Chapter Three

      Winston stared into the bathroom mirror as he smoothed his hair back from his forehead with a pair of matching brushes which fit neatly into his palms. While intently studying his image, he realized with dismay that his hair needed a trim. Why hadn’t he had his mother get out the scissors and whack off the bottom of it? Impulsively deciding that he should strip off his neatly pressed gray shirt and let her have a go at it right now, he lifted his hand to begin opening the buttons on the heavy cotton placket, which brought his wristwatch into view. One glance showed him that he didn’t have time for such indulgences. Sighing richly, he resigned himself to needing a trim and quickly examined his jaw to be sure he hadn’t missed a spot during his shave, then hurried from the small room.

      Snagging his tan felt dress hat from the top of the dresser in his bedroom, he clumped down the stairs in his freshly polished boots and swung around the newel post to stride down the hall and into his mother’s kitchen, the very heart of the house. Suddenly thirsty, he stopped by the sink, ran a glass of cold tap water and drank it down without stopping.

      “I’m off,” he said to the room in general, turning toward the coatrack beside the door. His gaze caught on the bloodred bloom of one of his mother’s summer roses standing in a water-filled jar on the windowsill. Even as he reached for his good jean jacket and slung it on, he pictured himself delivering a big bouquet of the rare beauties to Danica Lynch. She would be surprised, then pleased, and she would look at him in a whole new way, appreciation glimmering in her eyes.

      “Earth to Winston,” said an amused familiar voice.

      Win shook himself free of the ridiculous notion. “Did you say something, Mom?”

      As a small, plump woman with dark, graying hair that waved about her face and chin, Madge Champlain was the perfect antithesis to her tall, rawboned, white-haired husband, Buck, who was even now slurping his coffee from a saucer at the table in the center of the room.

      “She said, you’re looking fine,” Buck answered Winston. “What she means is you’re mighty well armed for a business discussion.”

      Madge whacked Buck reprovingly on the shoulder with a dish towel, her blue eyes twinkling. Win cleared his throat self-consciously. What had he been thinking when he put on these snug, well-starched jeans, best shirt, dress hat and freshly polished boots? This wasn’t a date, after all. “Never hurts to make a good impression,” he muttered.

      “Of course, it doesn’t,” Madge agreed placatingly.

      Buck slurped and added, “’Specially if she’s as pretty as her sister.”

      “More,” Jamesy said matter-of-factly, opening a cabinet to take down a box of cookies. Winston and everyone else stared at him in surprise. After a moment, Jamesy realized it and looked around. “Well, she is,” he said defensively. “She don’t wear all that goop on her face like Mrs. Thacker did, an’ I like her hair.”

      “Doesn’t,” Winston corrected automatically, thinking that his son and he were more alike than anyone even knew.

      “Huh?”

      “She doesn’t wear too much makeup.” Madge said to Jamesy. “I think that’s what you were trying to say.”

      “Yeah, okay,” the boy mumbled around the cookie he’d bitten into.

      Winston went back to the sink for another drink of water. He was feeling unaccountably dry this evening. Better yet, maybe he ought to have a beer. Might relax him a little, not that he was nervous, exactly—no more than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs! Whatever was wrong with him? he wondered, drying his damp palms on the thighs of his jeans. This wasn’t a date, for pity’s sake. It was business. Nevertheless, he left the water glass beside the sink and went to the refrigerator, where he snagged a beer with one hand. On second thought, he grabbed another and wrapped both in a thick kitchen towel. This way he wouldn’t show up empty-handed and he’d get the relaxing effect when he actually needed it. Tucking the bundle under one arm, he went out, calling to his family, “See you later.”

      He paused on the back stoop to pocket a half-chewed stick he’d seen there earlier, then went, not to the battered old truck he usually drove, but to the late model, double-cab dualie that was both the ranch workhorse and the family vehicle. After placing the wrapped bottles carefully on the seat next to him, he started up the truck, slid in a tape and cranked up the volume. He didn’t turn it down again until Danica’s cabin came into view. As he parked the truck, she came out of the house, wearing slender jeans that made her legs look a mile long and a coral pink matching sweater set, with the top sweater cropped just below the bust. The dog padded along at her heels.

      Winston dug the beers from the protective towel and carried them in one hand to the steps. He plucked the stick from his pocket and tossed it to the dog. Twig snatched it from midair and loped off with it.

      “Wet your whistle?” he asked, holding up one of the brown bottles.

      A delicately arched brow lifted high, then she swept the bottle from his hand, stepped down and sat on the edge of the porch, her feet on the bottom step. He sat down next to her. The space was just wide enough to comfortably accommodate them both if they were careful with their elbows. She tucked hers in next to her body, held the bottle between her knees and twisted off the top, which she dropped on the bottom step between her feet.

      Winston pushed his hat back, decapitated his own drink and dropped the small metal top into his shirt pocket. Lifting the tall bottle to his lips, he took a good drink of the still cold liquid, sighed with sudden contentment and leaned forward, bracing his elbows against his thighs. “Fine night,” he said, gazing out over the red-washed horizon.

      “Mmm,” she agreed, sipping delicately. After a moment, she leaned against the support post of the roof and lifted one foot onto the second step. “It’s peaceful out here.”

      He nodded. “No people.” He drank again and expounded, “Funny how it works, isn’t it? People just naturally screw up everything, destroy the peace, clog up the works, make all kinds of trouble, but it’s people, the people you care about, who make everything in this life worthwhile.”

      She looked down at that, her free arm crossing over her chest almost protectively. “You have the most irritating way of being absolutely right.”

      He thought about that, wondering whether he ought to be complimented or insulted, then another thought occurred. “Well, if I’m so right,” he asked, “how come you’re out here all on your lonesome instead of with the people who should be supporting you now?”

      She twisted her upper body so that she could put her head back against the post and took a long drink, grimacing slightly at the end of it. “There aren’t any.” He wasn’t sure he understood that, and it must have showed, for she fixed him with an inscrutable look and elaborated. “I didn’t have anyone but Dorinda. Our parents died years ago.”

      “Oh, hey, I’m sorry.”

      “Mom was forty-one when we were born, Dad nearly nine years older. I think they’d given up. Then suddenly they had twins.”

      “Must’ve been a double shock.”

      “You might say that,” she admitted. “Dad always thought he was too old. Maybe he was. He had a stroke when we were seniors in high school. Mom