The Marriage Charm. Linda Miller Lael
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did he say? Nap. Yeah. What a glorious word. She mumbled, “Sure.”
Then drifted off to sleep.
* * *
SPENCE WASN’T POSITIVE what to do.
Okay, he needed to get this straight. For the first time since the dawn of human beings, since creatures crawled out of seas or grabbed an apple in a garden somewhere, depending on what school of thought you followed, a man wanted to talk to a woman about their relationship, and she just went to sleep.
It was supposed to be the other way around.
So...he watched her sleep. Melody had half turned toward him before she’d conked out, one hand under her cheek, her lashes casting shadows on her cheekbones.
It wasn’t even noon.
Harley whined at the bedroom door. Spence had shut him out—he didn’t want a canine audience while he and Melody were making love—and it was getting close to lunchtime. Spence got out of bed, pulled on his jeans again and headed toward the kitchen. Melody didn’t stir.
After he fed his dog, he figured he ought to rustle up some human-grade food. Trouble was, he didn’t have much in the house.
He dumped the high-end kibble—the stuff he traveled twenty miles one way to buy—into the dish and Harley went at it, gobbling it up with a gusto that made that trip worthwhile. Then he said, “Want to go into town?”
Harley did an imitation of a champion high jumper by the door out to the back porch.
Big yes.
Spence got his keys and hers, since they were on the counter, grabbed a piece of paper from the drawer and wrote a note for Melody, which was an ironic twist to an already unusual morning. Then he hit a number on his phone. The owner of the Ride ʼem Café answered on the fourth ring and he said, “Good morning, Carly.”
“Back at you, Chief. You sound chipper.”
He was feeling chipper, although he was fairly sure that was a word he’d never use to describe himself. But yes, he was in a very good mood. There was a beautiful naked woman in his bed—naked except for that bracelet. He was going to have to ask Melody if she ever took that off. And it was a bright sunny day.
Carly Riggs was from the South, which could account for her killer fried chicken, and he ordered two dinners to go, the usual sides. He remembered his first date with Melody and added two slices of cheesecake. If they were meandering down memory lane, they might as well go all the way. She didn’t do much in the dessert arena unless she’d changed a lot, but she’d always loved cheesecake.
Be back with lunch was what he’d written.
He hesitated but that seemed clear enough, so he left it at that. Harley jumped into his truck once they’d hot-footed it outside, and he drove to town.
Beautiful day, birds singing, cartoon cupids darting around with their arrows...
What had he just done? Spence’s hands curled around the steering wheel as he took the turn off the property. He’d seduced Melody.
She might have joined in with a flattering amount of enthusiasm, but he knew she hadn’t come to the ranch expecting a roll in the hay, so he had to take responsibility. It was all on him.
He really wasn’t some kind of Lothario, but that was his reputation. It had come about mostly because once he started dating women who weren’t Melody, he was quick to lose interest.
He wondered how she’d feel if she found out how old those condoms were. Surely they held up pretty well in those foil packs. He didn’t sleep around, no matter what everyone gabbed about. At one time, especially after their breakup, he’d dated lots of women, but his heart hadn’t been in it, and that was a problem, as he’d discovered.
“Her cats are weird according to what I’ve heard from Tripp,” he said to Harley as he drove into Mustang Creek proper. “You’ll have to stay outside.”
His dog gave him a look that spelled out clearly he thought all cats were weird.
That was a valid point in Spence’s view. He took a breath and expelled it. “I wasn’t looking to get involved again,” he confided. “At least I didn’t think so. Not until this weekend...”
Sprawled in the passenger seat, Harley whined in commiseration, his white paws crossed.
Some jerk was speeding, going the other way on Main, and as they passed he took a moment to radio that in. He was never truly off duty, but that was fine.
He pulled up at Melody’s house, took Harley as far as the front porch and told him to stay then let himself in, pausing to look around.
Melody had turned her living room into her studio. There were sketches scattered across a worktable, and Spence resisted the urge to examine them because that would be an invasion of her privacy, even though she’d given him permission to go inside. The place was cozy, with a comfortable sofa and a patterned rug, and the artist in her was evident in an unusual mobile by the window. Squares of brilliant stained glass hung from strands of twisted copper. It didn’t take much intuition to know she’d made it, and Spence stood there for a moment, admiring her handiwork. He knew she was gifted, but fine arts hadn’t been her major the summer they were together. Back then, she’d planned on going to law school.
Changing her mind had been wise; she’d certainly nailed that piece, and he knew her jewelry sold well. During tourist season the local shops did a land office business in the stuff and clamored for more.
But that aside, there was one small problem. There were no cats to feed as far as he could tell.
No meows, no brushing against his legs, just utter silence. It was summer, and he sincerely hoped she hadn’t left a window open and they’d all escaped. It was possible that they were hiding because he wasn’t familiar to them—cats were very canny critters with a knack for self-preservation.
Or maybe they were hiding in plain sight.
He suddenly realized that there were three cats sitting on the fireplace mantel—looking almost like works of art themselves. He stared at them. Their tails were curled in perfectly matched question marks, and they seemed identical, but then again he was far more used to horses and dogs. Occasionally cats took up residence in his barn, but they fed themselves on the inevitable mice. It was an eerie sensation to see that these felines were studying him as if assessing his status as an interloper. Friend or foe?
Tripp had been right. They were weird.
“I have her permission,” he told the trio defensively. “Besides, I’m here for your convenience. She wants me to feed you.” He thought about his relationship with Harley, the understanding they had. “Anyone care to show me where the food is?”
That ploy actually worked. Go figure.
One of them jumped gracefully to the floor and with his tail twitching, led him to the kitchen, where he stared at a cabinet.
There did turn out to be cans of cat food in that cabinet, so he opened one—how much did a cat eat? He divvied the contents into three servings, refilled their water bowl and left. On the porch, Harley thumped his tail in support, and Spence could swear there was a sympathetic look in his eyes that said cats
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