But the water was warming my cold hands and she was humming something under her breath and I couldn’t make myself leave. The realization that I didn’t want to leave made me scrub my hands harder than necessary.
“It’s almost ready.” Her voice was steady, matter-of-fact. “Have a seat.”
Instead of arguing, I sat. I hated myself for it, for not being strong enough to simply walk away, but took a seat anyway.
She brought two bowls to the table and set one in front of me, then took the seat across from me instead of next to me. Smart. Safer.
The stew was good. Better than good. Also, on the table was a plate full of yellow squares. Cornbread. My mouth watered. I hadn’t had cornbread since the last time I’d gone into town and eaten at the diner. I didn’t go to town, especially this time of year. I didn’t need the stares or the whispered comments.
I looked at the calendar and waited for the rush of anger to hit me, but it didn’t. I didn’t examine the reason why too closely. We ate in silence for a few minutes. Not comfortable silence. Charged silence. The kind that made me hyperaware of every small sound—her fork against the bowl, the soft catch of her breath, the way her throat moved when she swallowed.
I forced myself to focus on the food. It was easier than focusing on her.
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?” I asked after a few bites.
“My mom.” Her expression shifted. Softened. “She used to make this every Sunday.”
“She doesn’t anymore?”
“No, she had a stroke last year. We’re still trying to get her mobility back.” Her mouth curled into a sad but determined smile.
A stroke. That explained her taking this job. She probably needed the money for medical bills. The thought made a little of my wariness ease away. “How bad?” I asked.
She looked at me, weighing whether to answer. “Bad enough that I was working two jobs in Billings and still couldn’t keep up. My aunt had to move in with us because I couldn’t afford home care.”
Damn it.
“Rhett helped,” she continued. “When he found out, he gave me more work. When he called about this job, I didn’t even ask what it paid. I just said yes.”
I understood that kind of desperation. The kind that made you take risks you wouldn’t normally take.
“I’m sure he told you to watch your step around me.”
“He did.” She took a bite of her food, and I watched her lips close around the spoon.
Then why didn’t you? I silently asked. I glanced at the calendar again, reminding myself.
She followed my gaze, looking at me a little shyly, a little hesitant. “Um, Cade told me why you dislike Valentine’s Day.”
I stopped eating. “Did he now?”
“He said your ex-fiancée left you on Valentine’s Day. That she wanted the fantasy of ranch life, not the reality.” She paused. “That you haven’t let anyone in since.”
I stood, taking both our bowls to the sink before she could move. I started washing them. She quietly put away the leftovers, then picked up a dish towel without asking and started drying.
We worked in silence, her shoulder brushing mine every time she reached for a dish. Once again she was close enough that I could smell her—something clean and simple that was starting to invade every thought I had.
This is what I’d been trying to avoid since the day she’d stepped onto my ranch. The knowledge that she was here, in my space. Invading my thoughts.
“She wasn’t my fiancée. She was a buckle bunny I’d brought home,” I said finally. It was true—I hadn’t asked Sarah to marry me, but everyone around us had assumed that. With more than a little help from her.
Why the hell was I telling her this? I never talked about Sarah. Not with anyone except Cade, and even then only when I was drunk enough not to care.
But Amber was looking at me with those eyes that saw too much, and the words kept coming.
Amber frowned. “A what?”
“Rodeo groupie. She followed the circuit looking for cowboys.” I rinsed the dish and handed it to her. “I was riding saddle bronc back then. Me and Cade and Rhett, we all competed together. Sarah, that was her name, latched onto me.She said she loved the ranching lifestyle and couldn’t wait to settle down. Turns out she meant a hobby ranch, not a working one where the day started before dawn and ended with a palm full of blisters.”
