going to enjoy what Webb’s River has to offer. I was just agreeing with you.”
I feel myself starting to blush, but at the same time a smile is tugging at my mouth, and I have to tense my cheek muscles to keep a straight face. I slug Sam again and shake my finger at him. “I know what you’re hinting at,” I say, “and you’re wrong. I really like learning to ride — and that’s it!”
He shrugs innocently. “That’s what I thought you meant. Golly. There’s no getting along with some people.” Then he stands up and puts his hand out for my empty plate. “Want some lemonade?”
“Sure,” I say, grateful for the change of subject. “Thanks.”
“I’ll be right back.”
When he returns, Sam is juggling two glasses of lemonade and a big plastic bag. He hands me one of the glasses and then the bag.
“What’s this?” I say.
“Since you can’t get to the shops, I thought I’d bring the shops to you.”
“Really?” I beam. “You got me a present?” I set the glass of lemonade down on the grass and open the bag. Then I gasp in surprise. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but it isn’t this. I look from the bag to Sam. “Boots! You got me boots.”
“Well, we can’t have you wearing running shoes when you ride,” he says. “It just isn’t right.”
I pull the boots out of the bag and admire them from every angle. Not that I know anything about cowboy boots, but they’re certainly beautiful to look at. The foot is tan while the top is a darker brown with designs tooled into the leather. The toe is pointed, and there’s even a bit of a heel.
“They’re gorgeous!” I tell Sam.
“Try ’em on,” he says.
I kick off my runners, grab the tabs on the boot top, slide my foot inside, and pull. Then I do the same for the other foot.
“They fit!” I exclaim with surprise as I stand up and take a stroll around the grass. “How did you know my size?”
“I checked your running shoes when you weren’t in them. You know you have pretty big feet for a girl.”
I make a face and nudge his boot with the toe of mine. “Look who’s talking. I wouldn’t exactly call these puppies petite.”
He glances down and frowns. “I’m a man. I’m supposed to have big feet. It makes me look —” He pauses as if he’s searching for the right word and finally settles for “manly.”
“Yeah, right!” I hoot. “Whatever you say. Anyway, thanks for the boots. I feel like a real western girl now. All I’m missing is the hat.” Then I smile and add, “And the belt buckle. And the bandana. And the —”
“Uh-oh,” he mutters into his moustache. “On second thought, maybe you’re not so different from your mother after all.”
I laugh.
That’s when my cellphone rings. First time since I’ve left Vancouver. I dig it out of my pocket and look at the screen.
“Speak of the devil,” I say. “It’s Mom.”
Chapter Nine
Mom’s call is short and sweet. Basically, she wants to know how Sam and I are getting along, and she is clearly relieved when I assure her things are fine. She laughs at my horse-riding stories and then gushes about Spain for a few minutes before hanging up with a promise to call again when she and Reed get to Paris.
In a matter of days, life with Sam slides into a comfortable routine. I spend mornings at Greener Pasture, working on my riding skills with Micah, while Sam does chores, gets groceries, or runs errands. At noon he picks me up and we return to the trailer for lunch — which we make together. We never end up taking turns cooking, even though that was the original plan. Preparing meals together is just more fun — talking and laughing and experimenting with recipes. The food even tastes better.
Afternoons just happen. Some days we head out in Lizzie, go for a walk, or double on Jasmine and explore Sam’s ten acres. If I’m running out of clean clothes, I do my laundry, and Sam putters in the shed or drags fence posts around the field. On the days we’re feeling lazy, we just loll in the sunshine, reading and then discussing what we’ve read. Books, like cooking, are something Sam and I both enjoy, which is a good thing since there are lots of books around. Even so, I make a point of choosing ones I know Sam has already read, so we can have our discussions. Sometimes we agree; sometimes we don’t. It doesn’t matter. It’s the exchange of ideas that counts, and I get totally stoked as my thoughts bubble up and overflow like a runaway chemistry experiment. The same thing happens to Sam. I can tell by the energy in his voice. Somewhere along the way, my ideas get mixed up with his until I’m not quite sure whose thoughts are whose anymore, but when we’re finally all talked out, I feel as if my whole body has been scrubbed with a brush — I’m tingly inside and out.
At some point during the afternoon or evening, we plant ourselves in front of Sam’s huge television and take in a baseball game — or two. I’m not really a fan, but Sam is nuts about baseball, so I keep him company. I mean, where else am I gonna go? Besides, Sam really gets into the games, and it’s kind of fun watching him get all excited — or pissed off — depending on how his team is doing. We both root for the Blue Jays — it’s the Canadian thing to do — but otherwise, I cheer for whatever team Sam wants to lose, just to make things interesting.
“Go, Rangers!” I holler at the television as Texas takes the field. “C’mon, boys. Get ’em out one, two, three. You can do it.” Then I grab a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the coffee table and shove them into my mouth.
Sam shoots me a sideways glance and his eyebrows dive together into a bushy knot. “Since when are you a Texas fan?”
I shrug and grin. “Since you’re a Baltimore fan and that’s who they’re playing.”
He shakes his head and clucks his tongue in disgust. “That’s not how you choose a team.”
“That’s how I choose,” I say as I help myself to more nuts.
He slides the bowl out of my reach. “If you keep eating those things, you aren’t going to have room for your supper.”
“If I’m not supposed to eat the peanuts, why did you put them out?”
Sam ignores my question and points to the television. “Watch the game.”
The first batter comes to the plate, crosses himself, looks skyward, and takes a few practice swings. Then he cocks the bat and waits for the pitcher to throw the ball. When it comes, he swings so hard he loses his balance and has to lean on the bat to keep from falling.
“Woo-hoo!” I cheer. “Strike one.”
Sam sits forward on the couch.
The pitcher throws the ball again and the batter swings. Another miss.
“Easy out,” I heckle.
“Relax, man.
