A Cowboy In Shepherd's Crossing. Ruth Herne Logan
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as hard as it was on me hearing it.” He didn’t soften the bitter edge of his voice. He stood, too, then raised his hands. “Sorry. This isn’t your fight, and twenty-four hours isn’t enough time for me to be waving the peace flag.”
“I wonder when it will be time?” she said softly, and when she walked toward the kitchen, he realized she might not be talking about him. “Cookie, that was the best. Thank you so much for making it. I wouldn’t have thought hot soup would taste so good on a beautiful summer’s day.”
“You’re welcome. Jace said you two are heading to his place to figure things out. You might want to grab a few of those.” He indicated the cookies with a glance. “His cupboards are pretty bare. He makes sure the horses have food. He doesn’t worry so much about himself.”
“The few times I eat at home don’t require a lot of groceries.” Jace grabbed his cowboy hat from the wall of hooks just inside the back door. “Although if I’m up at Hardaway’s place and raising two little girls, I’ll have to change that up pretty quick.”
“Truth.” Cookie liked to wear an old-style fishing cap in the house. He said it was to keep hair out of the food, but Jace figured the older man just liked wearing a hat. The cook raised one finger to the hat as they were leaving. “See you at supper.”
Melonie grabbed her two bags. He held the screen door open for her and tried to ignore the sweet scent that came back to him as she went by.
“You have horses?” she asked once they were settled in the truck.
“Two,” he answered. “Sometimes I keep them at Pine Ridge. We used to take the sheep into the hills for browsing but we had to stop doing that.”
She arched one really well-groomed eyebrow in silent question.
“Government changed up the rules and took away grazing rights.”
“Lizzie said something about that but we didn’t have time to go into detail. So now the sheep are pretty much being raised in the valley?”
“With more hay, less exercise so less muscle mass.”
“Oh, of course. That makes sense.”
Now he was the questioner. “You get that?”
“We had fresh-raised turkeys in Kentucky. It was a Fitzgerald thing. We only raised enough for family and friends or esteemed business acquaintances of my grandfather. It was a mark of acceptance to be given a Fitzgerald turkey in November.”
“And this relates to sheep...how?”
She laughed. “Good point. When you eat a store-bought turkey, the consistency is different. It’s been tenderized. The home-raised turkeys had a much firmer feel.”
“That’s it exactly.” He sent her an approving look. “The sheep will be the same weight and look the same, but the ratio of fat to lean will be slightly different and the texture will vary. Here we are,” he said as he pulled into the driveway. “That’s Bonnie Lass over there.” He pointed to a dark sorrel mare on the far side of the split-rail paddock. “And the black-and-white is Bubba. My dad’s horse. Would you like to go see them?”
“No.”
He’d started that way. He stopped, surprised.
She took a step back and shook her head. “I can admire them from afar, thanks. Lizzie and Char are the horsewomen in the family. I’m better inside a house than inside a barn.”
How did someone with an aversion to animals just become quarter owner of a multimillion-dollar ranching operation? “Good to know.” He moved back and led the way to the front of the house. He unlocked the door and waited for her to follow.
She didn’t.
She stepped back and snapped several pictures of the exterior.
“The outside doesn’t need fixing.”
She jotted something into the tablet and shrugged. “I want to envision the whole package, if that’s okay? Just like with Gilda’s place.”
She followed him inside.
He expected criticism because the real estate agent had given him a hefty list of changes—a list he tore up as soon as she was gone.
Melonie surprised him instantly when she grabbed hold of his arm. “Jace, this is charming.”
“Is it?” He ran a hand over the stubble along his jaw.
“Well, it needs a little spruce-up, some painting and some crown molding, but look at these built-ins.” She motioned to the floor-to-ceiling bookcases flanking the fireplace. “You put a wood-burning insert in here.”
“The Realtor told me I should pull it out and redo the fireplace. She said it adds eye appeal to the buyer.”
“And then they freeze all winter?” When she rounded her eyes in disbelief, a wave of relief washed over him. “Cold winds, slashing rains, heavy snow? Who wouldn’t want a cozy wood-burning stove to come home to?”
“Exactly. It takes the pressure off the heating bill and gave me some extra money to help Justine get through college.”
“Jace, what a good brother you are.” She’d been jotting quick notes as she moved through the downstairs rooms. Now she turned. Met his gaze. And then she didn’t stop meeting his gaze. She brought one hand up, her free one, and touched her throat.
Oh, man.
He wanted to step forward. Smile at her. Maybe flirt, just a little.
He stepped back instead. “There are two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs.”
“Let’s check them out.” He followed her up the stairs. She paused at the top and snapped a couple of pictures. She didn’t say anything.
That kind of unnerved him. A quiet woman was a rare bird in his experience, and as she tapped things into her tablet, he shoved his hands into his pockets. Then pulled them out again. He motioned downstairs. “I can make coffee. I’ve got a one-cup system so it’s always ready.”
“Coffee sounds great,” she told him. But she didn’t look up. She was perched against the short stair rail at the top of the stairs while her fingers flew.
“Okay.” He went downstairs. Made the coffee. When she didn’t come down, he called up to her. “Coffee’s ready.”
“Perfect.”
She hurried down the stairs, and came really close to sliding across the hardwoods like he’d done as a kid. “Is it in the kitchen?”
“On the counter. There’s milk, too. And sugar. Nothing fancy, though. Sorry.”
“Black’s fine. If it’s great coffee, why ruin it with all that other stuff?” She grabbed the coffee, took a seat at the table and sipped. Then she savored the moment, eyes round, before she lifted the mug like a salute. “Perfect blend.”
“Cowboy blend,” he told her.
“You made this?” That got her full attention. “Like the actual coffee beans and stuff?”
“No.” He didn’t sit. Not in the middle of the workday. There was too much stuff to do. “I order it from a place in Boise—White Cloud Coffee. This is one of their signature blends. Cowboy.”
She smiled at him, then took another sip of pure appreciation. “It’s ideal. Not bitter. Not weak. Great aroma.”
“You love coffee.” He did, too. Maybe too much.
“I love good coffee,” she corrected him. “I will admit to being a coffee snob. It’s a fault, I know.”
“Then it’s one I share because bad coffee shouldn’t be allowed.”
“Exactly.” She smiled up at him again. Did she know how inviting