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The Rancher's Dream
Kathleen O'Brien
Love takes time… Grant Campbell's survived some hard knocks to realize his dream of breeding horses on a Colorado ranch. But his simmering attraction to secretive Crimson Slayton isn't good at all. And remaining just friends isn't possible once tragedy leaves them in charge of a helpless baby.Stuck in dangerously close proximity and playing family, Grant and Crimson can't resist what feels right. But while he's a man all about dreams, she has no faith in them. Together, can they get past her fears and find a reality that trumps even his wildest dreams?


Love takes time...
Grant Campbell’s survived some hard knocks to realize his dream of breeding horses on a Colorado ranch. But his simmering attraction to secretive Crimson Slayton isn’t good at all. And remaining just friends isn’t possible once tragedy leaves them in charge of a helpless baby.
Stuck in dangerously close proximity and playing family, Grant and Crimson can’t resist what feels right. But while he’s a man all about dreams, she has no faith in them. Together, can they get past her fears and find a reality that trumps even his wildest dreams?
Grant couldn’t tend a baby. Period.
His cell phone chose that moment to buzz at him. Clumsily, he dug around with his left hand, just managing to extricate the thing before it was too late.
He answered without looking at the caller ID, because he didn’t have time. Just his luck. It was Ginny.
He glanced at Crimson. Maybe something in his face alerted her to the problem. Or maybe she had just put two and two together from hearing his end of the conversation.
She raised her eyebrows and tapped her index finger against her collarbone. “Me,” she mouthed. She held her elbows out, cupped one hand behind the other and mimicked rocking a baby. “Me.”
He nodded. Yes. Oh, hell yes. He didn’t have to think twice.
“I’ve already got the help I need,” he said into the phone, though he kept his gaze on Crimson, who was smiling her approval. She was extraordinarily beautiful. Was that the painkillers talking?
Maybe it was just that, at the moment, she looked like his guardian angel.
Dear Reader (#u5f0c784e-21dd-5391-a617-57d2448ced16),
I’m a talker. I don’t know if it’s my DNA or my upbringing, but I’ve always needed a special someone to confide in. When I’m upset or anxious, nothing calms me like a long heart-to-heart with a friend.
Sometimes exposing your honest, inner truths is frightening. Often, our first instinct is that the pain is too great, and no one can possibly help. But I’ve always felt there’s a high price to pay for locking your emotions inside.
Hundreds of years ago, a pretty smart guy agreed with me. In Macbeth, Shakespeare wrote a beautiful line in which a grieving man is told he should “give sorrow words,” because if he doesn’t, his heart may break.
In The Rancher’s Dream, both Grant and Crimson have broken hearts. It’s time for them to heal and move on, but they can’t. They’re too afraid to open up and be vulnerable again.
Love is said to heal all wounds...but what if you’re afraid of love itself? Though deep feelings are growing between them, caring has brought them so much pain already. Can they find the courage to take that risk again?
I hope you enjoy watching Grant and Crimson find the words to open their hearts. And may you always find an understanding ear when you are ready to open yours.
Warmly,
Kathleen O’Brien
PS—I love to hear from readers!
Please come see me at kathleenobrien.com (http://kathleenobrien.com), or stop by facebook.com/kathleenobrienauthor (http://facebook.com/kathleenobrienauthor).
The Rancher’s Dream
Kathleen
O’Brien


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
KATHLEEN O’BRIEN was a feature writer and TV critic before marrying a fellow journalist. Motherhood, which followed soon after, was so marvelous she turned to writing novels, which meant she could work at home. Though she’s a lifelong city gal, she has a special place in her heart for tiny towns like Silverdell, where you may not enjoy a lot of privacy...but you never really face your troubles alone, either.
To Manning, Irene and Mike, who stand by me during my descents into the deadline pit and always keep a firm grip on the safety rope. You guys are, to put it mildly, the best.
And to Colorado, for its wildflower springs, its majestic winters and its endless inspiration as I wrote these six Bell River books.
Contents
Cover (#ue5a05fe8-35bc-5191-9ce2-ee2bcdc64d65)
Back Cover Text (#u30e2e204-7dd8-5d96-8e20-5004d6ecf5ac)
Introduction (#u1de3dbde-5d8b-51f5-bf18-965c238d14c7)
Dear Reader
Title Page (#u1367af92-e398-5d83-83fc-4dddc6f888ac)
About the Author (#ub2b207c8-8b58-56d8-9746-3f1785ec42cd)
Dedication (#ude4453df-07eb-5a0e-b9f9-31dfd0565e88)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u5f0c784e-21dd-5391-a617-57d2448ced16)
I’VE GOT TO get out of Silverdell.
The sentence kept running through Crimson Slayton’s head, clogging up her brain waves. She ought to be thinking of something clever to say to keep this foolish girl from getting an incredibly dumb tattoo.
But she couldn’t think of a thing. All she could think was...
I’ve got to get out of Silverdell...before I start to care about this kid, too.
She frowned, annoyed with herself, and repressed the urge to pick up one of her own homemade lavender Earl Grey tea cookies, which she kept on hand for her clients. The cookies were great for calming nerves.
Why should she need calming down? Why should she be in any danger of feeling emotional about this lovesick girl across the table from her in the tattoo parlor?
It was ridiculous. Becky Hampton was nothing to Crimson. The two had met twenty minutes ago...and if Crimson did her job, she’d say goodbye to Becky in another twenty minutes, and that would be the end of that.
Stay out of it. When Crimson’s sister, Clover, died, and Crimson left her hometown of Omaha, Nebraska, those four words had been her new sworn life motto.
Stay out of everything. No ties. No roots. No attachments to things or people she could lose. She’d be a gypsy, a loner. Get in, get out and nobody gets hurt.
For the first few weeks after Clover’s funeral, she’d done just that. Three towns in three weeks.
But then she’d hit Silverdell, Colorado, and, though she told herself every month that she’d probably leave soon, somehow she never did.
She’d been here thirteen months, more or less.
Clearly that was much too long. Somewhere, over that time, she’d started to feel things. Instead of staying free, cordial but unattached, like a bird on a wire, she’d started getting involved. Making friends.
First Mitch and Belle, and all the Bell River family. And Marianne Donovan, who owned the café and shared Crimson’s love of cooking.
Those weren’t the most dangerous attachments, though. The real threat had snuck up on her. First she’d met Grant Campbell, a nice rancher who had helped her figure out how to mortar bricks when they were paired up to build a playground for the Silverdell Outreach charity she’d gotten involved with.
Then she’d met Grant’s friend and temporary roommate, Kevin Ellison.
And finally, the biggest danger of all, Kevin’s precious, motherless baby, Molly.
At the thought of the warm little bundle of sweetness, her heart squeezed.
Oh, yeah. I’ve got to get out of Silverdell.
But first she had to handle Becky. The pretty blonde had been leafing through Crimson’s sample book for nearly twenty minutes now, exclaiming like a little kid every time she passed a pretty flower or a colorful fairy.
“I just don’t know! They’re all so cute!”
Crimson managed not to groan. Think, think. The girl was obviously nervous, ripe for being talked out of this. She’d come in alone, hovering in the doorway without entering, grabbing the shoulder strap of her purse as if it was a lifeline, and twisting her legs so nervously it looked as if she badly needed to go to the bathroom.
When Crimson had approached her, she’d confessed shyly that she wanted to have her boyfriend’s name, Roderick, tattooed on her left buttock, along with “something pretty.” But she had to wait for Rory to come “give the okay” to the design.
Her body...but his decision? That had been Crimson’s first red flag. If Roderick was that bossy, he probably wouldn’t be Becky’s boyfriend for long.
Crimson collected Becky’s ID, always the first step.
Believe it or not, the girl—woman—was going on twenty-two. Amazing. Crimson was only twenty-six, but she would have guessed she was at least ten years older than Becky.
Still, you could count rotations of the earth around the sun, or you could count life experience. By the latter calculation, this poor kid didn’t seem old enough to drink root beer.
“If you call him Rory, how about getting that tattooed, instead of Roderick?” Crimson raised her brows. “It’s shorter. Cheaper. Less painful.”
And easier to remove or cover up when Becky and Rory split.
“No. He wants the tattoo to be his real name.” Frowning, Becky shifted her sandaled feet nervously on the scuffed black floor and nibbled on her index fingernail. “Why? Does it hurt a lot?”
“It’s uncomfortable,” Crimson said carefully.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pete look up from his station, where he was inking a skull and crossbones on the one clear piece of real estate still left on the forearm of their favorite regular customer, Butchie the bronc rider.
Pete, a sixty-five-year-old former pro wrestler, owned the tattoo parlor, and he’d already warned Crimson he’d have to let her go if she didn’t stop talking customers out of getting work done.
“Some people say it’s very painful,” Crimson said. To heck with Pete’s glare. She’d signed on here as a tech and, at his urging, had learned to ink tattoos over the past few months. She’d become pretty good at it, if she did say so herself. She’d brought in a lot of work. She didn’t turn away the Butchies of the world, who genuinely wanted and loved their tats. Just the people who would end up regretting the decision within six weeks.
Sometimes six minutes.
The way Crimson saw it, she was saving Pete a load of bad publicity from unhappy customers. If he couldn’t see that...
“Tell you the truth, Becky,” she added firmly, “I’ve seen grown men cry.” When Pete growled, she just gave him a bright smile. It was true, so live with it.
Biting her lower lip, Becky flipped a few more pages, though her fingers had become clumsy. They were both silent a few minutes. Crimson considered offering Becky one of the cookies, but decided against it. She didn’t want her to calm down. She wanted her to leave. Without a tattoo.
But when the girl encountered another rainbow-colored fairy, her mouth relaxed, and her blue eyes lit up.
“Oh, that’s adorable!”
Crimson sighed.
Becky held up the plastic-covered picture. “Do you think that would look good above the name Roderick?”
“No.” Crimson stared at the foolish fairy blandly. “Not really. It’s too girly. You wouldn’t want to threaten Roderick’s virility.”
Becky nodded, the sarcasm clearly lost on her. Crimson’s throat tightened as she looked at the sweet, trusting face. Darn it. The poor thing was in love. Capital L, Love. And with an insensitive guy who kept his sheltered girlfriend waiting in a tattoo parlor, getting more scared by the minute. A control freak who wanted his name on her rear end like a brand. His full name.
So maybe a sadist, too. Roderick was twice as long as Rory...
Impulsively, Crimson reached out her hand and caught the slim fingers. “Becky, look, maybe you ought to consider this a little longer.”
She thought fast. What was the secret tunnel into Becky’s psyche? Everyone had one. Even Crimson’s twin sister, Clover, had had one.
Unfortunately for Clover, Crimson had known exactly what it was and how to exploit it. If she hadn’t, Clover might be alive today.
But she wouldn’t let herself think about that right now. Back to Becky.
What was Becky’s secret tunnel? She’d just demonstrated she wouldn’t flinch from the prospect of pain. Crimson tapped her fingers on the table, eyeing the girl thoughtfully. Vanity, maybe?
Might work. The girl’s skin was almost flawless, and her one scar, a small, starry patch of white in the center of her forehead, was mostly buried under several layers of thick foundation. She obviously hated that scar.
“You look like someone who takes good care of your body.” Crimson smiled. “You eat healthy. Work out, right?”
Becky nodded. “Oh, yeah.”
“So...think how hard you work to keep your skin so pretty. You don’t let it burn in the sun, and you don’t let it break out or get dry or freckle. You don’t want scars or cellulite...”
Becky was frowning again. The thoughtful furrow on her brow creased around the tiny white scar, giving Crimson hope.
“So are you sure you want to mark it up with permanent ink?” Crimson turned to the back of the portfolio, where she kept her secret pictures, the ones designed to scare the bejeezus out of innocents like Becky. “See this? This is what’s left when you have the tattoo removed. I mean, it’s not awful, but it’s certainly not as pristine as your skin is now.”
She let that sink in a minute before lowering her voice. “I always feel terrible when women come in to get their tattoos removed because they’ve finally found the right guy, the guy they want to marry and spend the rest of their lives with, and they don’t want the constant reminder about Rory...” She waved her hand to make the statement more vague. “Or whoever.”
She was taking a chance here. She was banking on having read this Rory character correctly—and she was counting on Becky being smart. Her instincts told her Becky knew, if only subconsciously, that she’d never walk down the aisle with Rory, and didn’t really want to, anyhow.
For a minute, as Becky remained poker-faced, Crimson thought she’d miscalculated. But then Becky closed the portfolio slowly.
