The Rancher Needs A Wife. Terry McLaughlin
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so special. Most of the time she forgot her new stepfather was a movie star and a millionaire. He was simply Fitz, the fun and affectionate guy who’d married her mom. That was one of the reasons she loved him so much—he had a way of making everyone around him feel happy and included. Not because he could buy her things like the portable video player she kept in her room or the delicate, diamond-studded chain hidden beneath her sweater.
She laid her lunch bag on its side and pulled out her ham-and-Swiss-cheese sandwich, thick with extra lettuce, drizzled with wine vinegar and sprinkled with oregano, exactly the way she liked it. Gran’s fussy touches reminded her how lucky she was and helped erase the lingering unease of Rachel’s whispers.
“What kind of cookies did your gran give you today?” Chrissy leaned over the lunch table and peered into Jody’s bag.
“Molasses.” She spread a napkin over the table and set an apple to one side.
“The ones with the sugar glaze?” Chrissy grabbed the edge of the sack and dragged it a few inches in her direction. “Do you have any extras?”
“Enough to give you one, but that’s all.” Jody fingered her jacket’s zipper tag and darted a glance toward the seventh grade boys’ table. “I want to set a couple aside. For later.”
“For Lu-cas.” Chrissy tilted her head from side to side with her singsong chant. “Lu-cas Gu-thrie.”
“Shh.” Jody snuck a peek down the length of the table, but Rachel was busy sticking her big nose into someone else’s business. “I don’t want anyone else to know I like him.”
“I still think if you told Tanya in the seventh grade, and then if she told Kevin Turley—”
“Then he’d know for sure I like him,” said Jody, “and I’d be embarrassed if he didn’t like me back.”
“But he does,” Chrissy whispered, leaning closer. “You know he does.”
“No, I don’t.” Jody tried really hard not to get her hopes up, but it was too late. Her insides were tickling over Chrissy’s opinion—even if she was probably just sticking up for a friend.
There was always a chance.
“He says ‘hi’ to you all the time,” said Chrissy.
Jody shrugged. “He’s just being nice.”
“And Maryanne in the eighth grade said Kevin told her brother that Lucas said he thought one of the girls in the sixth grade class is real cute.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s me.”
“Maryanne thinks so.”
Jody absorbed a new wave of tingly pleasure over this latest bit of news as Chrissy helped herself to one of Gran’s cookies. She froze with it halfway to her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Here he comes.”
Jody pasted on a bright smile as Lucas sauntered their way. Tall and gorgeous, and the best athlete in the seventh grade, he’d already crossed the cafeteria’s invisible boundaries to speak to her three times in the past ten days. Her heart pounded beneath her sweater and the blood swished in her ears like ocean waves.
“Hey, Jody,” he said with a toss of his chin. “How’s it going?”
“Hey, Lucas.” She swiveled on the narrow bench to give him a better view of her new jacket. “Want a cookie?”
“Sure.” He shifted the football he carried under one arm and held out his hand. “Thanks.”
Jody sat in agony while he took a bite and nodded approval. She racked her brain for something brilliant to say, something that would start a real conversation. Something that would entice him to sit down and talk back.
Except then she’d have to keep talking, too, and she’d never be able to eat, because her stomach would be too jittery.
But she had to say something. “When’s your next game?”
“Sunday.” He lifted what was left of the cookie in a vague farewell and headed back to junior high territory.
“God, he is so cute,” said Chrissy with a sigh.
“He really is, isn’t he?” Jody tried not to stare as he walked away, but it was terribly hard. She picked up the apple and took a bite, but she didn’t taste a thing while she chewed.
“And he likes you. I can tell.”
“He likes Gran’s cookies.” Jody breathed deeply and tried to quiet the butterflies in her stomach, relieved the encounter had gone so well. “But I don’t care. It’s a start.”
“Are you going to go to his game?”
“If I can get someone to take me into town.”
“I bet your aunt Maggie will, if you tell her why you need to be there.” Chrissy bit into her cookie and mumbled around the crumbs. “She’s so cool.”
“Yeah,” Jody agreed with a smile, “she sure is.”
“Are you talking about Mrs. Sinclair?” asked Rachel Dotson from the end of the table. “Not everyone thinks she’s so cool, you know.”
“Lots of people do,” said Chrissy. “Besides, you don’t know everything.”
“Maybe.” She shrugged it off. “But I do know what the junior high boys are saying about her. They’re ticked off that she won’t let Mr. Guthrie get started on the football bleachers in time for homecoming.”
“She’s not doing it all by herself,” said Jody.
Rachel ignored the comment and continued to stare at Chrissy. “They’re saying it’s all the Harrisons’ fault. Kevin’s sister heard Lucas tell Ronnie Wolf that he thinks all the Harrisons are losers.”
“Did not,” said Chrissy.
“Were you there?” asked Rachel. She gave Jody a pitying glance and whispered something to the other girls, leaving Jody and Chrissy cut out of the conversation.
“Don’t pay any attention,” said Chrissy. “Like I said, she’s just jealous. Lucas wouldn’t come over here if he was mad at you.”
“I should have been expecting this, I s’pose.” Jody sighed and began to pack up her lunch, too upset to consider eating Gran’s beautiful sandwich. “I’ve read in magazines about guys playing this game with girls.”
“What game?”
Jody sighed again. “Sending mixed signals.”
WAYNE LINGERED over the remains of his chili lunch special in a wide diner booth at the Beaverhead Bar & Grill on Monday afternoon, shaking his head over Ed Meager’s latest letter to the editor of the Tucker Tribune. Some people simply couldn’t let go of a bone, even after the dog on the other end had given up the tug-of-war and gone off to find something with a little more meat on it.
In Ed’s world, the sky was always falling. And if his current diatribe was on target, the atmosphere was going to be missing a whole lot of ozone when it hit the ground.
At the moment, the sky over Tucker was shedding the kind of rain that fell in soft, fat drops and sank deep into the soil—the kind of rain that would have been appreciated back in July, before a monstrous midsummer wildfire had wiped out hundreds of acres of pasture and timber land on the west side of the range. Out on Main Street, truck tires kicked up jets of spray over the glistening street pavement and passersby hunched inside their jackets. The temperature was dropping, and snow would surely follow, drifting to lower elevations in another month or so.
Inside the Beaverhead, the overheated air filmed the window beside him and tempted him to strip off his jacket. The peppery tang of Max’s chili hung in the air along with the odor of the chopped onions that had gone into it. On the kitchen radio, Clint Black wailed over the