When Last We Loved (13 page)

“Cassie, you look exactly like the queen of the Jubilee Whorehouse hanging out the window to advertise her wares!”

His blue eyes pegged her and his sarcasm stirred a chuckle among the hands.

She ducked out of sight, horrified, and her hands flew to her blazing cheeks. Hoyt had taken the liberty of buying jeans, blouses, and a nightgown for her homecoming. She'd forgotten how much was revealed by the sheer white material with the plunging neckline.

The muffled thud of boot steps on the carpeted stairs announced Hoyt well before he barged through the bedroom door.

“Unless you're prepared to become the main course at a bunkhouse breakfast, you'd better quit parading around half-dressed in front of the windows.”

“I'm sorry, Hoyt. I forgot— ”

“Put on your clothes.” His harsh order was tempered by the slow smile that curved his lips. “I didn't realize what a seductive number that nightgown was when I bought it.” There was no mistaking that gleam in his eyes. “You do it full justice, too.”

Before she could fling a retort in his direction, he shut the door. Cassie was left glaring at her alabaster-statue reflection in the beveled-glass mirror.

Fussing and fuming like an old hen caught in the rain, Cassie pulled on a pair of jeans and fastened every button on a plaid blouse that she found hanging in her closet. She still didn't have any shoes, so she bounced down the staircase in her bare feet.

“Will you want your breakfast soon, Miss Creighton?” Mrs. Morton asked, interrupting her waltz with the dust mop. Her pinched expression said that everyone else had eaten hours ago.

It was time to set the tone for their short-term relationship. Cassie tilted her head in what she hoped was a convincing manner and allowed a note of authority to creep into her voice.

“Yes, Mrs. Morton, I
will
have breakfast now. Please tell the cook that I'll have two eggs over easy, one slice of buttered toast, and a glass of orange juice.” It was easier than she'd anticipated. “Oh, and since it's such a beautiful morning, I think I'll eat outside.”

Cassie couldn't believe she'd carried it off so well. Mrs. Morton shook off her surprise, snapped her bony jaws shut, and spun on the heels of her sensibly laced shoes to carry out Cassie's wishes.

A gazebo rested atop the redwood deck that wrapped around the rear corner of the house. The walnut-paneled interior of the Temple mansion overflowed with comfortably arranged furniture and brightly patterned Navajo and fur rugs. Massive copper-engraved plaques and softly gleaming brass added a sparkling warmth to every room. But the gazebo had appealed instantly to Cassie's need for privacy when she'd discovered it yesterday during a tour of her temporary new home.

Adjacent to the country-sized kitchen, and shaded by several majestic magnolias, the lattice-work gazebo was destined to become her favorite retreat.

The days drifted by in a satisfying sort of pattern that healed Cassie physically and restored her emotionally. She'd reached a pleasant plateau of dependence on Hoyt's hospitality and was a prisoner by choice inside the split-rail fences that defined the Diamond T. With the exception of her weekly visits to Dr. Reyes, Cassie rarely violated the rules of her self-imposed isolation.

Hoyt spent the majority of his time in a saddle or behind the wheel of his Jeep as a working boss. The ranch demanded a tremendous amount of his energy. And although she'd had her fill of farm chores, Cassie understood his obligations and didn't mind being left to her own devices.

Hoyt's father was now confined by his latest stroke. When the weather permitted, his nurse wheeled him outside to join Cassie in the gazebo.

“Call me Pops,” he'd insisted during their first visit. “Mr. Temple makes me sound like a stuffed shirt”

Despite the fact that Pops was more firmly entrenched in the past than the present, Cassie enjoyed chatting with the older man. His anecdotes about her family paved the way for her coming to terms with the tumultuous emotions that had peppered her childhood and adolescence.

“If anyone had ever told me that someday I'd be enjoying Temple hospitality, I'd have sworn that person was as crazy as a loon.” She passed a plate of molasses cookies fresh from the oven. “It's funny how time changes the way you look at things, isn't it? Who'd ever believe the austere Mr. Temple would sit down with a common old shoe like me?”

The stories that Cassie liked to hear the most were those about Hoyt. His mother had died shortly after his birth, and as near as she could figure, Pops had done a slap-dab job of raising his only child.