“Yeah, maybe I’d better think about it some more.” She scraped back her chair and stood. “I’m sorry. I feel bad I took so much time, and then didn’t even—”
“Don’t feel bad.” Crimson stood, too. “I think you’re making the right decision.” Impulsively, driven by some unnamed instinct, she grabbed one of her business cards and held it out. “And listen, if you ever...if you ever need anything...”
The girl looked confused. Well, of course she was confused. Crimson wasn’t sure why she had said that, either. Except...her gut told her Rory was not a good guy.
Becky took the card, glanced down at the odd name, Crimson Slash—the name Crimson had adopted when she took the Needles ’N Pins job. Crimson’s cell number was on it, too. This was the card she gave only to her regular, trusted clients.
Becky didn’t react, simply shoving it into her jeans pocket. She cast a doubtful glance toward the door, as if she were afraid her boyfriend might saunter in now and force her to get the tattoo after all. “If Rory comes...”
Crimson smiled. “If Rory comes, I’ll explain you got called away.”
“Yeah.” Becky nodded. “Yeah, that’s good.” She started to offer to shake hands, but clearly decided that didn’t make sense and settled for a wave and a smile as she hurried out the door.
Relieved, Crimson sank back onto her chair.
“Not so fast, Doctor Freud.”
She looked up. It was Pete, all six foot four inches of him, standing in the spot where Becky had just been. His gloved hands were fisted on his hips, which accentuated the fact that he’d rushed over in the middle of Butchie’s tattoo.
“Pete, please don’t give me a hard time about this.”
She wasn’t in the mood. She’d have quit this job ten times during the past few weeks if she could just decide where to go next. If she could just get up the courage to leave Silverdell. “She would have regretted it before she got home, and then there would have been hell to pay.”
“Hell I can handle. But employees who chase off the customers...that I can’t afford.” To her surprise, Pete’s brown eyes seemed to hold an undercurrent of sadness. “Clear out your locker, Red. You’re fired.”
* * *
ACTUALLY, IT WAS perfect timing. She’d been planning to meet Grant Campbell for lunch at Donovan’s Dream, at noon, anyhow. Grant had given Kevin a lift into town for a meeting, which meant he’d probably be bringing Molly, Kevin’s baby.That was all the consolation Crimson could ask for. At six months, Molly was a dream, warm and loving and absolutely adorable.
And if Crimson was leaving Silverdell soon, she was glad of every minute she could get with the baby.
It didn’t take her long to pack up.
She always traveled light and didn’t have much to clear out. The plate of cookies, her tea mug, her purse and a couple of spare black T-shirts she kept in case she spilled something...that’s all she’d ever moved into the shop, even after a year.
She dumped her portfolio in Pete’s trash can, where it hit bottom with a thud. A swoosh of relief moved through her as she realized she wouldn’t ever need it again. However much she loved Pete, she wasn’t a tattoo artist. This job had only been an attempt to leave behind the old Crimson, the “real” Crimson, who would have been happier in a restaurant or a kitchen, or waiting tables, or anything that involved food.
At the last minute, Pete came out to the car and hugged her awkwardly. His droopy brown eyes made him look like a basset hound with indigestion, and she patted his shoulder as if he were the one who’d been fired, not her.
“Damn it, Red,” he said thickly, “if you’d just behave yourself—”
“But I won’t. You know that.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. Glancing at the sky, which was as lumpy and gray as a pad of old steel wool, he sighed. “Look, it’s going to rain. Why don’t you come on back inside? We can talk it over.”
She shook her head, smiling. He was so softhearted, poor guy, and he’d been good to give her a job sterilizing his equipment when she didn’t have a single reference, or a single day’s experience. She didn’t want him to agonize over this.
“It’s okay, Pete,” she said. “It’s time. Past time. I needed a nudge.”
He squinted as a few fat drops of rain splatted against his cheeks. “Maybe. Hell, at least don’t be a stranger. Come see me sometime. If you ever decide to get that tattoo we’ve been talking about, it’s on the house.”
The tattoo had been a running gag. She was the only person who had ever worked for him who didn’t have a single spot of ink on her skin. Probably that should have tipped him off that her heart wasn’t in it.
She laughed, and he hugged her again, clearly relieved there would be no hard feelings. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let go. The rain fell harder, but she didn’t mind. Her hair was in that awkward, growing-out phase, anyhow, and never looked exactly great.
“Hey, what are you doing, hugging my girl on the public streets?”
Crimson and Pete broke apart at the sound of the deep, male voice. Grant Campbell stood there, with little Molly in his arms, the baby carrier and diaper bag dangling from the crook of his elbow.
He looked as gorgeous as ever—maybe more so, because, wow, there really was something about a man holding a baby...
He winked at Crimson, the thick black fringe of lashes dropping briefly over the gold-flecked brown eyes. His lopsided smile gave her a rush of warmth, as if he’d leaned over and kissed her...though naturally he hadn’t.
He was just kidding about the girlfriend thing. For a brief second, Crimson wondered why. Why hadn’t she ever let herself fall for this amazing specimen of male magnificence? Why was she dating his single-dad friend Kevin instead?
But then she remembered. First of all, Grant was a very satisfactory friend, and it was much easier to find dates than friends. Secondly, it was almost impossible to catch Grant between girlfriends, anyhow. He was like a thousand-dollar bill...if any woman was dumb enough to let him slip through her fingers, he wouldn’t hit the ground before another woman grabbed him up.
“Red’s not your girl, Campbell.” Pete sounded cranky. “And she’s not mine anymore, either. She just got fired, so you better be buying lunch, big shot.”
Grant glanced at Crimson, raising his eyebrows.
“Yeah, he’s serious,” she said. “I’m unemployed. But don’t worry. I’m buying lunch. I feel like celebrating.”
With a final, teasing smile at Pete, she took custody of the diaper bag and nudged Grant into motion. They needed to hustle before they got drenched.
Marianne’s restaurant, Donovan’s Dream, was a couple of blocks down, on the chichi end of Elk Avenue, the main downtown street of Silverdell. As the rain intensified, they started to run. By the time they ducked into the café, sweeping in on the familiar notes of “Danny Boy,” which played whenever the door opened or shut, Molly was red-faced and crying.
Immediately Grant handed her to Crimson. Crimson took over without complaint—this pattern had been established a couple of months ago, when Kevin and Molly had first come to stay with him. Grant was fine with Molly most of the time. He changed diapers like a champ, and he could play peekaboo for hours. He was even unfazed by spit-up milk and slobber.
But if Molly started to cry...that was different.
Then he just withdrew, somehow. Emotionally, a door slammed shut, and he was no comfort at all to the poor little thing.
“Red! Thank goodness you’re here!” Marianne Donovan came rushing to their table, her hair stuck to her damp forehead and a spatula in her hand. “Come quick. The meringue is weeping. It’s a mess.”
It wasn’t unusual for Marianne to consult with Crimson about her menu. At a potluck dinner a few months ago, a small get-together hosted by the Silverdell Outreach group, Marianne had discovered that Crimson wasn’t your average store-bought cookies kind of gal.
Crimson never advertised her history with cooking—and she certainly never mentioned she’d been to cooking school, or that she’d been this close to opening her own restaurant when her world fell apart. But it was hard to completely squelch your most primal interests, and gradually the two women had bonded over their mutual love of herbs and spices, pots and pans.
So. She considered the problem. Weeping meringue.
She ought to take a look. But...
Crimson glanced at Grant, who was already studying the menu. She jiggled Molly a few times, making soft noises and wiping the chilly raindrops from the baby’s fine hair. Molly seemed to be settling down, but she wasn’t calm enough yet to leave her with Grant.
“It’s probably just the humidity,” Crimson assured Marianne. She wouldn’t even have attempted meringue with such a bad storm coming, especially in an older building that wasn’t exactly airtight. Donovan’s Dream had been renovated enough to look delightful, but not enough to eliminate all the old windows and doors, which always let the outside in. Marianne had explained that she’d left those features partly to maintain the original feel—and partly to keep from going broke.
“Can you just lower the oven and cook a little longer? Or you could start over and add a little cornstarch.”
“Okay. I’ll try starting over, unless you’d like to...”
Crimson shook her head, looking down at the baby.
Marianne sighed. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I’m not a dessert chef. I make a fabulous Irish stew, but...” She held out her hand, spatula and all. “Quit that other job, darn it, and come work for me. Please. I clearly need you more than Pete does.”
Grant glanced up from the menu, his half smile back in place. “Funny you should mention that—” he began.
“Hush.” Crimson stopped the sentence in its tracks. She sat, and then she began arranging Molly in her baby seat. “Go fix your meringue, Mari. And when you get a minute I’ll take some of that stew.”
“Me, too.” Grant tossed his menu onto the table. “Gloomy days like this call for hot stew.”
Soon they were alone again, and Molly cooed contentedly. He leaned back in his chair and yawned, eyeing Crimson curiously. “Why don’t you take the job, Red? Unless you’re secretly loaded, you could use a new source of income.”
Crimson felt herself flushing. Secretly loaded? He was just kidding, of course. He couldn’t possibly know...
Her thoughts shot immediately to the life insurance check she always carried in her purse. It was hers, fair and square, made out to her, but she couldn’t have felt any guiltier if she’d acquired it at gunpoint.
“Oh, well.” She shrugged. “Sometimes, when you start doing the work you love for a paycheck, it ruins your pleasure.”
He frowned. “Baloney.”
He was right. It was nonsense. She would have adored working as a pastry chef—if she’d been able to do it with Clover. The two of them had dreamed of opening their own restaurant since they were toddlers making mud pies in the backyard. Even back then, Crimson had been the “sweet” cook. She’d decorated her mud pies with violets and rose petals and sprinkled her mother’s white beads of vermiculite over them for “sugar.”
But now that Clover was dead, Crimson had no desire to pursue the dream alone.
She had no right to.
“Come on—you know that’s absurd,” he went on, watching her as if he were trying to figure something out. “I still love the ranch. I might even love it more, actually, now that it’s a reality instead of a dream. Why on earth would getting paid to cook spoil your fun?”
“Never mind,” she said, bending over Molly with her napkin, though the baby was fine and didn’t need tending. “Maybe it wouldn’t. It’s just—don’t listen to everything Marianne says. She’s exaggerating. I’m nothing special in the kitchen.”
She began cooing to the baby, hoping to prevent Grant from pursuing the subject. And he got the message, of course. He was one of those rare men who could read nonverbal cues.
He dropped the topic. And he was kind enough not to discuss her getting fired, either. When the stew was served, they talked about his horses. He was in the early stages of building an Arabian breeding program, and one of his young fillies was turning out to be special. A three-year-old copper-colored beauty, her name was Cawdor’s Golden Dawn, though Grant called her Dawn.
It was kind of cute, how crazy he was about this horse. Even Crimson could see how beautiful Dawn was, and how elegant, but the bond between her and Grant was adorable. Grant obviously thought she’d hung the moon, and the feeling appeared to be mutual.
And of course Crimson wanted to hear about the foaling schedule. His main mare had delivered a promising little colt in April, which had been exciting for everyone at the ranch.
“So have you decided what to name the new colt?” Crimson knew he’d been trying to come up with the perfect name for days. She and Kevin had offered about a hundred suggestions, but nothing had hit the spot.
“Not yet. Kevin’s most recent suggestion is Kevimol, which he said was a brilliant combination of his name and Molly’s. But I think it sounds like a periodontal disease.”
He smiled, popping the last piece of bread into his mouth with gusto. He worked hard, and he could eat all day without putting an ounce of fat onto that lean, muscular frame, lucky devil. “Besides, what kind of egotist thinks I’m going to name my horse for him? Talk to Kevin about that, would you?”
Crimson laughed, but something about Grant’s easy assumption that she was the one who could make Kevin see reason left her uncomfortable.
She’d known Kevin almost two months now, ever since he’d shown up at Campbell Ranch, his four-month-old motherless baby in tow, asking Grant, his old college buddy, if he could crash there temporarily. Because Crimson and Grant were friends, Crimson had of course met Kevin, too.
They’d begun to date maybe a month ago—if dating was even the right word for this oddly platonic relationship they seemed to have forged.
She, at least, knew full well that the friendship would never be more than that. She’d known it almost from the start. She was half in love with Kevin’s baby, but she’d never be in love with Kevin himself.
She’d always assumed Kevin understood that. After all, he’d clearly just embarked on single parenthood. Though he never seemed to want to discuss the details of Molly’s mother, she deduced that the two had never married, and somehow he’d ended up with custody.
A daunting prospect, and a situation in which you wouldn’t want to take any new risks with lovers lightly. Crimson had assumed he couldn’t possibly be ready to start something serious.
