Chapter Seven
Wes leaned over the stall door, watching one of the farmhands handfeed the mare some water. Though she was clean and wrapped in a blanket, her eyes remained empty and listless. “You have a baby in your belly. You need to get better,” he whispered to her.
The stable door opened, and he looked down the alley to see Eleanor walk inside, now dressed in a V-neck fuchsia tunic sweater over a pair of black jeans and knee-length black leather boots. The curve of her full breasts made him adjust his own position before facing her. “How’d your meeting go?”
“I like Ken,” she said diplomatically. “How’s the mare?”
“Rougher time than the male. C’mon, we can talk over dinner.” Wes walked toward her. As they left the barn, instead of heading to his Tahoe, he walked toward his home. “It’s late; I figured I’d cook. Any objections?”
“No. I don’t think I did your pasta and butter justice last night,” she said.
“You didn’t feel well. I should ask, how are you feeling today? Did I push you too hard making you come with me today?”
“No, I’m okay.” She looked down and away.
“Um, we may have some company. You fell asleep last night before I could tell you that Troy is staying with me,” Wes remembered.
“No problem for me.”
They walked into the large, inviting home. “Wow, this is beautiful.” She ran her hand over the polished wood.
“I wish I could take credit, but I was working in New York. Our decorator did this too. Hello,” he called out. He led her toward the kitchen.
A note was pinned to the refrigerator.Went out for dinner and drinks. Offer stands. Call if you want to meet us.
“I don’t want to keep you from your friends,” she sighed.
“No worries. Troy is staying here. I see Chris and, now, TJ and Ken all the time. Do you have any allergies?”
“I’m good. Can I help?”
“Can you make a salad? I’m going to make some chicken with fresh tomatoes, peppers, potatoes and garlic.” Wes grabbed a bottle of white wine from a rack. He uncorked the bottle and, after letting it breathe, he poured them each a glass. “To new beginnings.”
He clinked glasses with her. Then she opened the refrigerator and removed an assortment of lettuces, cherry tomatoes, peppers, carrots and red onion. “Are you always this well stocked? Bowl? Cutting board?”
“I enjoy cooking. Boards are over there. Grab me a board too.” He pointed. From a pot rack over her head, he removed a large sauté pan. “I usually make this with pasta, but that’s time-consuming to make.”
“You make your own pasta?” Eleanor sounded amazed. “Last night’s spaghetti?”
“Yes, but I really like making ravioli.” Wes watched her wash and dice the veggies.
Tossing them with the various lettuce, she asked, “Do you have some red wine vinegar, some olive oil, and I’ll steal some of the basil, oregano and garlic you’re using for dressing.” She reached around him and pinched some of the fresh herbs and garlic.
Wes knew she had no idea what she was doing to him. Why didn’t she realize what a beautiful woman she was? That he had to figure out.
“Tell me about yourself,” Wes asked.
He saw her spine stiffen. It took her just a little too long to answer, a response he recognized as “creative with the truth” from years of honing his interrogation skills. A warning bell rang in his head.
“I went to Centenary University, a school in New Jersey, for my undergraduate degree in Equine Studies and as a PT therapy assistant, and my Master’s degree in clinical counseling. As part of my undergraduate degree, I completed my training as a therapeutic riding instructor, and over the summers, I took classes in hippotherapy and volunteered until I completed my certification and became accredited as a Professional Association of Therapeutic Horsemanship International Instructor.”
“I never realized the amount of education required.” He consumed himself with dicing the garlic.
“It sounds a lot, but if you love the animals, it isn’t so bad.” She used a fork to beat the dressing.
“How’d you make it to Virginia?” He tossed the herbs, garlic and tomatoes into the heated olive oil.
“I grew up in Leesburg. I still own my parents’ home.”