“It's a miracle he doesn't hate me,” Pops admitted. “One minute I was smothering him with presents and attention. The next minute, I'd forgotten he even
existed."
Ice cubes clinked against the side of his glass as the old man lifted a tumbler of tea to his mouth with a trembling hand.

“Of course, I don't apologize for it, you understand,” he hastened to clarify. “I damned near lost my mind when I lost Mattie. Hoyt's lucky he wound up with even one parent.”

“Why do you think he joined the rodeo circuit instead of coming home after he graduated from college?” Hoyt never talked about his upbringing. For reasons she couldn't explain to herself, Cassie was driven to learn all she could about him.

“Oh, I suppose he'd had a taste of something besides ranching, and he couldn't settle down until he got a bellyful of it.” Pops sighed. “He's got a stubborn streak a mile wide.”

“From the tales I've heard, he comes by that naturally.” She smiled at Pops and he grinned his understanding. They'd both run into the brick wall of Hoyt's temper more than once.

“Well, we have been known to go after one another like two bighorn rams in mating season.” The wrinkles that time had engraved in the old man's weathered face deepened. “There isn't another soul on this earth that I'd trust to take over for me, though. He's whipped this place— the whole damned company, for that matter— into the best shape it's ever been in, what with the oil exploration and the new techniques in cattle breeding. I know that when I'm six feet under, this place will be in good hands. And that's all I really ever wanted.”

Pops’ illustrious career was over, while Cassie was poised on the threshold of her future. Yet their sharing of memories and confidences had forged a unique bond between them, one that she would cherish forever.

“Have we got time for ‘Amazing Grace'?” Pops often requested that she sing one of the old gospel numbers for him before the nurse took him inside. He always joined in for the chorus, his reedy, quavering tones a stark contrast to Cassie's vibrant, diaphragm-deep voice.

She reached out and squeezed the gnarled hand as the two of them ended another afternoon with the famous old standard that had been sung so well by many, but rarely with such intensity of feeling.

* * * *

“You smell good,” Cassie commented late one afternoon when Hoyt returned from a grueling day of rounding up strays. She'd thought when she left Coyote Bend that she'd never again have her nose assaulted by the pungent aromas of sweat, dried cow manure, or the sweet licorice odor of chewing-tobacco plugs.

“We can take the girl out of the country, but we can't take the country out of the girl.” He smiled and slapped his Stetson against one long leg. Dust flew everywhere.

“It reminds me of home.” Cassie surprised herself with the admission and her voice caught in her throat. “I don't know what made me say that,” she murmured. “I hated Coyote Bend.”

“I think you hated your circumstances more than anything else.” His voice was husky. “It doesn't matter how far up or how far away you go in this world; you can't deny the roots of your raising.”

She nodded her head in understanding. “I guess that's one of life's hardest lessons,” she mused. “When I look back, things weren't nearly as bad as they seemed at the time. At least I didn't have to worry about what I was supposed to do tomorrow or next week or next year. Every decision was dictated by the season or the weather.” She sighed. “Maybe I should have stayed put.”

“It sounds to me like you've got a touch of cabin fever,” Hoyt correctly observed. “Why don't we break in your new boots? You can saddle up tomorrow morning and ride out with me. Dr. Reyes has all but released you now that your six weeks of therapy are done, and I could sure use an extra pair of hands to hold the fence posts I'm driving.”

Her heart beat at a reckless pace. “I'd love it,” she enthused. “You'd better ask Mrs. Morton to dig you up some gloves and a jacket.” Hoyt shrugged out of the sheepskin vest he wore to ward off the autumn chill that had gripped the land. He turned to hang his gear on the brass hall tree and Cassie noticed how well his clothes outlined the hard male shape of him.

“By the way"— he spun around and caught her studying him—"the doctor says you're the best dose of medicine that Dad has had in a long time.” The warm flicker in Hoyt's blue eyes brought to mind their earlier, simpler days. Cassie quickly lowered her gaze.

“I like your father.” Her lashes were silken smudges against her flaming cheeks. She felt like a moth being drawn toward a forbidden fire.

“Age has tempered him considerably, believe me,” Hoyt said, relieving the awkward tension with his comment He walked in the direction of the den, where he would spend the rest of the evening cooped up with his bookwork. “I'll see you in the morning.”

Cassie nodded without looking at him.