Lately, though, she’d seen a look on his face...heard a tone in his voice...
She wondered whether Grant had seen and heard those things, too.
Well, bottom line, it was time to break it off before Kevin got the wrong idea. And if she was moving away from Silverdell, which she obviously should, that would be the easiest out, wouldn’t it?
She bent over the baby again, first taking care to tuck her gold necklace into her shirt. Molly had recently become fascinated with anything shiny, and consequently Crimson had stopped wearing most jewelry. Except the necklace, a small shamrock. That, she never removed.
“Where is Kevin, anyhow?” She glanced briefly at Grant and then returned her attention to Molly, who was starting to get fussy again. “Molly needs feeding. You dropped him at the law firm, right? I thought the meeting was supposed to be over by now.”
“Guess it ran late.” Grant leaned back in his chair and stretched. His impatience was palpable, which Crimson understood. Horse breeding was a demanding job, and he couldn’t afford to cool his heels in town all day just because his houseguest’s car was on the fritz and the man had hitched a ride into town.
“I certainly hope this law firm is paying him enough to buy a house, and a new car...and hire a nanny.” Grant raised one eyebrow. “I know you and I would both like to see the man move into a place of his own.”
Again, that tone—as if Crimson must be dying for some privacy with Kevin, so they could take their relationship to the next level.
If Grant only knew! The fact that Kevin lived in Grant’s spare bedroom was probably his most attractive quality. She lived in a tiny efficiency apartment with paper-thin walls and never, ever brought anyone home. So if Kevin didn’t have privacy, either...well, that settled the whole “will we or won’t we” debate before it could even get started.
She smiled neutrally. “I take it the charm of having a boarder is fading?”
“The charm of having a boarder is nonexistent.” Grant scooped up the check, waving off her protest. “It’s killing my love life. Correction—it’s already killed my love life. Ginny broke up with me last night, after about three hours of listening to Molly cry.”
Crimson wouldn’t have thought the woman was that foolish. She frowned. “Molly cried all night? Why? What was wrong?”
“Beats me. My guess is Molly’s an undercover operative with the morality police. Her assignment, and she’s definitely chosen to accept it, is to ensure I never have sex again.”
Crimson shook her head. “Seriously. Was she sick?”
“Seriously. She’s the president of the Abstinence Vigilantes.”
“Grant.”
He grinned. “She’s probably just teething. As I recall, this is about when the first ones start coming in. I told Kevin to buy one of those nasty plastic rings you can put in the freezer, but he hasn’t done it yet. Apparently, he’s the vice president of the abstinence club.”
As he recalled?
For a minute, she couldn’t move past that comment. What did he mean? Grant didn’t have children...
Or did he? Crimson hesitated, her curiosity warring with her vow to always, always stay out of it. Still, it was strange. If Grant had children, he’d certainly never mentioned it before. In her experience, people who had kids couldn’t stop talking about them—how good they were, how bad they were, how underfoot they were or how much they missed them.
Her mind sifted through the possible scenarios. She had the impression he was divorced—though she couldn’t pinpoint what made her think so. Perhaps she just couldn’t believe a man like him could have reached his thirties without getting scooped up by some lucky lady. But he’d never hinted anything about children.
Maybe he had siblings, and those siblings had kids. Or maybe he was divorced, and he’d lost custody for some reason. Or maybe, like Kevin’s runaway ex, he’d left his family behind to pursue his dream of a horse ranch in Colorado.
Or maybe...
She shook herself irritably. Maybe it was none of her business. She knew all too well that when a person imposed total silence on a subject, those wishes should be respected.
For instance...heaven help anyone who brought up Clover’s death with her.
Molly had begun to strain at the strap that held her in the baby seat. As she squirmed, she grew red-faced, and the whimpering escalated into full-blown crying.
“Sweetheart.” Crimson stroked the baby’s cheek. “Poor little thing.”
Grant glanced at his watch. “Maybe I should go see what’s keeping Kevin. I’ve got to get back to the ranch. With all this rain, I’m worried about the stable roof. Any chance you could...”
She was already unfastening Molly’s strap. She lifted the warm, damp baby out and folded her up against her shoulder.
“Of course,” she said, patting Molly’s back. She was well aware he hadn’t been asking if she’d pick up Kevin. “How about if I take your truck because you’ve got the car seat, and you take my car? I’ll stop by the pharmacy and grab a teething ring and then meet you back at the ranch. If I get there first, I’ll feed her, change her and put her down for a nap.”
“Perfect.” He nodded. “Mine’s right out front, so you won’t have to get wet.” He frowned, glancing at the front windows. “You drive carefully, though, okay?”
“I will. The truck’s four-wheel drive will be safer in this weather, anyhow.”
And wow, what weather, even for late May! The rain had grown steadily more intense while they were in the café. She’d heard about these wet Silverdell springs. The gully-washers were mostly short-lived and profoundly welcomed by the ranchers, who appreciated the free irrigation—as long as none of their own gullies got washed out.
Plus, the storms apparently were a boon for the wildflowers. She’d been hearing for weeks about how, if the drought continued, the annual wildflower festival might have to be canceled. Apparently, that would be a historic failure for Silverdell, and everyone had been eying the skies glumly, calculating the chances of rain.
“I’ll be careful,” she promised again, holding out her key ring. “You do the same, even if Kevin keeps you waiting and you’re ticked off.” She held his gaze sternly, daring him to deny he could get impatient behind the wheel, especially when he wanted to get home to check on the horses. “Deal?”
He smiled. “Deal.”
From her perch on Crimson’s shoulder, Molly wailed, suddenly at the end of her rope. Standing quickly, Grant leaned over and planted a firm kiss on Crimson’s cheek.
“Thanks, Red,” he said. “You’re the best. Be good to Auntie Red, kiddo.”
He patted Molly’s head perfunctorily as he moved away. He had paid and disappeared to the notes of “Danny Boy” before Crimson could even get the baby reinstalled in her carrier. Molly definitely wasn’t happy to be strapped in again, but she had found her fingers and begun to suck on them.
Crimson watched as Grant’s silhouette dashed past the front windows, his head ducked against the rain. He appeared in one window, then another, then the third, and then he finally disappeared.
“Interesting, isn’t it, sweetheart?” She bent low to rub Molly’s pink button nose with her own. “I’m pretty sure our friend Mr. Campbell is allergic to crying babies. What I can’t quite figure out...”
She glanced back at the windows, but no one else was walking past, not in this weather. All she could see was a thick sheet of silver rain that sparkled as it caught the reflected brilliance of streetlights that had blinked on, fooled into believing it was night.
“What I can’t quite figure out is why.”
CHAPTER TWO (#u5f0c784e-21dd-5391-a617-57d2448ced16)
AFTER SHE LEFT the tattoo parlor, Becky drove around Silverdell for a long time.
Even when the storm broke, she didn’t stop driving. She cruised down Elk Avenue, around the square and over to Callahan Circle, which Dellians always just called Mansion Street. She didn’t stop when she got to the blue French château with the mansard roof, even though she’d called that particular mansion home for twenty-one years.
She didn’t even look at it. Didn’t make any difference whether her dad was home or not—she wasn’t going to stop. She just kept driving. North, and then west onto Cimarron Street. After that, she went back into town to start the figure eight all over again.
Truth was, she really, really didn’t want to go back to Rory’s apartment. He was going to be mad about the tattoo...or the lack of a tattoo. And when he was mad, it was awful.
It was actually more awful than it ought to be, considering he didn’t scream or yell or break things. She almost wished he would. At least that kind of anger made sense.
Her dad was a yeller. He blew up like the storm that was turning Silverdell black as an eclipse right now, flooding the streets and shaking the traffic lights as if it wanted to yank them from their wires. But, like this storm, his anger blew over. Things might be damp and uncomfortable for a while, but the sun always came out again eventually.
Rory was different. He didn’t ever let loose. He got snake-eyed and sarcastic, but behind those curled lips and cold eyes, you could tell the same storm was raging. It just didn’t have an outlet, so it never blew itself out. It kept building, and it spit out in little scalding spurts, like when you overheated grease in a pan. It shot out in small, oddly painful insults, in little unexpected cruelties.
As her car sped through a pool of water so deep it sprayed out like a white fan from her tires, she realized she was going too fast. She had a headache from peering through the rain, and she’d been gripping her steering wheel so tightly her hands hurt.
Consciously flexing her fingers, she took several deliberate deep breaths. She should go home. So what if Rory was mad? She lifted her chin. She wasn’t afraid of him. That wasn’t why she didn’t want to go back. She wasn’t afraid of anybody.
It was just that, when Rory was mean, she didn’t like him very much. And when you loved somebody, it hurt to discover you didn’t like them. It hurt a lot.
Still...the later she showed up, the madder he’d be. And besides, where else did she have to go?
Half-consciously, she slid her hand into her jacket pocket, where she’d put the card that nice woman at the tattoo parlor had given her. But she almost had to laugh at how naive that was. Crimson Slash couldn’t be her real name. But anyone who chose a name like that for herself wasn’t likely to be Mother Teresa.
Which proved that, however nice she seemed, Crimson Slash hadn’t been serious when she said Becky should call her if she needed help.
If Becky were stupid enough to take the offer seriously, the woman probably wouldn’t even remember who the heck Becky Hampton was.
Suddenly, a traffic light swam at her out of the turbulent black ocean of the sky. The light was red. Her heart jumped, hot and huge, and tried to explode in her throat.
She stood on her brakes...belatedly hearing her father’s voice warning her never, never to stop too fast in the rain.
With a sickening awareness that her tires were only barely connected to the tarmac, Becky felt her car fishtail, as if it were hinged in the middle—and not under her control at all.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God...
She’d barely had time to register fear when, like a miracle, her tires gripped the road again, and the car shuddered to a stop.
Her eyes darted to the rearview mirror, and she prayed she wouldn’t see headlights barreling toward her like white bullets. One second...two seconds...
Nothing. She raked her hands through her hair and made a strange, gulping sound. She was going to be okay.
For several seconds, she sat there, thanking God and trying to stop her hands from shaking.
When the light turned green, she didn’t want to take her foot off the brake, but she had to. She’d be a sitting duck if she waited there, immobile and invisible, for some unsuspecting car to smash into. She probably was almost as dumb as her father always said she was...but she wasn’t that dumb.
Somehow she reached Cimarron Street. Apartment Alley was this one’s nickname, because one anonymous building after another was lined up there, shoulder-to-shoulder and face-to-face. Instead of circling through, this time she turned onto Coyote Lane, where Rory lived.
Where she lived, too, she reminded herself. This was home now—not Mansion Street. And that was okay. Compared to splatting herself all over a rain-drenched road, Rory and Coyote Lane had started to look pretty good.
* * *
MOLLY FELL ASLEEP on the way back to Grant’s ranch, probably lulled by the rain pounding against the truck’s roof and the rhythmic swishing of the windshield wipers.
Crimson, who needed to concentrate on maneuvering the flooding streets, was relieved. If she’d had a choice, she would have pulled over and waited out the storm, but Molly was hungry and uncomfortable, and Kevin hadn’t packed enough bottles to see her through such a long afternoon.
She drove no more than ten miles an hour the whole way, aware of her priceless cargo and the treacherous nature of slippery roads. Luckily, Grant’s truck rode high on its big tires, and its bright red paint would be fairly easy for other drivers to spot, even in this monochromatic, underwater gray world.
Once Crimson crawled out of Silverdell and onto the winding rural road that led to the ranches west of town, the traffic thinned out nicely, and the wild rain eased to a simple downpour. Way up ahead, just above the horizon, she could even glimpse a sliver of blue sky.
It felt symbolic, somehow. She might be caught in a storm, but there was light up ahead. Hope still existed. All she had to do was get there. For some inexplicable reason, for the first time since Clover died, Crimson believed she might make it.
As she neared the last real intersection with a traffic light before everything turned to rolling acres of pasture, she began to hum under her breath, choosing a sweet old lullaby her mother used to sing. It had been Clover’s favorite.
Sleep my child, and peace attend thee, all through the night.
Guardian angels God will send thee, all through the night.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the air was filled with a horrible shrieking sound...as if an eagle was dying. Some part of her mind understood it was a car horn, a desperate, endless, metallic warning. And then a crash so abrupt it was more like a bomb. Just a loud, terrifying, glassy explosion, followed by ominous silence.
Ahead of her, the rain filled with smoke, or dust, or... She smelled burning rubber. She touched her brakes, somehow forcing herself not to panic and slam them. The truck slowed down and then stopped just as she drew close enough to see what lay in the road in front of her.
