The Ranch She Left Behind. Kathleen O'Brien
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same moment Danny came around the counter, big silver containers in both hands, whipped cream oozing in snowy rivers down the sides.
“Here you go!” He beamed. “Extra whipped cream, extra cherries, I even threw in some jimmies.”
He tilted one of the floats, eager to show off the happy face he’d made with cherries and sprinkles—and he almost lost his grip on the slippery vessel. For a few laughing, chaotic seconds, both father and daughter were absorbed in trying to make the transfer without upsetting another drink.
Penny took advantage of that moment to slip out, her legal pad tucked safely under her arm.
Yes, she was running away. But it didn’t feel like the same kind of cowardice she’d hated in herself earlier. It was more...preservation of something inexplicably special.
She simply couldn’t bear to let the girl start quizzing her again about why she’d been drawing Dad. And, for whatever reason, she didn’t want the frozen-time beauty of their accidental kiss to become...ordinary.
She moved quickly, let the door fall shut on the chimes behind her, and then turned left, making her way toward her car.
Time to go to Bell River. She could handle it now. She felt, in fact, as if she could handle anything.
Still hugging her legal pad, she took a deep breath of the crisp August afternoon air. She felt so buoyant she had to make a conscious effort not to skip, or break into song.
She might have made a fool of herself in there, but looking foolish hadn’t killed her.
In fact, it had made her sizzle and pop inside. As if Danny had put her under the soda water spigot and injected her with fizzy carbonation. She felt free.
The idea of freedom was so new, and at the same time so old, that she laughed out loud. A saleslady who had been arranging flowers in front of a store looked up with a cautious smile.
“May I help you?”
“No, thanks,” Penny said, smiling. “I’m fine. I know exactly what I want.”
And, for the first time in years, that was true. She did know what she wanted.
She wanted to be herself.
* * *
MAX TWIRLED THE rusted pressure relief valve at the top of the cottage’s water heater carefully. Ellen had tried to grab a quick shower earlier, but turning the spigot had triggered a series of banging, popping noises. Sounded like sediment buildup to Max.
Since they’d arrived in town almost a week early, he couldn’t blame their landlady for the problem. And since it was Saturday, he couldn’t expect a plumber to come out on a moment’s notice—not without charging a fortune in overtime.
“Dad, call the plumber. It’s not like we’re poor,” Ellen had whined, disgusted. She took after Lydia that way. She didn’t mind how long he sat at the drafting table sketching blueprints for his newest office complex or luxury resort. In fact, at those times, she’d brag to her friends about her father, the Important Architect.
But work that left him dirty, or smelly, or disheveled? That was embarrassing. Just one of the things they were in Silverdell to unlearn.
“We would get poor in a hurry if we never did anything for ourselves,” he had responded calmly, though he’d known it would make her roll her eyes.
It had. But he couldn’t continue catering to her quirks simply to avoid an eye roll. Nor could he keep indulging her whims, as he wanted to, just because she was angry, lonely and motherless.
He’d finally accepted that his job was harder than that. Nothing let him off the hook when it came to responsible parenting.
Responsible parenting. Even his grandfather wouldn’t ever have used such a stupid expression. It sounded like the stuffiest, most judgmental jackassery....
He groaned. No wonder Ellen thought he was boring. In her estimation, thirty-four was already ancient, and his endless talk of work ethic and responsibility and self-control clearly made her want to puke.
For a moment, his thoughts returned to the woman at the ice-cream store. Wonder what Ellen would have thought, if she’d seen the woman come right up and kiss boring old dad, right out of nowhere?
She probably would have puked.
But Max’s reaction had been very different—and a little unnerving. This eccentric young woman wasn’t really his type. She was the “little girl lost” type—and he’d been around long enough to be fairly cynical about that particular female style. In his experience, it was usually either a sign of dysfunction, or pure sham.
She was clearly in her early twenties, and she had a shy but stunning beauty, as if she were something magical that was accustomed to living in the forest. A swinging, colorful dress over playful cowgirl boots. Long, brown hair pulled back by a simple tortoiseshell headband, falling down her slim back, as glossy and healthy as a child’s.
No, Flower Child doll wasn’t his type. He was thirty-four, not fourteen.
And yet, when she kissed him, every atom in his body had leaped to attention, as turned on as if he actually were that breathless fourteen-year-old. For about three incredible seconds, time had stood still in a glittering pool of sexual awareness.
And then she was gone. Just as well. Ellen hadn’t seen the kiss, but she was an eagle-eyed little thing, and she was always spoiling for a fight, always looking for proof that she wasn’t important to Max. If the kiss had gone on much longer...
He couldn’t help wondering whether he’d see the woman again. Silverdell was a small town, so unless she’d been passing through, another meeting seemed inevitable. And awkward.
It might be better if she was merely a tourist stopping for a respite from driving. It would be oddly disappointing to meet her and discover she was a fake, or a fool, or a mother of four.
He’d far rather remember their encounter as a rare, mystical moment when his cynicism had evaporated, his “responsibility” had dropped away, and he’d kissed a fairy forest creature.
“Are you done yet?”
Ellen’s voice, impatient, wafted into the basement. He snapped back to reality.
“Not yet. A couple more minutes.”
He refocused, though he hated to mentally return to this shadowy, dirty basement where the water heater stood, its silver cylinder winking oddly, picking up whatever light broke through. He hated basements. He always had, even before Mexico. But responsible parenting meant he couldn’t succumb to his aversion.
And, in the end, the basement was just a big, dusty rectangle of concrete. He could leave anytime he wanted. Funny how often he reminded himself of that when he entered tight spaces or underground rooms. The doors were open. His hands and legs were free.
He could leave anytime he wanted.
He double-checked the garden hose connection on the drain valve one more time before letting the hot water through. He hoped to heaven Ellen continued to obey him, staying inside the house while he worked. The water probably wasn’t hot enough to hurt anyone—the timer had been set to off when they arrived an hour ago—but he refused to take any chances. If she stood downhill from the draining water...
She could be burned. Not likely, but it could happen. And these days he didn’t take the slightest of chances. Ever since Lydia’s death... No, even before that. Ever since Mexico, really.
No wonder he drove Ellen crazy. He didn’t understand anything that mattered to her. He didn’t watch reality TV, where people voted away those who annoyed them, instead of learning to coexist. He could listen only so long to whether stripes or prints were “in” this year, or which of her friends would have to buy a bra first.
And that boy singer she idolized... The girlie little princess made Max want to laugh, frankly. As did Ellen’s fixation with getting her