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  “Yes, she was very devout,” Avery replied.

  “Well, she wasn’t like that here, you see,” he said quietly. “She was—” He pressed his lips together into a thin line. “She was a fun girl, and she knew how to let loose. She...knew how to have a good time, and broke a few hearts. You get my drift?”

  Was he suggesting what she thought he was? Anger boiled up inside her. Her mother had only been gone for a couple of months, and to hear her spoken of like that...

  “Are you saying she slept around?” Avery snapped. “Because I don’t believe that for a second! If you knew her like you claim—”

  “Look, I’m only saying this because you’ll find out anyway if you start asking around,” Louis said, apology written all over his face. “But your mom looked for love in all the wrong places, and it sounds like she started looking in the right places when she got to Kansas. So you’ve got to give her credit for that.”

  The tone was gentle, almost too gentle, but his words sank in. If her mother had slept around, it would certainly explain her reluctance to tell Avery about her life here...but it was still almost impossible to believe. Winona wasn’t that kind of woman! She wore necklines that covered her cleavage, and hemlines that skimmed her knees. She was careful not to be “overly friendly” with married men, lest someone think she was flirting. On the other hand, she did know an awful lot about how men worked...

  “I see—” Avery tried to stem the rising tears. But a reputation was a very subjective thing, and perhaps Louis was more prudish than most. She’d known her mother had had a relationship at some point, because Avery was the result. Maybe Hope was just an old-fashioned little town whose population got easily scandalized. Maybe Louis was the kind of man who blamed the girl he got pregnant.

  “But I liked her a lot,” Louis added. “Your mom was a good person.”

  As if that made this better. He’d just called her loose. She’d been hoping to find a father who had at least loved her mother, even if they hadn’t worked out. Winona had deserved to be loved.

  I liked her a lot. That wasn’t enough. There was a couple of beats of silence between them, and Louis put his hat back on his head.

  “Were you one of the heartbroken guys?” Avery asked.

  “Me?” He shook his head. “No, no... I knew where I stood. I was just some ranch boy. She had her eyes on the city.”

  “So...you and my mother weren’t serious?” she pressed.

  “Serious?” He shot her an odd look. “Sorry if I gave the wrong impression there. We were nothing more than good friends.”

  That was the story he was sticking with? They’d obviously been significantly more than good friends for a least one night, but it didn’t look like he was going to admit to that—at least not today. Besides, her mind was whirling with this new bombshell he’d dropped on her, and she needed to process it alone.

  “I’d better turn in.” She hooked a thumb back toward the bunkhouse. “I’ve got an early morning.”

  “Look, I’m sorry to hear about your mom’s passing,” Louis said. “Real sorry.”

  “Thank you.” She stood there awkwardly for a moment.

  “Well, have a good night.” He turned back toward his truck. “And welcome aboard.”

  Avery watched him go. If Louis wasn’t willing to admit to even a casual relationship with her mom, then he might not be too pleased to discover that he’d fathered a child with her. What was it that he said, that some people grew and learned and let go of their mistakes? Somehow Avery doubted that she’d be welcome news. She might very well be one his mistakes that he gratefully set free. It would be wise to find out what she could about her biological family before courting rejection.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, Hank awoke at 3:30 a.m. and rolled over with a moan. He’d promised to give Avery a hand with breakfast, and though he was exhausted, he found himself grudgingly looking forward to it.

  He tossed back his covers and sat up, rubbing his hands over his eyes. This house had had five years to be brought back down to a man’s level, and all remnants of Vickie’s touch around the place had been erased. He slept in the center of his bed, spread eagle. His bathroom contained soap, shaving gel, deodorant, a toothbrush and shampoo—that was it. His bedroom was clean, but sparsely decorated, just the way he liked it. He had no reason to complicate his life with frills.

  He flicked on the TV mounted on the wall opposite his bed as he ambled into the bathroom. He could hear the muffled voice of the news announcer talking about the weather. Mostly sunny, high of eighty, 20 percent chance of showers. The weather mattered on a ranch—rain mattered, heat mattered. There were eight hundred head of cattle that needed to be watered and cared for.

  He washed his face and reached for his shaving gel. Sometimes he’d let his scruff go for a few days, but this morning a clean shave felt worth it. Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed and he left the house, slamming the door shut behind him. He headed down the gravel drive that led to the canteen. Rocks crunched under his boots, and cool morning air carried the scent of cows and grass. The Harmon Ranch was home in a way that he’d never anticipated when he first took this job. Back then he’d been a young husband looking for a better wage—period—but he and Louis had forged a close relationship over the years through their personal tragedies. He’d never expected the position to last longer than his marriage, but it had, and this familiar land, the cycle of the seasons, a warm, dark summer morning, felt safe.

  The sun was beginning to warm the edge of the eastern horizon, but all was still dark and quiet. The canteen door was unlocked, which meant Avery was likely already in the kitchen. He locked the door behind him and saw light shining through the circular window of the swinging door.

  “That you, Hank?” she called.

  “Yeah, that’s me.” He walked into the kitchen.