Oh, dear God.
That mangled mass of silver wreckage...that was her car.
Molly was crying now. Crimson dimly heard it, but she was fumbling with her cell phone, dialing 911, and she didn’t have time to do more than murmur a numb, “It’s okay, baby” before she had to talk to the operator.
As she stammered out the details, she was automatically easing the truck onto the right of way. She tucked it safely behind a tree, so no one could accidentally clip it going past, and then she opened the door and went streaking out into the rain.
Another car was in the road, too. A bigger one. Black. Expensive. A man stood by it, his cell phone in his hand.
“I didn’t see them,” he said to her, in the monotone voice of someone in shock. “I didn’t see them.”
She didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him. She ran to her car, drenched and shaking and numb with cold.
“Grant!” She rushed to the driver’s side, the side that had been T-boned by the big black Mercedes. The door was crumpled like an old tissue.
“Grant!” She banged on the window, willing the man slumped over the air bag to raise his head and tell her everything was all right. But it wasn’t all right. It couldn’t be, not with the door like that, and the man so limp, his dark brown hair falling forward, obscuring his face...
His dark brown hair...
It wasn’t Grant. It was Kevin. Kevin had been driving. She glanced at the passenger seat, not breathing. It was empty. It was empty.
Her heart began to beat quickly. “Grant?”
“Yes. I’m here. I’m all right.”
He appeared suddenly on the other side of the car, as if he’d rolled out, and then dragged himself to a standing position. His shirt was muddy, clinging to his shoulders, and he held one arm strangely, clutching the elbow with the other hand and propping it across his chest. Above that, his hard-boned face was pale, his golden-brown hair drenched, water streaming down his cheeks.
“Are you all right?” The bulk of the car was between them, and she couldn’t think how to fix that. She couldn’t think at all. “Are you hurt?”
“No. But Kevin’s unconscious. I’ve called 911, but—”
“I called 911, too,” the man from the Mercedes said. “Are you okay?”
Grant ignored him. He kept his eyes trained on Crimson, as if she were the touchstone that kept him focused, kept him from sinking back into the mud. “Where is Molly?”
“In the truck. She’s fine. We’re fine. Is Kevin—” Her teeth chattered, as if it were deepest winter, and she couldn’t form words. Not that word. It was not a word you spoke aloud. It couldn’t be true, anyhow. It couldn’t be true.
She put her hand against the window, as if she could touch Kevin through the glass. But Kevin wasn’t aware of her. His face was turned sideways, pointing toward the passenger seat, and she couldn’t tell how badly hurt he was.
“Oh, God,” she said. “Kevin...”
“He’s breathing. It’s okay. He’s breathing.” Grant started to take a step, as if to come around the back of the car. As if he wanted to comfort her. But something was wrong with one of his legs, and he stumbled, falling against the hood with his bad arm.
He groaned, clearly in agony.
“Grant.” A pain shot through her own chest, as if she could feel what he felt. His contorted face was so tortured she could hardly bear to look at it. His arm must be badly broken.
“He’ll live, Crimson,” he said thickly. “I promise.”
And with a low moan, he slumped to the ground and out of sight.
Every part of her body felt cold and numb and strangely distant, as if she weren’t really here. As if she might, please God, be dreaming.
Dimly, she heard Molly wailing from the truck. In front of her, Kevin was still slumped over the wheel, motionless. Unconscious, unresponsive, unaware.
And Grant... She couldn’t see him at all, and somehow that was the worst, as if she were an astronaut free-floating in space, her lifeline snipped in two.
The emptiness of infinite space roared in her ears, and she wondered if she’d gone deaf.
But then, finally, she heard the noise she’d been waiting for, the one sound her ears, her heart, her entire soul had been listening, straining, praying for.
The sound of the ambulance, screaming toward them through the rain.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_c0bc876b-6463-53be-a169-ced2bed3c274)
IT WAS ALMOST midnight before Grant was able to go home.
Actually, he was secretly shocked that he’d been able to talk the doctors into discharging him at all. Given how scrambled his brain was right now, he wouldn’t have thought he could talk a bear into sleeping in the woods.
But luckily Harry Middleton was the doctor on duty, and Harry had bought Grant’s first foal, Tender Night, out of Charisma Creek. So a few corners could be cut. Besides, once they set Grant’s arm and did a CT scan on his brain, they didn’t have anything left to hold him for.
“Observation” wasn’t a good enough reason to keep a man in the hospital, not when he had a ranch to run single-handedly.
He looked down at the cast that covered his right forearm from palm to elbow. Single-handedly, indeed. He might have smiled at his inadvertent pun, except his head hurt like a demon, and his bruised ribs were killing him.
And who could feel like smiling about anything while Kevin lay up there on the third floor, unconscious? Sure, Grant’s right ankle was sprained and his arm broken, but that was nothing compared to the crushing Kevin had suffered. He’d never regained consciousness after the accident, and no one seemed sure when—or if—he might wake.
Condition serious but stable, they called it. Whatever that meant. Grant shook off the memory of Kevin’s bandaged form. He didn’t have time to dwell on worst-case scenarios. He had to stay focused. Not only were there chores to do, horses to look after and accounts to settle...but he also had a baby to take care of.
With one hand.
Earlier, while he’d been waiting for his CT scan, Crimson had sent word that Marianne Donovan would babysit Molly for the evening. He’d been surprised at first, because Crimson normally never missed a chance to be with the baby. But he realized how dumb that was. Of course Crimson would want to stay at the hospital as long as she could, even though they wouldn’t let her in Kevin’s room.
She would want to be as close to him as she could get.
If Grant had ever been fool enough to wonder about Crimson’s feelings—to wonder whether maybe Molly was more the attraction than Kevin himself—he knew better now. The look on her face when she first saw Kevin slumped over the steering wheel had said it all. She had been pale with terror, mute with grief.
God, the quiet hospital hallway seemed endless. The polished floor reflected the overhead lights in hazy circles, as if someone had spilled milk at intervals—and the line of circles seemed to stretch on forever.
He’d lied to Harry and the nurses about how much his ankle hurt, hoping they wouldn’t insist on a wheelchair. Limping as little as he could, he followed the path of watery lights to the waiting room on the second floor.
Crimson had sent word she’d be there, and she was.
To his surprise, though, she was deep in conversation with another female, a teenager, he’d guess, and a bottle blonde. The two huddled together in adjoining chairs by the far wall, talking in low tones even though they were the only two people in the room.
They both looked up as Grant entered. Only then did he see that the blonde had a black eye, a swollen upper lip and a bandage across the bridge of her nose.
“Grant!” Crimson rose jerkily. “Is there news?”
He shook his head. “Nothing since I sent the note around nine.”
She nodded. “Thanks for that. No one would tell me anything.”
He’d figured as much. A couple of weeks ago, when Kevin had learned that his new law firm would be sending him overseas periodically, he’d filled out forms naming Grant his official healthcare surrogate and the emergency guardian for Molly.
It was a sudden outburst of practicality, which, frankly, had been a shocker. In their college days, Kevin had been the least sensible person Grant knew.
Of course, he hadn’t seen Kevin in years, so maybe he’d grown out of that long ago. Working with the law could make you overly cautious. And fatherhood changed even the craziest frat boys.
Grant knew that, too.
So now Grant got all the medical updates. Crimson, who had no official standing, couldn’t force the doctors to admit Kevin existed, much less that he lay in one of these rooms, unconscious.
“They may move him to Montrose in a day or two,” Grant said, uncertain whether he’d included that in his note. The painkillers they’d given him were powerful, and a lot of tonight was a blur. “They don’t have neurosurgeons here in Silverdell. The brain scan looks normal, and he does respond to light and stimulus...”
He let the sentence drift off. He’d included the details to provide hope, but even he wasn’t sure what they meant. Clearly the doctors weren’t sure, either. All they were certain of was that Kevin wasn’t brain-dead, and therefore he would probably require a higher level of care.
Crimson nodded silently. She didn’t look shocked, so he assumed his note had covered the basics well enough. But she did look grave. She must hate the idea of Kevin being moved—it would be harder to get to Montrose, which was about an hour away from Silverdell.
On the other hand, she would want him to get the best care possible. Poor Crimson. Her emotions clearly were a heavy weight to carry. Her hazel eyes, normally lit with both intelligence and mischief, were dulled with grief and fear.
Without ever meeting Grant’s gaze, the mystery girl standing next to Crimson fidgeted with her purse strap. She tentatively touched Crimson’s arm.
“I probably should go. Rory’s waiting for me downstairs, and he has to work in the morning.”
Crimson frowned, but even the frown was blunted. When she didn’t agree with something, she ordinarily zapped you hard. Now, though, her voice was softly troubled. “Becky, Rory isn’t—”
“It’s okay!” The girl smiled so brightly it looked out of place here, in the dim, hushed chill of a hospital waiting room at midnight. “He’ll watch out for me. After I fell, he practically carried me to the hospital. Honestly. I stumble on one wet staircase, and suddenly he thinks I can’t walk without tripping over my own feet.”
Crimson shut her eyes and took a deep breath. She swayed slightly. Grant wondered whether she might collapse right there. He’d never seen her look so dead-dog tired.
She opened her eyes. “You still have my card?”
The girl nodded, never letting the smile drop. “Sure do! Thanks. Pretty crazy, huh, both of us showing up here tonight?” She transferred the high-wattage beam to Grant. “Good to meet you,” she said, though she hadn’t. “Glad you’re okay!”
Wiggling her fingers in a goodbye better suited to friends parting at the dance club, she left.
Grant went over to where Crimson stood. She’d let her shoulder drop against the wall as if she needed the support. Beside her, through the window, he saw flashes of silver, which made the ugly metallic rooftop air handlers look almost pretty.
“It’s still raining.” He was surprised, though he wasn’t sure why. Silverdell springs could be wet as hell. But he felt as if he’d been inside this hospital for days, instead of hours.
“It’s okay. I drive pretty well in the rain.”
Right. He’d have to leave the driving to her, wouldn’t he? He wasn’t even sure his sprained right ankle would be capable of making the transition from gas to brake—and the last thing they needed was another accident.
He almost asked her where her car was parked—but he remembered in the nick of time. She didn’t have a car anymore. They’d towed it to the junk lot down by Mark’s garage on the south side of town, waiting to be crushed, no doubt.
And suddenly, like a tsunami, all the practical details of this mess rushed into his head. None of it had seemed to matter earlier, when he’d been focused on Kevin’s condition and on persuading the doctors to let him go home.
But it mattered now. Thanks to that fool tourist, who had been texting when he should have been watching the road, Crimson was in a fix—and so was he.
What was he going to do with Molly? He couldn’t tend to a baby with only one good hand.
He couldn’t tend to a baby. Period.
“Hell.” He frowned, getting a sudden glimpse of the long list of things he wasn’t going to be able to do one-handed. It stretched from the profoundly important, like grooming, feeding and training his horses, to the ridiculously trivial, like buttoning his jeans and squeezing toothpaste onto his own toothbrush. “I’m screwed, aren’t I?”
His cell phone chose that moment to buzz at him. Clumsily, he dug around in his pocket with his left hand, barely managing to extricate the thing before it was too late.
He answered without looking at the caller ID, because he didn’t have time. Just his luck. It was Ginny.
And apparently, she’d heard about the accident.
“Honey, are you okay?”
“I’m okay.” He wondered why they were back to honey. He’d been so relieved when she broke up with him. Surely she wasn’t going to try to patch things up now.
Crimson was staring at him, her face set as if she feared it might be bad news, so he smiled a little and shook his head to set her mind at ease. “My arm’s broken,” he explained into the phone, “and I’m on some serious painkillers, but I’m alive.”
He winced when he heard himself say that. I’m alive, but Kevin...
“Are you still at the hospital? Let me come get you. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
Instinctively, he began to protest. “No, really. I’m fine. I know you decided we should take a break, and just because I’ve had an accident, you shouldn’t—”
“I want to! You know I wouldn’t leave you in the lurch!”
“Listen, Ginny.” He was suddenly so tired he wasn’t sure how much longer he could string words together. “I’m fine. I don’t need any help.”
“What about the baby? If your arm is broken, you’ll need someone to help with the baby, surely. Diapers? Feeding?”
She was right, of course. He would desperately need help with all that. But he’d learn to change diapers with his toes before he’d put Molly in the Ginny’s care. The breakup over late-night wailing was only the last in a long line of small indications that Ginny wasn’t fond of babies.
He glanced at Crimson. Maybe something in his face alerted her to the problem. Or maybe she had just put two and two together from his end of the conversation.
