgrown. Untended. Now, they were trimmed and glossy and once they were in bloom, she figured it would be a spectacular sight as a person approached the house itself.

And what a house it was. Two stories. A covered porch that ran the entire front of the dwelling. Two wings that extended on either side. It was large without being too large and even though it had a distinctly rustic flavor—which she considered in keeping with the setting—it still managed to seem elegant. Gracious.

More evidence of money, although not in any ostentatious way. She recognized it, having seen the signs herself in the homes that the various members of the Clay family had built in the area over the years.

She slowly rolled to a stop in front of the house and climbed out of the truck. She couldn't see any other vehicles near the house or the low-roofed barn that was the only original building from the Victor place that seemed to be still standing. She certainly didn't see Beck's truck.

Maybe he wasn't even there.

Which was probably exactly all that she deserved.

Chewing the inside of her lip, she went up the low steps and crossed the porch that had been furnished with chunky, dark-wood furniture and had barely lifted her hand to knock on the massive door when it was yanked open.

Beck stood there wearing jeans and a denim shirt with a black cowboy hat on his head. His dark expression was wholly unwelcoming. “What are you doing here?”

Her stomach jerked around and her nerves quailed.

Annoyed, she lifted her chin and forced her gaze upward from the denim covered chest in front of her. She held out the containers. “Being neighborly,” she said pointedly.
“Returning your container and bringing brownies for your father and you and Shelby as well.”

A muscle twitched in his angled jaw as he looked down at her offerings. Then he exhaled roughly and stepped back. He didn't verbally invite her in, but the faint jerk of his head seemed to be one, so she moved past him into the house.

“Lucy!” A bullet in the form of Shelby skidded in stockinged feet across the hardwood floor, and Lucy didn't even have enough time to brace herself against the little body as it pelted against her.

Beck's hand behind her back, though, did the trick.

It also made the skin between her shoulder blades feel as if it had been branded. She couldn't even jump away, though, because between his implacable hand and Shelby's body, she was stuck.

She smiled down into the little girl's face and tried to ignore the warmth of the man behind her. A futile endeavor if there ever was one. “Hey, there. How are you today?”

“We didn't have day camp.” Her voice was back to her usual near-whisper, but that didn't lessen her dramatic passion as her thin shoulders rose and fell.
“Again.”