  She stood by the sink, tying an apron around her waist. She looked up as he came in.

  “Morning,” she said, a smile on her lips. Her hair was a little tousled, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup—just that milky white skin and the red fringe of her lashes. “So what’s the plan?”

  “We have to put out thirty-five pack lunches,” Hank said. “And get breakfast cooked. I can do the lunches.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a box of hairnets. “You should probably use one of these.”

  That should make her a little less appealing to the guys.

  “Of course.” She flushed as she pulled her hair back, then twisted it into a bun at the base of her neck. “Give me a hand?”

  He stretched out a hairnet and stepped closer so he could put it on her. She smelled good—that feminine mix of scents that a man never could identify. When he put the hairnet over her shining hair, his fingers brushed her neck. It had been a long time since he’d been this close to a woman, and he steeled himself to her softness, then took a step back.

  “You’ll probably want to start with corn bread,” he said, trying to keep on task. “The old cook used to make it in batches—at least that’s how he explained it to me before he left. The ovens hold eight pans at a time, and he did two batches...” He relayed what he’d been told, and showed her the recipe book. Avery gave him a quick nod.

  She picked it up easily, which was a relief, because he wasn’t sure he knew what he was doing, either. They needed to feed thirty-five men before they left for the fields, and that was a bigger job than he’d imagined. But they’d have food out there in an hour’s time, and that was the goal. He worked on turkey sandwiches and cream cheese bagels, the results less than attractive but definitely edible.

  “So tell me about you,” she said as she cracked eggs into the mixing bowl.

  “Not much to tell,” he said.

  “There’s always something to tell,” she replied. “Is your family from Hope?”

  “
Born and raised.”

  “You said your parents are in Florida now, right? Do you miss them?”

  “I’m thirty-five,” he said with a short laugh. “I’m a grown man.”

  “I didn’t ask how old you were,” she retorted. “I asked if you missed them.”

  Did he? Sometimes. But he could pick up a phone and call them whenever he wanted. They texted him pictures of geckos and potted cactus plants from their stone-covered yard. Not the life for him—he liked the fields, the cattle. When he retired, he wanted to own a little cabin somewhere with a fireplace and a dog.

  “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But we keep in touch.”

  “Shoot...” She dropped an eggshell on the table. “I’ve lost count and the yolks are broken. Okay, I’m quadrupling the batch—” She was silent for a moment, then continued, “No, I’m good... I think... We’ll see.”

  What was it about her, standing there ruining a perfectly good meal—he could feel it happening, like lightning in the air—that she still managed to be so blasted likable?

  “My mother always said a man expects a woman to be able to cook,” she said, shooting him an amused look. “I’m a walking disappointment.”

  She fiddled with a few switches on the mixer until it turned on, the motor whirring softly as the large bowl turned.

  “My ex-wife could cook like a pro,” he said with a shrug. “And she was still impossible to live with.”

  He suppressed an oath. He hadn’t meant to mention Vickie. That was personal, and this woman was a virtual stranger.

  “What happened?” she asked, planting her hands on her hips while she watched the mixer spin.

  “We grew apart.”

  That was the BS line most people used—the explanation that covered a hundred tiny betrayals before the ultimate one. Sometimes the ultimate betrayal wasn’t even that big—it was just the last one before both parties gave up. No one just up and got divorced; they crept toward it at a snail’s pace and pretended everything was fine until one day it wasn’t.

  “I don’t believe that,” Avery said, her tone unchanged. “My mom got divorced when I was seventeen, so I’ve seen it up close and personal. No one grows apart—they’re pushed that way.”

  “And what was their problem?” he asked, trying to divert that attention away from his life. She seemed to like to talk, so it was better to focus it on her, in his opinion.

  “He wanted to be the man of the house and call the shots,” she said, reaching into the bowl with a spatula. “And he was terrible with money, but he wouldn’t let her handle the finances because he was the man. She couldn’t just watch him spend them into the poorhouse, and he couldn’t just watch her take care of the banking. It was a no-win situation.”

  “Okay.” She seemed to have a pretty good grasp on her mother’s failed marriage.

  “So what happened to yours?” she prompted.

  She was turned away from him, focused on pouring flour into the mixing bowl. He didn’t really mean to start talking about himself, but when he opened his mouth, it came out before he could think better of it.

  “Vickie was more social than I was. She was a flirt, and I didn’t like it. I loved horses and cattle, and she liked the Honky Tonk and dancing. There wasn’t much overlap in our interests.”

  “That was it? Different interests?” She turned toward him, as if this really mattered to her.

  “Well, that and Vickie thought that finally having a child together might solve our problems, and I’d disagreed. Babies bring more stress. They don’t fix problems. Turns out not having a baby didn’t fix it, either.”

  “That’s a more honest answer.” She smiled weakly. “Sorry. It must have been painful.”

  “Yeah, I got over it.”

  “How long ago was it?” she asked.

  “Five years.”

  “I don’t think you’re over it,” she said, flicking off the mixer. Her tone was so matter-of-fact that he nearly laughed.