She raised her eyebrows and tapped her index finger against her collarbone. “Me,” she mouthed. She held her elbows out, cupped one hand behind the other and mimicked rocking a baby. “Me.”
He nodded. Yes. Oh, hell, yes. He didn’t have to think twice. Even his muddy brain could see how perfect that solution was. Crimson was capable, kind and newly unemployed. She loved Molly, and the baby had clearly bonded with her.
“I’ve already got the help I need,” he said into the phone, though he kept his gaze on Crimson, who was smiling her approval. She was extraordinarily beautiful, he thought suddenly, and then pulled back from the thought. Was that the painkillers talking? He didn’t concern himself with the beauty of women who belonged to other men.
Maybe it was just that, at the moment, she looked like his guardian angel. He hadn’t even realized how daunted he’d felt at the prospect of handling things alone until he didn’t have to. She was the perfect candidate.
Honestly, he couldn’t think of anyone else he could stand to have living at the ranch right now.
“What do you mean, you’ve already got help?” Ginny sounded suspicious. “You’ve been in the hospital all afternoon. What did you do, hire a nurse straight out of the ER?”
“Better than a nurse,” he said. “Crimson’s offered to move in till Kevin wakes up.”
* * *
“I’VE GOTTA TELL YOU, pumpkin, you’re cute, but you’re exhausting.”
Crimson dropped a kiss on Molly’s head as she spoke, as if to offset any implied criticism. But it was true. She was dog-tired. And she’d only been a substitute mother for about—she glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand by Kevin’s bed—about three hours now.
Three hours out of...how many? How many days, weeks, months, even, would it be before Kevin was well enough to come back to his infant daughter?
If he ever was.
She shivered, even though this bedroom, one of the few completely renovated rooms in Grant’s comfortable ranch house, was cozy warm. She could see a peaceful spring dawn rising over the greening mountains through the window.
About half an hour ago, the rain had finally stopped—and Molly had woken up. Maybe the sudden silence was the problem. Maybe the deep drumming of water against the roof had provided a lullaby of white noise. Or, heck, maybe waking at 5:00 a.m. was normal for Molly. Crimson had never been intimate enough with Kevin to learn such things.
She’d never spent the night in this bedroom. Not until tonight.
She looked at the baby, who looked back, wide-eyed and curious.
What had she gotten herself into? Was it really just yesterday she’d been saying she needed to get the heck out of Silverdell? She should have listened to her gut. She should have gone straight to her car and...
As if Molly sensed Crimson’s distress, she frowned. She puckered up and inhaled, clearly prepared to wail.
“Shhh...no, no, we have to let Uncle Grant sleep.” Crimson patted the baby’s back, wondering what on earth to try next.
Clean diaper? Well, she wasn’t an idiot. She’d taken care of that first. She’d also offered a bottle of formula. Kevin had cleverly turned this guest bedroom into a self-contained baby-tending unit, with a small refrigerator on the dresser, and an electric bottle warmer conveniently situated on the end table.
After Molly had eaten, Crimson had patted her back until she burped. Serenading her softly, she’d walked her around the room.
And around. And around.
She’d been pacing a cramped circle through this small space for half an hour now. From the crib, down around the foot of the bed, over to the window, past the armoire and back to the bed. Every time, the minute Molly saw the crib, she started to fret, so Crimson would start the loop all over again.
But still Molly rode her shoulder with her head erect, her body tense, her feet kicking slightly. She was 100 percent wide-awake.
“Hush now, pumpkin. Hush.”
But Molly was clearly not in the mood to be hushed. Jiggling the baby with one arm, Crimson snatched up her long bathrobe with the other and made her way out the door, worming her arm into the sleeve awkwardly.
She still had only one arm in by the time she hit the staircase, and the robe dangled from her shoulder. Gingerly, she made her way down the beautiful Australian cypress treads, being careful not to trip on the untied belt, which dragged beside her like a snake.
The staircase seemed to fascinate Molly, who instantly went silent. She gripped the neck of Crimson’s nightshirt in one fist to steady herself and used her other hand to push upright so she could gaze at the big house with her liquid blue eyes.
She smacked her lips, and then she made a noise that sounded a lot like a kitten purring. Crimson had to chuckle. It was undoubtedly an expression of approval, as if saying that Crimson had been a little slow on the uptake, but she’d finally gotten it right.
“I hear you, girlfriend,” Crimson said, kissing the warm, silky head again as they made it to the bottom of the stairs. “A lady’s gotta have space. A lady’s gotta have a little excitement.”
“I’m not sure I can offer excitement this early in the morning,” Grant said, appearing suddenly from the shadows of the dining room, where it led into the kitchen. “Frankly, it took me half an hour to manage coffee. Want some?”
“Grant!” Crimson frowned. “What on earth are you doing awake?”
He couldn’t have slept more than two hours. If that. They’d decided not to leave Molly with Marianne, who had the restaurant to handle and needed rest. But by the time they’d picked up the baby, and stopped by Crimson’s apartment to grab a toothbrush and a change of clothes, and driven back to Grant’s place, it had been nearly 3:00 a.m.
“Did Molly wake you? I tried to keep her quiet, but—”
“No. I haven’t even been upstairs.” He turned and led the way into the kitchen, talking as he walked. “Too much to do.”
She watched him move away. He was limping more than he had last night. Shifting Molly to her other shoulder, she followed him into the kitchen.
“Tell me what needs to be done, and I’ll take care of it. You need to get off that foot, and you need sleep. You look awful.”
He turned, raising one eyebrow and giving her a small smile. “Gee. Thanks.”
She refused to smile back. He’d been born gorgeous, and he knew it, but she wasn’t kidding. He looked done in. His thick, brown hair fell onto his forehead in unkempt waves. Dark blue shadows sat like bruises below his heavy-lidded eyes. His skin, which ordinarily glowed, bronzed by the hours outside, looked oddly sallow. His full lips seemed to have thinned from pain.
“You look terrible,” she repeated.
“Oh, well.” Tilting his head, he let his gaze quickly scan her from head to toe. He brought his coffee mug up for a quick sip to hide his smile. “Obviously we can’t all be as splendid first thing in the morning as you are.”
Aw, crud. Belatedly, she remembered she hadn’t even run her fingers through her hair when she got up with the baby. Last year, she’d cut her hair in edgy, red-tipped spikes, and growing that stupid style out was an ordeal. If she didn’t slick it down, it stuck out all over like a sick peacock in molting season.
And then there was the sexless gray bathrobe, which still hung over one shoulder, half on, half off, and dragged on the ground behind her.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to find anyone down here,” she said brusquely. It annoyed her to realize she was embarrassed. What did she care how bad she looked? If he’d wanted eye candy, he should have stuck with Ginny, whose magic mascara probably never gave her raccoon eyes if she forgot to take it off.
She felt around behind her, blindly rooting for the other side of the robe so she could at least cover herself up. It was probably obvious she wasn’t wearing anything underneath this ugly cotton nightshirt.
With a small chuckle, Grant set down his coffee cup. Reaching his good hand around to help her, he lifted the terry cloth and guided the opening of the sleeve toward her fingers. When that was on, he tugged the robe up over her shoulders and tucked the edge under the other side, while she held Molly out of the way.
He grabbed the short end of the fuzzy belt and slid it through its loopholes to pull it even.
“You’ll have to tie it, I’m afraid.” He smiled. “I’m already discovering how many things I can’t do with one hand. Making a bow is one of them.”
“Thanks,” she said awkwardly. He was still holding the edge of the sash, and Crimson’s skin prickled with an odd awareness. When he’d brushed her breast, she’d felt it like a burn. She needed to remember not to come down half-dressed ever again. Clearly it made her way too sensitized and silly.
As if he understood, he dropped the sash and instead put his palm over the crown of the baby’s head and softly stroked the carroty hair.
“Hey, cutie,” he said. “You look sleepy, too. How about a nap, so Auntie Red can get a little more shut-eye?”
Molly seemed to love the touch of his big, gentle hand, and she clearly recognized the name “Auntie Red.” Kevin had given it to her when they first started dating.
The baby sank against Crimson’s shoulder with a contented chirp. She nuzzled her collarbone for a second or two, and then she shut her eyes and went instantly limp with sleep.
Grant smiled, and their gazes met over the baby’s head. Crimson shook her head slightly, a mute acknowledgment of the irony. She’d tried for an hour to accomplish what he’d been able to do with one touch.
“It’s a guy thing,” he whispered, but his eyes were teasing.
She ought to take Molly upstairs right now, ease her into the crib and grab a little more sleep. And yet she felt oddly fixed in place.
After the hell of yesterday, there was something so intensely intimate and good about this moment. The kitchen was fresh and pink with dawn light. The coffee gave the rain-freshened air a homey flavor. The warm infant in her arms smelled like baby powder, soap and everything simple and sweet.
“Thank you, Crimson,” Grant said, his voice quietly solemn. He rarely used her real name, which he knew she didn’t like. But it sounded oddly feminine and lovely now. “Thank you for being here. For being willing to help.”
Crimson started to protest automatically—it was nothing, she was glad to do it, she adored Molly, she’d do anything for Grant...
But as she gazed into his eyes, she felt a strange shift, as if she’d momentarily lost her balance. When she centered herself again, she felt different. The whole room felt different.
He blinked and frowned slightly, as if the same tremor had just run through him, too. His beautiful brown eyes, flecked with gold, were just as shadowed and tired as ever, but they suddenly held a new gleam. When he gazed down at her, it was as if he could see beyond the surface, beneath the skin, down to something very private. Something no one else could see.
She’d do anything for Grant...
Heat shot to her cheeks as a jolt of electricity moved through her midsection. Confused and deeply embarrassed, she fought the feeling. This was ridiculous. She must be imagining it. She and Grant...they weren’t like this. They weren’t lovers. They hadn’t ever even considered it. They didn’t even flirt.
They were just friends.
And yet, she didn’t seem to be able to pull her gaze from his, and she was tingling all over...
“It’s nothing,” she said, desperately clutching at the pat phrases. “Really. I’m glad to help. It’s nothing.”
She backed off a clumsy step or two, ignoring the way her robe slid open again, exposing her bare legs and the outline of her breast. If he dropped his gaze, he would see what these invisible shivers had done to her...
But he didn’t look down. The minute she began to move, he turned away.
“Better get some sleep while you can,” he said briskly. “I’m trying to line up more help. I’ll let you know what I can get.”
And then, as if the electricity that arced between them had never happened, as if she had imagined it, he turned back to the counter where the coffee was brewing. He was pouring himself another cup when his cell phone rang.
“Get some sleep, Red,” he said again. He smiled casually at her over his shoulder as he answered his phone. “Olson...thank God. Did you catch up with Barley? I’m going to be useless for weeks. Can he be here by ten?”
* * *
THESE DAYS, WHEN the alarm on Rory’s cell phone went off at 6:00 a.m., Becky pretended to sleep through it. She used to get up with him, eager to be supportive and “wifely.” But she’d quickly learned he wasn’t a morning person. He didn’t eat breakfast, hated to make small talk before the coffee kicked in and was always running late, anyway.
Besides, their apartment was too small, and no matter how careful she was, she always seemed to be standing right where he needed to be. If she asked him questions like “When do you think you’ll be home?” he’d get that cold, contemptuous look. He’d sigh and repeat very slowly, “What did I tell you the last ten times you asked?”
I don’t know when I’ll be home, Becky. Remember? It depended on how many cars there were to fix, and how hard the problems were to diagnose, how long the supplier took to deliver the parts, how obnoxious the customers acted or how lazy the other mechanics were when it came time to clean up the bays.
Of course she remembered all that. She was just making conversation. It felt weird to watch him shave and gargle, drag on his underwear, guzzle milk from the carton and pee with the bathroom door open...all without saying a word.
It hadn’t always been like this. When she’d first moved in, he’d usually been horny in the mornings. When his alarm went off, he’d hit the snooze button, and then he’d reach over and shove her nightgown up around her waist with a quick jerk that was supposed to be a joke. She slept on her side, so he’d angle her hips and take her in a spoon position, sometimes before she was even fully awake.
He’d always be finished long before the alarm went off again.
Funny. She could remember when she’d found that kind of primitive dominance weirdly thrilling. It had seemed manly. Simple, earthy and real. Maybe it wasn’t technically satisfying, in that she never...well, it never made her...
But it had turned her on, even so. It made her feel female and desirable. It had made her feel alive, as she had never felt alive in the mansion on Callahan Circle.
