Page 21 of The Cowboy and the Stray

"Hmph." She leaned back, chair creaking. "Best you learn quick then. We take care of each other here."

I risked a glance over at her, trying to sort sincerity from pity. But Midge's gaze was as straightforward as the rest of her, no nonsense and no dissembling. I looked away first.

"Even Sloane?" The question was out before I could bite it back. That woman unnerved me, with her cool remoteness and assessing eyes. She didn't seem like the type to fuss over foundlings.

Midge threw her head back and laughed, a full-throated cackle that rang off the rafters. "Oh, honey. Especially Sloane. She's a prickly one, no mistake. Got more thorns than a cactus patch. But she'd take a bullet for any soul under this roof, you included."

I ducked my head again, something in my chest going soft and squishy. I wasn't sure I believed her, not fully. But I wanted to. Oh, I wanted to. Dangerous territory, that want.

Midge let me sit with that for a minute, sipping her tea, gaze distant as a hawk scanning the horizon. I fiddled with the clothes in my lap, the quilt behind me. Let myself imagine, just for a moment, that this could last. That I could be still, without looking over my shoulder. That I could be safe.

The bent of my thoughts must have shown on my face, because Midge set down her glass with a decisive clink. "Best see about finishing Mama's quilt now. No sense dithering."

I blinked, thoughts scattering like startled birds. But she was right. There was work to be done. I couldn't sit around in my feels all day.

I picked up the quilt again, needle poised. I thought of my mother's hands, so much steadier than my own. I thought of the many Maddox women who had stitched their very history into this fabric, making and mending, leaving a tangible piece of themselves behind. I couldn't claim to understand that kind of permanence, that tethering to a place and a people. But maybe I could try. One tiny, careful stitch at a time.

My focus narrowed back to the torn edge, to the slow mending. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Midge pick up one of the shirts, her fingers nimble with practice as she began to darn a frayed cuff. And for a while, there was only the flicker of the needles in the drowsy heat, and the soft sighs of fabric, and the tentative unfurling of something deep down in the pit of my belly. Something that felt dangerously close to comfort.

Of course, all spells break eventually. Mine broke with the sudden bright shock of pain and a hissed curse as I jabbed the needle straight into the pad of my thumb. Again.

"Dammit all to hell!"

I stuck the abused digit into my mouth, glaring at the quilt like it had bitten me. A fat drop of crimson bloomed on the faded yellow calico, an accusation and a benediction all at once.

"I don't know why I thought I could do this," I muttered around my mouthful of thumb. "Not like I ever had much talent for needlework." Or anything else.

Midge squinted at me, lips pursed. "Don't recall asking for talent. Just effort."

I frowned. "What's the point of doing something if you can't do it well?"

"Oh, pshht." She flapped a dismissive hand, the motion setting her rocking chair to swaying. "Doing it at all is what matters. Trying is what matters. Perfection is for fools and dead folks." She leveled a stern finger at me. "Far as I'm concerned, if something's worth doing, it's worth doing slipshod 'til you get the hang of it."

I clamped down on the urge to huff in exasperation. But some of her words must have rung true, because I found myself bending over the quilt once more, needle moving with dogged determination, tiny crimson stains be damned. I'd finish this row of stitches if it was the last damn thing I did on God's green earth.

Midge, bless her, kept up an idle stream of chatter as I worked, her raspy drawl an oddly soothing counterpoint to the prick and pull of thread through cloth. She told me about life on the ranch, the vagaries of keeping a passel of roughneck cowboys in line. About dragging Calder by the ear when he was knee-high to a June bug, always getting into some scrape or other. Her stories meandered comfortably, dotted with wry humor and hard-won wisdom, spinning a picture of a place and a family bound up bone deep.

"Did you ever think about leaving?" I asked abruptly, not lifting my eyes from my mending. "Starting fresh somewhere else, doing something else?"

The rocking chair creaked to a stop. I felt her gaze on the top of my head, heavy and considering. "Once. A long time ago now. Thought I'd pull up stakes and follow some bull-rider to Wyoming. More hair than sense, that one." Her voice fell, softening with memory. "I got just far enough to lose my sister on the rodeo circuit. Never quite forgave myself for leaving her behind."

I dared a glance up. Her eyes were distant, fixed on some invisible horizon.

"She passed on?" I asked hesitantly.

Midge startled, focusing on me with a rusty laugh. "Good lord, no. Sissy is still raising all kinds of Cain out on the road. Riding broncs and breaking hearts." She sobered, fingers pleating the shirt in her lap. "I just wasn't there when she needed me. Chose myself over her. Blood ought to come first."

I nodded and after a beat, Midge cleared her throat, visibly shaking off the cobwebs. "Anyway, I turned tail and came back here. Met my Boone and fell in love. Planted myself deep so as I'd never be tempted to up and run again." Her mouth twisted, part wry, part tender. "This family, this land, it's part of me now. Like breathing. Can't rightly imagine being anywhere else. Like I was born here, though I wasn't. Ranch belonged to my husband's family. I was born not too far away, though."

I swallowed, needle hovering over the quilt. "That sounds nice," I managed lamely. Yeah, nice in the same way skydiving without a parachute is thrilling.

As I sewed, my mind pulled inexorably back to Calder. To the gruff rumble of his voice, the way it snagged in his throat whenever his temper flared. The way the world had stopped spinning this morning when I'd landed in his arms, covered in manure and stinking to high heaven. He was a force of nature, that man.

And yet.

And yet, when he spoke to Midge, some of that pent-up energy seemed to ease. Oh, the gruffness was still there, the potential for thunder. But it was gentler, somehow. Tamed by patience and an old, worn affection.

I wondered what it would take to turn that voice to honey. What it would feel like to have those rough edges soften for me, just for me. The thought fluttered inside my chest like a trapped bird, foreign and vaguely terrifying. I shoved it down ruthlessly. Nope. Abort mission. Danger ahead.