  “You don’t know me,” he retorted, stopping in midslice with a bagel. “How do you know what I’m over?”

  “Are you married?” she asked. “Girlfriend? Fiancée?”

  “No.”

  “You’re good-looking, fit, technically available...” Her gaze moved over him from head to toe, then color suffused her cheeks. “If you were over her, you’d be snapped up.”

  She thought he was good-looking, did she? He liked that. And she had a bit of a point—he wasn’t really available. He was no idealistic young cowpoke who thought love could conquer all. He was dusted up, scraped over and a little more cynical about the longevity of relationships. He and Vickie hadn’t just split up, she’d left him for a guy she’d met online.

  “How long were you married?” she asked.

  “Twelve years. We got married right out of high school,” he said.

  “Ouch.” She cast him a pitying look, and he scowled. He didn’t need sympathy.

  “So what about you?” he asked. “You said you didn’t have anyone waiting for you.”

  “I was dating a guy,” she said. “Can you reach those for me?”

  Her change in topic was slightly jarring, and he looked over to see what she was referring to. There were some metal pans high on a shelf, and he put down the knife and sauntered over to where she stood. The soft scent of whatever perfume she was wearing tugged at him as he reached for the pans and handed them to her.

  “Thanks,” she said. “So I was dating a guy, but it didn’t work out.”

  They stood facing each other, her chin tipped up so she could look him in the face. She was young, so much prettier than he could easily deflect. He felt old and disillusioned next to her. He felt like he should shut up, not ruin what was left of her innocence. She’d get to his position soon enough, and it was almost cruel to hurry that process. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d marry some guy who would adore her and let her take care of the finances.

  “So what went wrong?” he asked. “And you can’t use we grew apart.”

  “He wasn’t the right one,” she said. She made it sound so simple and obvious, but he doubted that the guy who lost her felt that way. He had a feeling the poor schmuck was probably still licking his wounds, wondering what went wrong. She turned away from him and headed toward the side-by-side stoves. She turned a couple of dials, opened the ovens, stuck a hand in.

  “I think that’s turned on,” she said.

  “So how did you know he wasn’t right?” Hank asked. “What line did you give him?”

  “He wanted me to sell the flower shop,” she said, her back to him. “And if he knew me at all, he would have known that store meant more to me than money.” Avery turned around to face him, meeting his eyes with her frank gaze.

  “How recently was this?” he asked.

  “Last month.”

  Avery picked up the first pan of corn bread and slid it into the oven.

  “The oven isn’t on,” he said.

  “What? No, I just—” She put her hand into the oven again, then frowned.

  He stepped up to the stove and turned the correct dial, then flicked the oven switch. Color tinged her cheeks.

  “And that’s what you told him?” he asked, letting her mistake go. “That he didn’t know you well enough?” Why was he so curious about her breakup? For some reason, he needed to know what the poor guy had been through.

  “I said it wasn’t him, it was me. And it wasn’t his fault. Not really. That store is my home.”

  “I get it,” Hank said. It was like his connection to the land and the cattle. Vickie had never been able to understand that it wasn’t a choice. The open range just kept tugging him back. Home was something hardwired inside a person, something that called and called, no matter how hard a man tried to walk away. Home trumped logic.
It could be ignored for a time, pushed aside for a while, but it couldn’t be denied forever—not even for the strongest principles. In his opinion, it wasn’t growing apart that ended a couple. It was starting out apart and never growing together.

  Somewhere in Kansas there was another guy nursing a broken heart, and Hank felt a strange camaraderie with the man. They were like soldiers who’d served in the same war, or survivors who’d gone through the same tornado. There was some unspoken bond between men who’d been through the wringer.

  Women were complicated, and Avery looked more so than the rest. What did that say about his morbid curiosity that he still wanted to figure Avery out?

  Chapter Four

  Avery looked down into the blackened bottom of the oatmeal pot. Granted, she’d never made oatmeal in such a large quantity before, but she really hadn’t expected to mess it up. Even with milk and brown sugar, it tasted rather smoky.

  The corn bread had turned out a little dense, but surprisingly tasty. The eight dozen boiled eggs had gone over well, as had the bacon—she couldn’t fry it up fast enough for the hungry men. By the time they were finished eating, she’d been exhausted.

  Avery gathered some empty serving trays and backed up against the swinging door that led to the kitchen. The men were donning hats once more and heading out. Hank stood on the far side the room, his gaze fixed on her.

  Had she done well? It was better than last night’s supper. She let the kitchen door swing shut behind her and carried the crumb-laden trays to the counter. She put them down with a clatter and heaved a sigh.

  Hank poked his head into the kitchen just as she was turning back for her second trip.

  “Not bad,” he said.

  “Except for the oatmeal,” she replied with a grimace. “Sorry about that.”

  “Yeah... We’ll work on that.”

  At least she wasn’t fired—that was something. And it was an improvement over the stew. Hank had left her a schedule for what to cook when, and tonight’s menu was chili, biscuits and baked potatoes. Fingers crossed for that one.