But Rory hadn’t touched her in the morning for weeks. They still had sex, of course, but mostly at night, after he got home from work. He’d shower first, naturally. He hated the stink of the shop. All through dinner, he’d bitch about the customers and the other mechanics, and Joe, the owner. He’d keep up a running monologue as he wolfed the food down, even when she’d made something really complicated and special for him as a treat.
And when he was finished eating and complaining, he’d want to have sex. Lately, she’d stopped even thinking of it as “making love.” It was just sex. Just a way to let off steam, like eating or complaining.
She knew what this change in him meant. It meant he was terribly, terribly unhappy. He hated his job. He hated his poverty, this apartment, the fact that her father had disowned her for moving in with a blue-collar loser like him.
What she didn’t know was what to do about it. She didn’t know how to make him happy again.
She listened to him moving around the small apartment now, mentally following the routine, gauging how long till he would be gone. She had to pee, too, but she didn’t want to risk tying up the bathroom at the very moment he needed it.
He was in a superbad mood today, she could tell. His steps were heavy on the uncarpeted floors, and he made a big to-do of trying to find a clean spoon for his coffee in the silverware drawer. She wondered whether, at least subconsciously, he wanted to wake her, specifically so they could have a fight.
He resented that she only had a part-time job at Fanny Bronson’s bookshop and didn’t have to get up as early as he did. He was always telling her she needed to look harder for something full-time, or at least another part-time gig.
He was running late. She could tell by how rushed his movements were. Too rushed. Suddenly she heard his coffee mug hit the kitchen floor. The ceramic splintered on the wood like a china bomb.
He cussed loudly, using the F word, which he once had kept off-limits, around her, anyhow.
“I don’t have time for this shit,” she heard him say. She did not hear the sound of the broom closet opening, or the swish of bristles across the floor or the clink of broken pieces collecting in the dustpan.
She merely heard the cabinet open, the trickle of coffee filling a new mug, and then Rory slamming the pot back on the stove with undisguised hostility. As if she, not he, had broken the first mug.
Becky wondered whether she could get away with feigning sleep any longer—even the dead couldn’t sleep through all this—but she didn’t have the courage to open her eyes.
She heard him stomp to the bedroom door. He stood there a minute, and she knew he was staring at her. She tried to breathe regularly, but her lungs felt like iron. And she wasn’t sure what her real-sleep breathing sounded like. Was it fast? Slow? Noisy? Did she snore? She ought to record herself sometime, she thought numbly, so she could imitate it more accurately.
After what seemed an eternity, he cursed again, smacked the door frame with the palm of his hand and left the apartment. Even then, she didn’t get up. She waited until she heard his truck rumble to life in the parking lot outside their window. When he turned the corner onto Cimarron Street, and its sputtering sound died away, she finally pushed back the covers and stood.
Her legs were oddly unsteady, and her stomach felt loose and unpleasant, as if she’d swallowed a gallon of dirty water. She put her hand over her navel, hoping to might stop the sudden surge of nausea.
Was she coming down with stomach flu?
She hoped not. Fanny was a good boss, but she didn’t offer sick leave to her part-timers, and Becky needed the money. She’d sold a gold chain last week to cover her half of the rent, and she didn’t have much more of her good jewelry with her at the apartment.
She’d left most of it back at the Callahan House on purpose. To make a statement. To show her father she didn’t give a damn about his money. She didn’t need it. Where she was going, the currency was love.
Her father had laughed. “Let’s see how much he loves you when you’re not decked out in diamonds and gold.”
How sad, how indescribably sad, to discover her father was right, after all. It wasn’t that Rory didn’t love her unless she had money—it was just that nothing could bloom in an atmosphere of this much stress and financial worry. Not even love. Nothing could go right at home when a man spent all day at a job he hated, with people who didn’t value him.
After she used the bathroom, her stomach felt a little more settled, so she cleaned up the broken mug, made the bed and took a shower. She still felt light-headed, but not actually ill, so she decided not to call in until she tried having some breakfast.
But when she sat down at the kitchen table and ate her first spoonful of cereal, she suddenly doubled over with nausea. She rose blindly, knowing she would never make it to the bathroom. She turned toward the sink.
And vomited.
She stood there many minutes afterward, shaking strangely, her elbows pressing against the cold stainless steel. She stared into the sink. She’d had nothing in her, really, so nothing much had come up except greenish bile that had slipped right down the silver drain.
At the thought, her stomach turned again. Helplessly, she retched, desperately trying to gather her long hair and keep it from falling into her face. Again, nothing came up except a thin, sickly stream of water.
So it couldn’t be anything she’d eaten. What was it? Was it nerves? Was it Rory?
Bowing her head, she made a small sobbing sound. She felt confused and weak, as if she wanted to curl up on the floor and cry for her mommy. But she hadn’t had a mother since she was eight years old. And she hadn’t had much of one, even before that.
“Jesus, what the hell is this?” Rory’s voice was suddenly right behind her. “Don’t you have to be at work in half an hour?”
She let her hair drop from numb fingers. She whirled around to face him, too shocked to take offense at his tone. What was he doing home? He should be at the garage, shouldn’t he?
“I...I’m not feeling that great,” she stammered. “I was thinking I might call in sick.”
“Oh, yeah?” His handsome face looked menacing, suffused with dark, angry blood. He strode to the sink and caught her by the arm. His fingers were so tight she swore she felt them reach her bone.
“Well, you better think again. You’re going in no matter how you feel. We need that money. Especially now.”
She swallowed. Her mouth felt sour and unclean. “Why especially now?”
“Because only one of us can sit around in our pj’s eating bonbons, princess, and it’s my turn now. That bastard Joe Mooney just fired me.”
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_99581d82-1f56-595b-8a0f-f6d8b28c97c7)
“YOU KNOW ABOUT this horse, I guess.”
Dusty Barley, the crusty old trainer who had answered Campbell Ranch’s call for help the other day, shot a quick glance at Grant, who was watching the halter training from just outside the paddock fence.
“Know what?” Grant was definitely interested in Barley’s opinion. Cawdor’s Gilded Dawn was the horse he hoped to sell to his deep-pocket buyer Monday night. Grant thought the three-year-old filly was fabulous, but if she had a defect he needed to know about it now.
“Ah, well, yep, of course you know.” Barley always talked softly, as if he were thinking aloud, which maybe he was. He also sounded as if he had a mouth full of gravel, probably the result of his crowded and crisscrossed teeth. “But I still gotta say it. This one’s gonna be special, Campbell.”
Grant held back a sigh, watching as the copper filly flicked her beautifully elevated tail. As Barley prompted her to step to the right, her muscular hips caught the sunlight, gleaming as if she truly were made of gold.
Barley was right, of course. Barley was always right. That’s why Grant couldn’t afford him at Campbell Ranch, not full-time. It had been a small miracle he’d been able to get him on such short notice Wednesday—and hold on to him for three whole days now.
“So...I’m just saying.” Barley kept his voice steady as he moved around the young filly, careful not to spook her. “You sure you don’t want to keep this one?”
“I never said that.” Grant leaned on the post, taking the weight off his bad foot. The grass was soft, but right now it felt harder than concrete. “I just said I’ve got a buyer coming from California to look at her.”
“Yep.” Phlegmatic as ever, the older man put the crop close to the young filly’s nose. She didn’t flinch. “Good girl. Good girl. Still. This one’s got star quality. Look at that neck.”
Grant didn’t answer. Truth was, he was 100 percent sure he did want to keep her. But he was 99.9 percent sure he couldn’t afford to.
She would have been perfect, though. If he was going to maintain a breeding program, and not just a boarding and training stable, he needed a foundation mare. Up to now, Charisma Creek had been his dam, but she was reaching the end of her breeding years.
If Campbell Ranch was going to make a name for itself, Grant needed a champion maker, a consistent producer with a good bloodline. And he needed her soon.
Dawn could be that mare.
Though she was very young, she already had the most extraordinary elegance—a high, airy motion and impeccable conformation. She had a swan-like neck, a flat topline, a perfectly dished head. Her eyes were soulful and intelligent.
Plus, as Barley pointed out, she had that indefinable something that made a star. Everyone fell in love with her. The best Arabians were as pretty in the face as cartoon horses, as powerful in carriage as thunderbolts and as graceful in motion as water. Dawn was all of that...and then some.
Barley finished the lesson, led Dawn to the carrots and then let her loose to romp a bit in the outdoor paddock.
Grant followed the filly with his gaze. She covered so much ground when she ran—and yet she still had amazing elevation. He wished he’d brought a video camera. It was a beautiful morning, the sun sparkling like an enormous gold sequin overhead, and the grass studded with a thousand wildflowers that seemed to have sprung up all at once.
Amid all that picture-postcard color, Dawn looked like a dancing sunbeam.
“Thanks,” Grant said as Barley sauntered over toward him at the fence. “You really brought her along today. If you can stay, the boarders need turnout, too. And I’d love to hear what you think about the horse in stall five. His owner wants to sell, but I’m not so sure. I’d planned to ride him a bit this week, but...”
Damn his useless arm. It was going to cost him a fortune to hire out all this work. And he hated feeling cooped up. Pinned down. Irrelevant. He loved the horses, and he loved this land. He wanted to be doing something active, something that mattered.
Instead, for the past three days, he’d been clumsily typing with one finger and making endless phone calls. And watching while other people did the real work.
“I can stay.” Barley shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “Olson said you needed help, and that cast there says he wasn’t kidding. I’m yours as long as you need me.”
Grant was relieved—and a little flattered. Everyone knew Barley operated more on gut instinct than on schedules. No one else could get away with being so elusive, but Barley could.
At first glance, he didn’t look particularly impressive. A scrawny older guy, probably not even ninety pounds dripping wet, with a big black mustache and curly black hair that fell to his shoulders. He walked bowlegged and dressed scruffy.
But he knew horses, and he could work miracles.
That meant he didn’t have to commit to anyone long-term, and he rarely did. He was like rain—you couldn’t summon it, and you couldn’t keep it from floating away to the next guy’s acres, but you were grateful for every drop that fell your way.
“Actually,” Grant corrected ruefully, “you’re only mine as long as I can afford you. Which, if I don’t sell Dawn Monday night, isn’t very long.”
“Monday night, huh?” Barley made a thoughtful sound between his teeth. Soberly, he bent over and plucked a snowdrop from a cluster of wildflowers growing beside the post. He threaded its stem into the top buttonhole of his vest. Then he tipped back his hat and watched Dawn cantering in the sunlight.
“That’s a damned shame, Campbell. Truly.”
“Yes,” Grant said with feeling. “Yes, it is.”
“Okay, then. I guess I’ll look at that horse in number five.” Barley saluted Grant wryly and started to walk away, but stopped after just a few feet and turned back. “Seriously, though. My best advice? Don’t let this one get away.”
Grant raised his brows. For a guy like Barley, who was infamous for his unflappable detachment, this was the equivalent of jumping up and down and screaming.
“Okay,” Grant said. “Message received. I’ll think it over.”
As he watched the little man stride away, the weaving gait of his bowlegs kicking up dirt, Grant tried to stay calm. No point letting wishful thinking run away with him.
The two truths weren’t incompatible. Barley could be quite right about Golden Dawn’s value, and Grant could also be quite right about needing to sell her.
But Grant was the only one who had the big picture. He was the only one who had seen both the horse and the solvency projections. All of his financial planner’s clever graphs and charts showed Campbell Ranch nose-diving straight into bankruptcy if they didn’t make their targeted income every month, rain or shine.
Without this sale, he didn’t even come close to that target. And that was before he factored in all the extra expenses his broken arm would create. Not to mention the medical co-pays and deductibles.
If he tried to hold on to every good horse he encountered, instead of selling it, he might as well shut up the ranch now and head out to Memphis, where his father-in-law so desperately wanted him to be, in the job his father-in-law was dangling like a carrot.
He liked Ben Broadwell. And the job, heading up the foundation to help disadvantaged youths with after-school programs, literacy tutors and various kinds of mentoring, was a worthwhile cause. But...
But Ben Broadwell wasn’t his father-in-law anymore, really. Not since Grant’s wife, Brenda, had died. And if Grant took that offer, it was as good as saying he would never be any more than a dead woman’s grieving widower.
That might be true, in the end. But surely he hadn’t reached the end yet. Surely there was still hope that he could build a meaningful life of his own.
So...he had to sell Dawn. Debate settled.
Or at least it should be. Still, he lingered by the paddock watching the filly romp and play awhile longer, even though his foot ached and a mountain of paperwork called.
“Hey, mister!”
He turned at the sound of Crimson’s voice. To his surprise, she was only ten feet away, walking toward him. She wore soft, faded jeans and a loose shirt as blue as the columbines she waded through.
