Mickey went to the Long Horn Coffee Shop. Kasey, the manager, came right over and filled her a coffee cup. She nodded at the book on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. “I heard about what happened. Nora Slattery was in here earlier. She was mighty upset.”
Mickey nodded sadly. Nora was the wife of J.T.’s foreman and had lived on J.T.’s ranch for years. She had known Beverly since childhood.
Kasey said, “My cousin’s baby had the same problem, Mick. She came through with flying colors. You’d look at her and never guess. I hope it’s the same for this little gal. But Carolyn’s devastated at this point, I imagine.”
“More than devastated,” Mickey said. “I—don’t think I can talk about it.” She didn’t want to cry again.
“I understand, hon. Tell her hello, and that we’re all pulling for her and the whole family. I’ll leave you be. Read your book. Maybe you’ll feel better.”
She surprised Mickey by giving her a brisk kiss on the cheek. Then she vanished into the kitchen. It was an hour before the supper rush would begin, and Mickey was the lone customer. She nursed her coffee and tried to read, but the words danced senselessly before her eyes.
She finished her coffee and knew she couldn’t put off returning to the Circle T forever. Reluctantly she drove home. Just as she pulled into the carport, Leon Vanek appeared. He stood at the carport’s edge, shifting his weight, clenching and unclenching his big hands.
His expression was far from happy. She wondered uneasily what he wanted. She got out of the car and faced him. “Yes, Leon? Did you want to see me about something?”
He stared at the gravel in the drive, pulling his hat down farther over his face. “Mr. and Mrs. Trent are in Denver. Because that child is sick.”
I know that all too well, Mickey thought. “Yes. We’re all concerned.”
Leon said, “You should have notified me. I’m the foreman here. You should tell me these things. I heard it from Werner. Him a common hand, and he knew before I did.”
Mickey knew Leon was a proud man and that his pride had been hurt. But she resented his accusatory tone. “I’m sorry. I just had a lot on my mind. We all did.”
Leon didn’t look placated. “I saw a man come today after they left. Come to the house.”
Mickey stared at him in puzzlement. “Yes? It’s the man Carolyn was expecting. He’s come about the lease land.”
Leon frowned. “Well, she isn’t here. And neither’s Mr. Trent.”
“Right now their place is with Beverly and Sonny.”
“You didn’t have time to tell me Mrs. Trent’s gone. That puts a lot of responsibility on my shoulders. But you had time to take him in and make him feel right at home.”
“That’s part of my responsibility,” she shot back. “It’s what Carolyn would want.”
“That man isn’t staying, is he?” Leon scowled and kicked the gravel.
“Carolyn invited him to stay. She couldn’t know this would happen.”
Leon raised his face, which was red with displeasure. “I saw him. He doesn’t look respectable. He looks like one of those hippies.”
Mickey almost smiled at the quaintness of the word “hippies,” but Leon’s disapproval seemed real. When she didn’t answer, he frowned harder. “It’s not fitting, a man like that to stay alone in the house with you. If you want me to ask him to leave, I will.”
“I’m not alone with him. Bridget’s with us. And if I wanted him to go, I’m capable of telling him myself.”
He looked more aggravated than before. “I’m concerned about your reputation. It doesn’t look good. Bridget or no. That’s all I got to say.”
“Thank you,” she said coolly, “but I can watch out for my own reputation. Good day, Leon.”
She started toward the house, but he put his hand on her wrist. It was a possessive move, and her resentment flared more hotly. He said, “I’ll watch out for you. If he bothers you, you let me know. I’ll take care of him.”
She snatched her hand away. “I said good day.” She turned her back on him and walked away in anger.
MICKEY FACED fresh exasperation when she found Bridget covering the dining room table with a white linen cloth. “Bridget, I want us to eat in the kitchen tonight. Didn’t I tell you?”
“No, you did not,” Bridget said righteously. “And this is what Carolyn would want. I aim to do it to the way she’d have it done herself. She’d snatch me bald, giving him supper in the kitchen.”
Mickey rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t exactly seemed the type for formal dining. The way he dresses, he’d probably be more comfortable on the back porch, eating beans out of a can.”
“Humph.” Bridget put her hand on her hip. “You sound high-and-mighty all of a sudden. It’s not like you, Mick. He’s a very nice young man. He has a nice way about him. Not up-pity at all. And he’s handsome, to boot. Lord, like a movie star. But he acts like he doesn’t even know it.”
Mickey gazed at her suspiciously. “Have you been talking to him?”
“I fed him—which you forgot to do. We chatted a wee bit. It seemed the polite thing to do, that’s all.”
Bridget would not hear another word about eating in the kitchen.
So Mickey, as Carolyn had intended, sat across the dining room table from Adam Duran, but she sat alone with him.
The good silver and china were set on the best linen. There were flowers—and candlelight. Carolyn was a great lover of flowers and candlelight.
From the kitchen came the succulent scents of Bridget’s sauerbraten and dumplings. One of Carolyn’s favorite albums played softly on the sound system, The Ballad of the Irish Horse.
Bridget had succeeded all too well; the atmosphere was pleasant, touched with elegance, even intimacy. Drat, thought Mickey, who didn’t want to think of intimacy with this disturbing man. Drat and double drat and triple drat.
She hadn’t dressed for supper. Neither had Adam. She wore the same denim slacks and high-necked white blouse. He wore the same washed-out jeans and faded work shirt.
He and she both bent, without speaking, over their salads. The music swelled, faded, then built again. The candlelight gleamed on the gold streaks in Adam’s hair. It flashed from their silver forks and the crystal glasses.
On the way home, Mickey had mentally listed enough neutral subjects to get through the ordeal of supper. She would save her more pointed questions for dessert, when he might be warmed enough by wine and good food to be candid.
She trotted out her first innocuous remark. “I hope you got to enjoy the wildflowers on your drive here. It’s a particularly nice spring.”
He was supposed to say, Yes, the
