Beckett handed over the reins. “Y’all have everything you need for the storm?”
“We’re all set. And your mother has stew simmering on the stove, so I’m ready to get back myself.”
It wasn’t a long walk, but it was dark by the time the house came into view. When his father had decided to retire and put the ranch in Beckett’s hands, his parents had moved out of the big house on the hill, as was tradition when the ranch passed to the next Hamilton generation. Beckett had tried to get them to reconsider—he didn’t need a house that big—but they’d insisted and had built a smaller house on the lake about a mile past the barn.
The main house had been built in the twenties—a two-story log cabin with a shaker shingle roof and a porch that wrapped all the way around. Large, rough logs served as supports for the porch, and already the railing was dusted with white from the steadily falling snow.
He’d always thought of it as a log cabin on steroids. Huge windows front and back let light travel all the way through the house, and a double staircase in the center led to two separate upstairs wings. Even in his childhood, it had been too much room for just the three of them. But it was home. And more importantly, it felt like home.
He’d forgotten to tell Izzy he was having company for dinner. Isadora Blackstone had been a fixture at Hamilton House since before he was born, and she’d chosen to stay with him when the ranch changed hands. She said Master Beckett needed her a lot more than his parents did. She oversaw the cleaning, cooked his meals, and had boxed his ears on more than one occasion growing up.
She looked like she wanted to box them right now.
“What do you mean you’re having company for dinner?” she demanded, brandishing a wooden spoon like a sword. “You think food just magically cooks itself and appears on your plate? Cooking for company takes planning and time. Especially if it’s a lady friend.”
Isadora Blackstone was a little sprite of a woman with coal-black eyes and hair to match—though the hair had some help from Clairol these days. Her skin was the color of creamed coffee and her face was remarkably smooth for her age, which she credited to fifty years of faithful moisturizing. Her eyebrows were drawn on sharply with a black pencil and her lips were ruby red. She was maybe ninety pounds soaking wet, but when she got her dander up, she was as scary as any giant.
“Unless it’s that Hazel Trout,” Izzy continued, narrowing her eyes. “I’m not cooking for that little tramp, so if you’re thinking of parking your horse in that particular barn again, you’d better think again.”
Beckett snorted out a laugh before he could help himself, and the spoon missed the tip of his nose by an inch. He congratulated himself on not flinching.
“I told you to stay away from that girl. I said, Master Beckett, you keep your dallying with that girl out of my house. She sees herself as Queen Bee over Hamilton Ranch, and I’m already Queen Bee. There ain’t room enough for the both of us. Didn’t I tell you that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Beckett agreed quickly. She had told him that, and he wasn’t going to argue. Everyone knew Izzy ruled the roost at Hamilton Ranch.
“It’s not Hazel. It’s Marnie Whitlock.”
Izzy’s expression transformed immediately, her eyes softening. “The Whitlock girl? Harley’s daughter?” She nodded slowly. “That poor child. I remember her trailing after the O’Hara girl like a little shadow. Skinny as a rail and big sad eyes. Heard she made something of herself.”
“She did. She’s a photographer now. Just opened a studio in town.”
“Good for her.” Izzy stuck her head in the refrigerator, slapping contents on the counter. “Now shoo. Get out of my kitchen. You smell like you’ve been rolling in manure.”
“Pretty close. You’d think the cows would be smart enough to come in from the cold on their own.”
“Thank goodness they’re not. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have steak thawed out and ready to put on the grill for your dinner guest. Now go before you stink up the whole house.”
“I’m going,” he said, and grabbed an apple from the bowl while her back was turned.
By the time he was showered and dressed in jeans and a soft gray sweater, the meal was ready and warming in the oven. Izzy had made herself scarce, leaving a note taped to the refrigerator reminding him to be a gentleman and that she was going to bed because her reality show was on. She lived in the small guesthouse behind the garage.
When the doorbell finally rang, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
He opened the door to find Marnie covered head to toe in snow, her face white as a sheet.
“What happened? Are you okay?” He pulled her inside toward the fireplace.
“I didn’t realize the weather was going to get so bad so quickly.” Her teeth chattered and he steered her toward the blazing logs. “I tried to call you and cancel, but I couldn’t get through. I think service is down. I didn’t want you to think I’d driven in a ditch somewhere and have to come looking for me.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you. Did you walk here? I’ve never seen someone covered in this much snow from driving a car.”
“The windshield wipers on my van decided to stop working. I had to roll down the window to see where I was going. And then when I got out, the wind blew the door open and knocked me face-first into a snowbank.” She peeled off her gloves and laid them in front of the fire. “I might have parked on your lawn. I honestly couldn’t tell.”
“I’ve never heard you say that much at one time.”
“You make me nervous.”
He laughed—she’d said that once before, on a certain Ferris wheel. “Hand me your things and I’ll hang them up to dry. There’s coffee or I can make tea.”