The sun brought out auburn highlights in her silky brown hair and gilded her cheeks, turning her to a kind of gold, just as it had done with Dawn. He felt his body react to her simple, unfussy beauty and had to throw up his guard in a hurry before it could show on his face.
As she drew closer, with Molly draped over her shoulder, and her classic mischievous smile on her lips, she showed no signs of feeling awkward—or sensing that he did. She held up a closed fist and shook it teasingly, the way a gambler might shake a pair of dice before rolling them.
“Can I interest you in some of the good stuff, mister? I’ve been watching you. You look like you could use some serious acetaminophen.”
He checked his watch. He was at least two hours overdue. No wonder his foot was killing him.
“You’re an angel.” He accepted the pills and the small paper cup of water she’d been balancing in the hand that held Molly. He downed both pills in one swallow, realizing only afterward the cup was oddly soggy and bent around the rim.
He looked at the baby, who had swiveled in Crimson’s arms and was now watching him steadily, a frown on her cherubic face. She held out one fat hand and uttered a demanding syllable.
“Oh, sorry, was this yours?” Smiling as he put two and two together, he handed the crumpled cup back. He scraped his lips between his teeth in exaggerated distaste. “Yum,” he said. “Delicious.”
Crimson grinned as Molly gummed the ball of wet paper. “In some cultures, baby slime is considered a delicacy. And speaking of dinner...”
He laughed.
“Marianne tells me you’ve asked her to cater dinner for you Monday night.”
“Yeah.” He wasn’t aware she and Marianne chatted on a daily basis. “I’ve got a foreign buyer coming by. If he nibbles, it’s a big sale, so a little wining and dining seemed in order.”
And Marianne’s dining was the best. She might call the place a “diner,” but the swankiest place in Colorado could take a few pointers from her food. She’d become the go-to spot for catering lately, weddings and funerals, and everything in between.
A disturbing thought occurred to him. What if Marianne had run into trouble?
“Is there a problem? I know I didn’t give her much notice, but Marianne said she could handle it. If she can’t—”
“She can.” Crimson shifted the baby to her other shoulder. “But the way she’s handling it is to ask me to do most of the cooking. I’ve done that for her a couple of times, when she’s been in a pinch. But this time the arrangement seems unnecessarily complicated, don’t you think? I just thought I’d let you know, in case you’d like to eliminate the middleman.”
“No, damn it.” He frowned. “I deliberately didn’t mention the dinner to you because you’re doing too much work around here already.”
And that was absolutely true. Not only did she take care of Molly, and spend hours driving to and from Montrose to see Kevin at the hospital, she’d taken over the cleaning, as well. And for these three days she’d cooked breakfast, lunch and dinner and sent it out to the stable office, where he often ate his meals while he worked.
Then, in the evening, when he was struggling with feeding the horses, she’d somehow materialized in the stables, with Molly in a backpack carrier, and pitched in there, too.
The extra pair of hands was a relief—a godsend, really—but it also made him uncomfortable. When he’d accepted her offer to stay here, he certainly hadn’t intended to turn her into the full-time housekeeper.
And they hadn’t talked about money yet, either. He hoped she knew he intended to pay her for everything. He hadn’t forgotten she’d just been fired, and if she weren’t stuck tending to Molly she’d probably be out there lining up a new job.
“For me, cooking isn’t work,” she said. “It’s fun. I’m pretty good at it.”
He’d discovered that months ago—everyone had, because her contributions to any get-together were always so delicious no one could believe she concocted them in an efficiency apartment’s kitchen.
And since she’d been staying in his house, he’d learned firsthand just how amazing her skills were. And not just with food. With the whole domestic scene.
Because they’d met outdoors, doing manual labor for their outreach program, and, he had to be honest, partly because she was a straight-shooting, spiky-haired body modification artist, he’d never thought of her as the domestic angel type. But boy, had she surprised him. His half-renovated mess of a ranch house had never felt so much like a home.
Maybe that was partly why he was so wrong-footed around her these days. She was so different here...not at all the woman who deliberately preferred to be called Crimson Slash. In fact, it wasn’t until he saw her in her robe the other morning that he’d noticed that her spiky, red-tipped hair was growing out in soft waves around her chin. And wasn’t even red.
“If we’re trying to impress this buyer, I’ve got a beef Stroganoff that’ll have him on his knees.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “And hey...if you’ve got a spare French maid costume lying around anywhere, I can guarantee a meal he’ll never forget.”
Grant’s imagination served up a quick vision of Crimson in a flouncy black miniskirt and lacy apron. A quick sizzle shot through him—much like the one that had blindsided him that first morning, when he made the mistake of helping her arrange her bathrobe.
He squelched it as quickly as it appeared, as he’d been doing ever since that morning. Indulging even an unspoken attraction to this woman was wrong in so many ways. First and foremost: Kevin.
“Can’t say I’ve got a French maid costume lying around,” he said, laughing easily to show what an innocent joke it all was. “Besides, if you’re going to help with dinner, you’re not going to be masquerading as an employee. You’ll eat with us.”
She was already shaking her head, but he didn’t give her time to protest. “Seriously, Red, you’d be doing me a favor. He’s bringing his girlfriend, and it’ll be more comfortable if I’ve got a date, too.”
She flushed, like a sudden sunburn, and he wished he’d bitten his tongue. Why had he used the word date? That wasn’t how he meant it. He just thought that, in case Stefan was the jealous type, the man might prefer his host not to be conspicuously single.
Crimson wouldn’t be a date. She would be his ally.
So dumb. But to be fair, when had conversation with Crimson become so touchy? Up until three days ago, she’d been the most comfortable female buddy he’d ever had. She was smart, sassy, straightforward and fun. Good-looking, but not hungry for admiration. Actually quite the contrary—with her spiky red hair and no-nonsense clothes, she seemed to be asking for some space.
Around Crimson, Grant could always just be himself. Easy, relaxed, uncomplicated. And then she’d moved into Kevin’s room, and suddenly everything changed.
Well, maybe it was time to change it back.
“What’s that scowl about?” He reached out his good hand and tapped the furrow between her brows. “Since when did the idea of eating dinner with me become a fate worse than death?”
She laughed sheepishly, smoothing Molly’s hair, clearly not wanting to meet his eyes. “It’s not. It’s just that I don’t want you to think—”
“I don’t think anything...except I’m not going to sit there pretending to be the cowboy king while you slave away in the kitchen. You’re not my maid. You’re my friend. Eat with us, or I’m sending out for burgers.”
“Marianne’s too busy even for that.”
“Not Marianne’s burgers.” He tilted his head. “I was thinking maybe the Busted Button.”
“No way!” Crimson’s eyes widened in mock horror. The fast-food joint’s real name was Buster’s Burgers, but their billboard screamed “Fat and Happy—Guaranteed!” above a picture of a cartoon French fry with the top button of his blue jeans popping off, so no one in Silverdell ever called it anything but the Busted Button.
She narrowed her eyes, obviously well aware she was being played. “You’ll never close the deal if you go to Buster’s. Your buyer will be dead of a heart attack before dessert.”
“Exactly.” He grinned. “So. Deal?”
It was her favorite shorthand phrase, one she used when she was sick of debating.
She shook her head and rolled her eyes in that sardonic way he knew so well. He felt his shoulders relax. His good friend Red, who could dandle a baby, cook a gourmet meal and still call baloney when he tried to pull a fast one, was back.
“Deal,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Molly and I have some grocery shopping to do.”
* * *
MONDAY MORNING, CRIMSON went to visit Kevin much earlier than usual. The doctors had moved him to Montrose after the first day, which had been presented as a good sign, and she hoped it really meant there was hope.
Belle Garwood, from over at Bell River Ranch, had offered to keep Molly. Because Belle had a newborn baby herself, Crimson hated to impose often, but today, with the big dinner to prepare, she needed the help.
Though Crimson and Grant had both visited Kevin every day since the accident, they never went at the same time. Crimson had picked up a rental car, which made things easier. Even though going separately involved a tremendous amount of driving, especially now that Kevin was in Montrose, it seemed they both preferred it that way.
The schedule wasn’t something they’d discussed much—beyond casually observing that it made sense to take turns. Tag-teaming covered more ground, they’d said. Alternating visits kept watchful eyes in Kevin’s room more of the time.
Grant went in the daytime, mostly, when one of the hands could drive him to Montrose, piggybacking on some errand for the ranch. Crimson went in the late afternoons or early evenings, because it was easier to get a sitter for Molly. If they accidentally overlapped and ran into each other in the parking lot or in the hospital corridors, they never acknowledged that it was awkward.
It was, though.
At home, at the ranch, they’d been able to move past the geyser of sexual chemistry that had sprung up between them that first morning. They’d managed to settle down, even to recapture most of their old comfortable camaraderie. But at the hospital, with Kevin lying there in the dark loneliness of a coma, the memory of that moment seemed to hang over them like a fog of guilt.
This morning the large Montrose hospital was bustling with the usual flurry of early activity. Crimson had bought a colorful balloon to brighten up Kevin’s room, and it bobbed foolishly beside her as she walked past the nurses’ station.
“Cute.” The RN standing at a cart dispensing medications into small cups grinned as she went by. “He’ll love it.”
Crimson smiled back gratefully. She loved the positive energy these wonderful ladies gave off. All of them talked to Kevin as if he could hear them perfectly, so Crimson did the same—even though she didn’t always know exactly what to say.
So many topics were off-limits. Topics like how, just before the accident, she had been on the verge of “breaking up” with him, or whatever you called it when the relationship hadn’t ever quite gotten off the ground in the first place.
You couldn’t Dear John someone in a coma. The fact that Crimson was caught in a romantic no-man’s land was nothing—less than nothing—compared to the trap that held Kevin prisoner in this helpless half-life.
The door to his room stood halfway open, so she pushed lightly and entered, her smile still in place in case, miraculously, he’d opened his eyes and could see it. But he looked exactly the same as he had yesterday. Immobile and terrifyingly remote, as if some tether had been cut, and with every day he drifted farther away from the rest of them.
“I brought you a Donald Duck balloon,” she said brightly, arranging the little cylindrical weight on the windowsill. She tied a bow in the string so the balloon wafted softly at eye level.
“I know you’ll start doing your oh boy, oh boy, oh boy impersonation as soon as you see it.” She pulled the guest chair closer to the bed, sat down and laid her hand lightly on his arm. “But you know what? I’ll be so glad you’re awake I won’t even complain.”
He didn’t respond, of course. The IV continued to plink, and the monitor kept up its electronic hum and rhythmic beep. From just outside the door, voices and footsteps rolled down the hall like waves of energy. But Kevin was utterly silent.
“I wish you could have seen Molly this morning,” she said, refusing to let herself be discouraged. “That front tooth has finally broken through, and she smiles all the time, as if she’s showing it off.”
More silence. But Molly was the one subject Crimson felt comfortable with. No matter how complicated everything else might be, she was certain Kevin would want to know his little girl was all right.
“She’s sleeping better, too. I got one of those teething rings Grant suggested—” She broke off. Just mentioning Grant’s name made her nervous. She didn’t want Kevin to feel he’d been displaced as Molly’s daddy...that she and Grant were the parents now. Even worse, what if some of her new feelings about Grant came through in her voice?
She imagined, sometimes, that even the way she said the syllable was different now. Huskier, leaden with tension and repressed emotions.
“Anyhow, I think there’s less pain once the tooth cuts through. She seems much more cheerful now. And boy, is she eating! When I bought diapers yesterday, I had to get the next size up.”
She chuckled, but the sound echoed eerily in the quiet room, and it felt out of place, like laughing in a church. She wondered why it didn’t sound that way when the nurses did it. Probably because, when a nurse was in here, she didn’t feel so alone.
She didn’t feel so out of her depth.
“Oh! I took a video this morning.” She pulled out her phone and thumbed through her pictures until she got to the right one. She pulled it up, hit Play and held the phone in front of Kevin’s face, as if that made sense. As if he might just open his eyes and say, “A video! Great!”
On the phone’s small screen, Molly waved her hands, grinned and let loose peals of giggles and hiccupping laughter. Occasionally, Crimson’s thumb had covered the lens as she struggled to hold the phone out and the baby up simultaneously. It didn’t matter, though. Because of course Kevin did not wake, did not open his eyes, did not show any signs of being happy to hear his baby’s voice.
“Say, I love you, Daddy!” Crimson sounded like a cheerleader, urging Molly. “Say, come home soon, Daddy!”
And then...at the very moment Crimson said, “Come home soon, Daddy,” Kevin’s finger twitched. Crimson dropped the phone to her lap, staring at his hand. Her heart beat rapidly.
