forward to seeing the horses.
After his stomach stopped growling.
He hit the front steps heavily to cover the noise as he headed for the door behind Sally, but the twinkle in her eyes let him know she wasn’t deaf. Embarrassing. He didn’t like to give anything away unintentionally. Not even the fact that he hadn’t taken time to eat anything before he left home.
Beset by the aroma of juicy beef, his stomach spoke up again as he followed her in the house while Phoebe protested having the door shut in her face.
“She can come in, as long as she’s okay around cats,” Sally said. “Sounds like she’s hungry. We usually don’t eat supper around here until pretty late, but we never keep the critters waiting.”
“Something smells good.” He stood like a maypole while Sally circled around him. “Enough to eat.” He watched her let Phoebe in. “Right now.”
She turned one of her bright-eyed smiles on him. “Right now?”
“Be glad to help you get it on.”
“Would you?”
“On the table.”
“I’ve always wanted to try that,” she told him over her shoulder as she led the way through foodless territory. “But let’s eat first.”
Willing as he was, he didn’t have to help much. He was a straight shooter, and she was a woman who loved to tease. She’d had supper simmering in a Crock-Pot, ready to dish up anytime. She put him to slicing bread and filling water glasses while she washed salad greens. Hoolie came in the back door all slicked down and washed up precisely at five-fifteen.
Pretty late, my ass.
Pretty tasty. Pretty entertaining. Pretty woman. Maybe he could get used to a little teasing.
“How much of the Double D can you reach on wheels?” Hank asked as he sipped his coffee. “You use ATVs?”
“Hell, no,” Hoolie said. “Too damn noisy. This is a ranch, not a playground.”
“I’m with you on that score.” And he’d told his brother as much last night when Greg had shown off a picture of the one he wanted. A kid’s toy, Hank had said.
“We can cover a lot of ground in a pickup, but there’s places we don’t go except on horseback.”
“We have some totally pristine grassland here,” Sally said. “Some of it is pretty remote.”
“I’ll stow my gear in the bunkhouse, and then maybe we could all take a little pickup ride,” Hank suggested. “Give me a feel for what’s out there while it’s still light.”
“We can do that.” Sally sounded hesitant. “But we have a room for you here in the house.”
“I’m fine with the bunkhouse.”
“We get kids out here sometimes helpin’ out. Volunteers come and go. You’ll be better off in the house.” Hoolie shrugged. “I snore.”
“We’re hoping to add on to the bunkhouse to give Hoolie more privacy.” Sally and Hoolie exchanged looks. “Definitely on the to-do list.”
“Definitely,” Hoolie said. “Sally’s used to having Annie around. And Zach, too, since he come along. We don’t want Sally rattlin’ around here alone at night.”
“She could get into trouble?” Hank set his cup down. “Hell, whatever works. I just figured…”
“It’s a big house,” Hoolie said. “And you’re a guest more than anything. I’m the hired man.”
Hank looked at Sally. He had something she wanted, and she’d decided it was hers for the taking. She’d try to tease it out of him, would she? He gave a suggestive smile. Game on, woman. Your house, my play.
“Do you snore?” he asked her.
“I’ve never had any complaints.”
Hoolie took Sally’s unspoken hint and begged off the after-supper tour. “I’ll let you take my pickup.” He offered Hank two keys and a metal Road Runner trinket on a key ring.
Ignoring the handoff, Hank nodded at Sally. “She’s giving the tour.”
“This thing he offers is a great honor,” Sally quipped, B-movie style. “To refuse would be an insult.”
“She’s a 1968 C10,” Hoolie boasted. “She’s a great little go-fer pickup. Short box with a six-pony engine. Overhauled her myself.”
“Classic,” Hank said appreciatively. “My dad had one when I was a kid. Got her used, ran her into the ground. He was on the road a lot.”
“Don’t know how many times the odometer’s turned over on this one, but she runs like a top. You gotta try ‘er out.”
“My pleasure.”
Watching Hank handle the big steering wheel and palm the knob on the gearshift was Sally’s pleasure. She’d stopped driving altogether after proving she really could hit the broad side of the barn. It was the first time she’d lost all feeling in her right leg, the one that gave her the most trouble. She’d been backing up to the barn with a load of mineral blocks when suddenly the leg was gone. Might as well have been lopped off at the hip. By the time she’d moved the dead weight by hand, her tailgate had smashed through the tack-room wall.
The damage to the barn had been easy to repair. Her pickup, like her pride, had become an early victim of her unpredictable body. But her independence had begun to erode that day, and with it went bits of confidence. Dealing with the disease wasn’t as difficult as plugging up holes in her spirit. During bad times she’d start springing holes right and left, and she could feel herself draining away. She’d learned to take advantage of the very thing that made MS so cruel—its capricious nature. When the symptoms ebbed, she dammed up all her leaks and charged ahead, full speed, total Sally. She took pleasure in the little things, like the way it felt to get up and walk whenever the spirit moved her, the feel of water lapping against bare skin, the smell of a summer night and the look of a man’s hands taking charge.
Phoebe was sitting pretty in the pickup box behind the back window, her blond ears flapping in the breeze. They plied the fence line at a leisurely pace, following tire tracks worn in the sod. Sally pointed out the “geriatric bachelor band” grazing in a shallow draw. They were too old for the adoption program, and some of them had spent years in holding facilities—essentially feedlot conditions—before finding a home at the Double D. Heads bobbed, ears perked at the sound of the engine, and they moved as one, like a school of fish.
“They have no use for us, especially this time of year,” she said with a smile. “Which means we’re doing something right.” She nodded for a swing to the west, punched the glove-compartment button and felt around for the binoculars. “From the top of that hill we might get a look at some of the two-year-olds. There are some beauties in that bunch. Do you like Spanish Mustangs?”
He swung the big steering wheel. “I don’t see too many.”
“They