* * * *

“We don't want to lose the picnic lunch that Mrs. Morton packed,” Hoyt laughed the next morning, securing the wicker basket to the rear of his saddle with an expertly cinched half-hitch knot.

“I hope she remembered the coffee.” Cassie shivered as the stiff November wind rustled the long cloak of her black hair.

“We'll probably empty the Thermos before noon.” In the pewter-gray light of dawn, Hoyt was an imposing figure. From his smoke-brown Stetson to his no-nonsense boots, he was rigged for work. He slid one foot into the stirrup and threw a long leg over the creaking saddle leather.

“It sure looks like an early winter.” Cassie was bundled into an old down jacket that Mrs. Morton had found in the cedar chest, and she wore a pair of work gloves that were too small for Hoyt. “If I didn't know better, I'd swear we were back in the Panhandle. What happened to that mild weather that Dallas is so famous for?”

“The past few winters have been tough,” Hoyt said. A smile creased the corners of his mouth as he turned his horse toward the range. “We've had some pretty nasty storms. The weather bureau attributes it to a changing pattern worldwide. Hell, the oranges even froze in Florida last year.”

The horses cantered briskly as Cassie and Hoyt started out on the never-ending business of checking and mending fences. The Diamond T stretched as far as the eye could scan, and it was a quiet, rhythmic ride.

“We lost several head last year,” Hoyt explained when he laid his tools aside to test the strength of the barbed wire he'd strung along the top of the charcoal-gray split rails. “We missed them during roundup— probably they had strayed out to the far pasture. So when they got cold and hungry, they just walked right through the damned fence.”

Cassie had shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and she was leaning against a rail. She turned her face toward the pale stream of sunshine that had finally broken through the creamy, early morning fog. Gray clouds scurried across the sky, chased by the brightening promise of a sunny autumn day.

“I'd forgotten how clean and pure fall weather can be.”

Cassie inhaled deeply, drawing in the fresh air and holding its chill inside her. She hooked the heel of her caramel-colored boot onto the lowest rail and watched Hoyt measure the distance from post to post.

That he loved his work was evidenced in the calm, serious line of his profile; in the care he took when tackling even the most monotonous chore; and in his quiet, justified pride in the beauty of his land.

“Hand me those wire snips, will you?” Hoyt reached out and she placed the tool in his gloved hand.

She felt a twinge of nostalgia for those sharing times that had satisfied her both physically and emotionally. The familiar routine of working beside him again bred its own special brand of contentment.

“Neon lights sure can't hold a candle to sunshine.” She lifted her chin to meet the warm rays. Her time on the Diamond T had dwindled, and she and Hoyt still hadn't discussed her career. She was reluctant to believe that he hadn't been serious in his overtures about managing her, and she wondered how long she could live in this limbo of uncertainty. “Scrappy called last week.” A little prodding couldn't hurt. “The Twisters should be in Nashville by now— greener pastures, you know.”

“Are you ready for lunch?” Hoyt wasn't the pushing kind. He wouldn't talk until he was good and ready. He slapped his hands together and the sawdust flew from the creases of his leather gloves.

“I'm starved!” Her attention turned to her hunger pangs.

“I've got the spot all picked out.” Hoyt saddled up.

Cassie hurried to mount so she wouldn't be left behind.

“Do you want to race?” He smiled. His big bay trotted in the direction of a stream they'd crossed earlier that morning. Cassie shook her head, content to follow at a slower pace. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd felt such inner peace, and she wanted to enjoy it for all it was worth.

“You look good with that color in your cheeks,” Hoyt commented while he shook out an old saddle blanket and spread it on the ground.

“I'm glad you suggested this. I was beginning to feel like a loaf of stale bread.” Cassie knelt, lifted the lid off the wicker basket, and began unwrapping the sandwiches.

Hoyt crouched beside the small fire he'd built. Flames licked a well-used, blackened pot as the aroma of coffee filled the air. Cassie wrapped her hands around a tin mug and sipped the steaming brown brew, letting its warmth thaw the chill in her bones.

“Have a sandwich,” she suggested. “Mrs. Morton got up early just so she could make this ham salad fresh.”

“You sure have won her over.” There was a hint of admiration in Hoyt's sidelong glance. “I'd swear the old battle-axe had tears in her eyes when I told her you'd be leaving soon. She tried to insist that it was a speck of dust, but I told her that wouldn't wash.”