Do it again, she willed him. Do it again.
The light in the room changed as the door opened. Crimson looked up, her heart still pounding in her throat. It was Kevin’s new doctor, Elaine Schilling.
“He moved his hand!” Crimson didn’t leave Kevin’s side, didn’t let go of his arm, but she leaned toward the doctor eagerly. Her voice was tight and thin. “I was playing a video for him—a video of his daughter—and his finger moved. I’m sure of it!”
Dr. Schilling paused as she reached into her pocket to pull out the little light she used to check pupil response, an important indicator, Crimson had learned.
“Well...” The woman’s hazel eyes were kind, but her thin, austere face didn’t catch any of Crimson’s eager enthusiasm. “It’s certainly possible. But we must remember a person in Mr. Ellison’s condition may exhibit reflex activities that mimic conscious activities. It’s wise not to read too much into it.”
Crimson stared stupidly, as if she couldn’t understand the doctor’s terminology. But she did understand. It was simple enough. Dr. Schilling was saying the twitch was just some involuntary misfiring of a neuron. She was saying it probably didn’t mean anything, and Crimson shouldn’t hope for a miracle.
But Crimson was hoping. She had to hope. Who could survive without hope?
She couldn’t. She remembered how—almost fourteen months ago, just barely more than a year—she’d kept diving down into the cold, black water of the Indigo River, looking for Clover, telling herself it wasn’t too late. If a passing stranger hadn’t seen her there and jumped in to drag her to shore, she’d have drowned alongside her sister.
In many ways, drowning would have been better than giving up. She couldn’t remember the man’s face, but she’d never forget his voice, saying, “You have to stop now. She’s gone.” The words had fallen on her skin like razor blades.
So she had to keep hoping. She wanted to tell the doctor that, but she didn’t know how to begin. She let her hand fall into her lap. She must have bumped the Play arrow, because suddenly Molly began to laugh again as Crimson again implored her to tell her Daddy to come home soon.
The doctor frowned, a stern but compassionate expression. She clearly thought Crimson had restarted the video deliberately, hoping to prove her point. She hadn’t—truly she hadn’t—but she couldn’t help staring at Kevin’s hand all the same. Maybe...
But this time Kevin lay as still as a wax mannequin.
And suddenly, Crimson’s eyes began to burn. They stung fiercely, as if they’d caught fire from the inside. Was it possible he’d never wake up? That he’d never go home to his baby girl?
As she stared at that lifeless hand, scalding tears spilled over. She bent her head, and the tears fell against Kevin’s skin. He showed no awareness of that, either.
Embarrassed, Crimson stood. The doctor needed to tend to her patient. Crimson was in the way here. She was making a fool of herself. She turned, but she could barely see which direction to walk. Everything was fractured by her tears.
As if she’d called for him, Grant was somehow there. He put his arm around her shoulders and murmured her name. She looked up at him, and even though his face was blurred, she felt a powerful magnetic pull, as if his shoulder was the only place in the world she could rest her head safely right now. The only place she could let these tears fall in peace, without feeling ridiculous or weak. Without exposing all the secrets she’d been hiding for so long.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said gently. His arm steered her toward the door. “Let me take you home.”
She followed him out. But as they exited the dim room and emerged into the bright light of the hospital corridor, all she could think was...
If Kevin actually could still hear, how did it make him feel to hear his best friend call Crimson sweetheart?
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_3ef94b2d-8ed3-59ad-827e-fc56afb46f41)
“I MUST SAY, Campbell, you are a lucky man.” Stefan Hopler shoved his hands into the pockets of his elegant linen khakis as they slowly strolled back to the ranch house from the stables, a full moon lighting their way almost as clearly as high noon.
Grant wondered what Hopler meant exactly—if he meant anything at all. Was it just flattery—to soften him up for bargaining over the horse?
Somehow he didn’t think so. The man’s tone sounded genuine.
And why shouldn’t it be? Hopler didn’t know anything about Grant’s history—he knew nothing about his dead wife, Brenda, or the little girl they’d once had...Jeannie.
Hopler didn’t even know that Grant hadn’t always been a rancher, that once, like Kevin, he’d been a young, ambitious lawyer—and that the career dream had died along with his family.
All Hopler knew was what he’d seen here today. The beautiful acreage of Campbell Ranch, greened by the rain and bejeweled with wildflowers. The renovated stables, the well-trained staff. The extraordinary filly who exuded star power as Barley put her through her paces.
All of that did, indeed, make Grant a lucky man. Even so, he had an irritable feeling Hopler wasn’t talking about any of those things. He’d bet good money Hopler was talking about the gorgeous woman who had just cooked them a gourmet dinner.
Hopler’s date, Elsa, hadn’t made the trip from California with him, after all. In fact, Hopler had broadly hinted that his couple days were over. And Elsa’s absence meant he felt free to compliment Crimson effusively on everything from the Stroganoff to her perfume.
The flirting had been so thick it irritated the heck out of Grant. He’d had to bite his tongue a couple of times to avoid reminding Hopler that he was there to buy a horse, not a girlfriend.
Not that the compliments weren’t deserved. Crimson hadn’t been kidding about giving the man a meal he wouldn’t forget. The food had been almost mystically delicious...and, beyond all that, she had presided over his table with so much wit and charm that by the time she offered them dessert, even Hopler, who was clearly a ladies’ man, had looked a little dazed.
“Thanks,” Grant said now, trying not to sound as tight-lipped as he felt. They’d left Crimson in the ranch house cleaning up after dinner while they walked out to give Hopler one last look at Dawn. He was pretty sure Hopler was ready to close the deal, and he was determined not to spoil it now. “The ranch is a lot of work, but I love it.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean the ranch,” Hopler said, smiling. “No, no, the property is beautiful and your horses are beautiful. But your real treasure is your woman. Is it serious between you?”
For a minute, Grant wanted to say yes. Hell, yes. So back off. He had an irrational urge to stake a Private Property sign on Crimson.
But he remembered her tears, streaming down her cheeks unchecked as she sat vigil beside Kevin’s hospital bed this morning. She was private property, all right. But not his. The Keep Out sign applied to Grant every bit as much as it applied to Hopler.
Besides, she wasn’t the easy-fling type—and Grant didn’t have anything else to offer a woman. His heart had been hollowed out like a melon three years ago, when Brenda and Jeannie died. He’d come to Silverdell almost immediately after, driven by some instinct to carve out a new life. A physical, exhausting, completely different life.
And he’d done all right with that part. The ranch was distracting, the horses rewarding. He was too busy to mourn all day, too tired to grieve all night.
But when it came to things like love and family and forever, he was stuck in a frozen half-life as much as any comatose man in a hospital bed.
“No, we’re not together,” he heard himself saying instead. “She’s a friend. She’s actually dating a buddy of mine. Molly’s father.”
Hopler had met Molly earlier, of course. Crimson had put the baby to bed just before dinner, and miraculously persuaded her to sleep through all three courses.
“Molly’s father.” The man took a minute to digest that. “You mean the one who is in the hospital now?”
Grant nodded. He didn’t like Hopler’s tone. It sounded as if he were weighing his odds, and liked the news that his chief competition was in a coma.
“What time did you say your flight back to LA leaves?” Grant’s bum foot caught on an oak tree root, and he grunted irritably as pain shot up his leg. Thank goodness he didn’t fall. “We probably should talk about Dawn, if you’re interested in buying her.”
Not subtle, he knew, but that was too darn bad. He was tired, and he was hurting, and he wasn’t feeling subtle. He was feeling pissed, actually.
His dislike of Hopler was irrational and unfair—he admitted that. The man seemed perfectly respectable, and naturally Grant had checked him out before inviting him to discuss the horse. His only sins were being too handsome, too rich and too acquisitive.
But damn it. Wasn’t it enough that he planned to take Grant’s best filly away from Campbell Ranch? He had to start auditioning Crimson for a role in his cushy Hollywood life, too?
“Oh, I’m definitely interested,” Hopler said, pausing as they reached the back porch.
Crimson was visible through the kitchen window. She stood at the sink, scrubbing a pot. She bent over her chore, her shoulders working rhythmically and a wisp of hair dangling into her face. Clearly annoyed by it, she pursed her lips and blew upward, trying to make the silky brown curl behave. The curl lifted, but it dropped into the same place no matter how many times she puffed.
Finally, she laughed. Shaking her head, she lifted her sudsy fingers from the dishwater, and tucked the lock behind her ear. When she lowered her hand again, a frothy dollop of suds remained, sparkling on her earlobe.
Grant could almost feel Hopler’s heartbeat quickening.
“Wow.” The man’s voice was reverent, as if he’d stumbled on a unicorn. “Imagine. A woman who looks like that, cooks like that and then laughs while she’s doing the dishes.”
At first, Grant didn’t respond. He found the description offensively reductive. Crimson was so much more than some Stepford paper doll. She was quirkier, more independent, more difficult and mysterious and real.
She was so much more interesting than some misogynistic millionaire’s Donna Reed fantasy.
Hopler sighed. “I honestly didn’t know women like that still existed.”
Grant felt his nerves prickling. “They don’t. She laughs only when she feels like laughing. When she feels bitchy, she cusses like a sailor and breaks the cups. Sometimes she just tells us to do our own damn dishes.”
“Even better,” Hopler said, unperturbed. He turned toward Grant, his expression quizzical. “But remind me again...which one of you is dating her?”
* * *
CRIMSON HAD KNOWN there would be a price to pay for Molly’s long nap during dinner. And sure enough, at about 3:00 a.m. the baby began to squirm and whimper.
Crimson rose quickly, hoping to calm Molly before she began to cry in earnest. She knew Grant needed a good night’s sleep.
She could use one, too—but that didn’t seem likely. Though she’d been lying in bed for several hours, she hadn’t been able to doze off.
The Hopler dinner had been both exciting and disturbing, and her mind was racing. Her thoughts circled restlessly until they tied themselves in knots.
So she was glad of a distraction—and the comforting warmth of the baby’s body against her shoulder. Strange how much companionship an infant could provide.
And funny how not being isolated anymore could make her realize just how horribly lonely she’d been this past year. She’d been born two minutes before Clover, and those were the only two minutes in her life she’d ever been truly alone—until the night Clover died.
She hugged Molly tightly as she moved toward the changing table, which gleamed in the moonlight.
“Hush, honey,” she whispered. “We’ll get a clean diaper and a nice warm bottle.”
Molly subsided, understanding the promise in Crimson’s tone, if not her words. When Crimson laid her back against the cushioned plastic of the changing table, she kicked her feet a couple of times. She found her fingers and began to suck noisily.
Crimson moved quickly. She was learning Molly’s rhythms, and she knew that, after about a minute or so, the baby would realize the fingers provided nothing to fill her tummy, and she’d start to fret angrily, as if someone had tricked her.
She had just finished heating the bottle when Grant appeared in the doorway.
“Hey,” he said, rubbing his fingers across the stubble on his chin. “You must be exhausted. How about if I help with that?”
Her hand went instinctively to her hair, which once again must be sticking out everywhere. All that tossing and turning...she probably looked as if she’d stuck her finger in a light socket.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Sorry we woke you. I was hoping you could get some sleep. I know you’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”
He yawned, as if in confirmation, but he moved into the room, anyhow. He wore soft blue-gray sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. His hair was tousled, too.
“I mean it. Let me help. I’m tired of feeling useless. If I sit in the rocker, I can feed her with one arm.”
She hesitated, but he was already arranging himself in the mission-style wooden rocker over by the window. It was a large, manly piece of furniture, beautiful in its simplicity, and terrifically comfortable. When Kevin moved in, Grant had commissioned Jude Calhoun, a local woodworker, to make it to match the bedroom set already in the guest room.
When Crimson had first heard about the handmade rocker, she’d thought it sounded extravagant, especially since Kevin and Molly were obviously temporary guests, and Grant had no need for such a thing. But over the past week she’d learned what a work of genius it was. Quiet, roomy, with great back support and perfectly placed arms that helped support an infant for hours at a stretch.
Almost every night this week, both Crimson and Molly had fallen asleep in that chair.
“Surely she’s in no danger,” Grant said, glancing up at her with a smile that said he knew she doubted his ability to hang on to a squirming baby. “Not if I’m sitting down, and you’re standing guard.”
“Of course she’s not...” But even so she waited, watching him brace his elbow on the rocker’s arm. He let his casted forearm slant down toward his lap. That cast was as hard as a chalky rock, which she knew from bumping into it several times this week. No way Molly would fall asleep on a bed of unforgiving plaster.

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