with sugar and apple cider at home.”
There wasn’t much space between the makeshift shelf holding her washing tubs and the table of punch and cups, and he filled a good three quarters of that area, leaving her little room and even less air to breath.
All three of the McCoy men were hard workers, gone from the house when she arrived and not home until long after she’d left, taking care of their cattle, plowing or planting fields and rounding up the wild mustangs. Although Garret had gone to law school, he much preferred rounding up and selling mustangs.
Their mother was proud of all three of her sons, told Rory that all the time, but it was the oldest, Garret, who Abigail depended on the most. Had done ever since their father had died a few years ago, and that was why he was the one Rory insisted stay behind rather than joining his brothers on the cattle drive to Dodge. The brothers wouldn’t be gone long, only a few weeks, but Rory didn’t feel it was safe for Abigail to be alone even that length of time.
“You’ve been assigned to stand guard,” he whispered, “make sure no one adds anything else, haven’t you?”
His teasing grin was almost her breaking point. He knew the townsfolk well. The women who insisted someone was in charge of just such a thing and the men who continuously tried to catch the punch bowl unattended. She knew the townsfolk, and she knew him. As well as his past, something no one dared mention, and his egg-stealing charm wouldn’t work on her.
“Thank you,” Rory said after she’d emptied the last jar he’d handed her, “for all of your help, but I’m fine by myself. You can leave now.” Becoming more nervous by the second, afraid he wouldn’t leave, she filled a cup and handed it to him. “Here, take this to your mother. I’m sure she’s thirsty.”
His gaze lingered on the cup before coming up to meet hers, at which point her hand started to shake. He took the cup and skirted his way around the table. Rory wanted to collapse at his departure. If only her past had remained buried on the other side of the state line.
Chapter Two
Garret made his way around the dance floor to the area where his mother and several of her older friends sat, clapping their hands to the music. Setting the punch on a makeshift table, he placed one hand on her shoulder, once again noting how fragile she’d become lately.
“Good turnout,” he said above the noise.
“Yes, it is. But the Campbells always have a full house when they put on a party,” his mother replied, nodding her head, which held more gray hair than brown. “Everyone for miles around attends.”
“Yes, they do,” he answered. There’d been a time when they’d had parties in their barn, big ones, but that had been long ago. Lately he’d witnessed time catching up with his mother, and as much as Rory irritated him, he was glad she was there to assist Mother with several things, though for some reason, Rory didn’t want him and his brothers to know exactly how much help she provided.
“Mother,” he said, kneeling down so only she heard. “If it’s Campbell’s party, why is Rory supplying all the punch?”
“She offered to, dear.” Leaning closer, she said into his ear, “Rory doesn’t like to dance but does like to be in attendance.”
“Well,” he said, “there should be someone helping her.”
“By all means, there should be.” Waving a hand toward a group of youngsters, she said, “Go get Grady and Thelma’s daughter. You know which one she is. She’s old enough to help.”
Garret, knowing his mother would have the solution he hadn’t come up with himself, kissed her cheek. “I’ll do that.”
“While you’re at it,” she said, “it wouldn’t hurt you to ask Rory to dance.”
“You just said she doesn’t like to dance,” he reminded her.
Her eyes took on a youthful appeal as she whispered, “All women like to dance, Garret. Some just deny it harder than others.”
“If you say so, Mother,” he said, and gave her a wink before maneuvering past the dancers to where Grace Campbell and her friends sat with their legs dangling off the edge of the hayloft. He climbed halfway up the ladder, told the girls what he needed and jumped off the ladder before they knocked him down in their rush to help Miss Boyle.
The four girls, probably about twelve or so, he’d guess, took over the space between the table and shelf, forcing Rory to the edge, next to where he stood. He grinned even harder when her lips puckered and a scowl overtook her face.
“I didn’t need any help,” she seethed under her breath.
“It was Mother’s idea,” he half lied. “She insisted Grace and her friends were old enough to be helping.”
Clearly miffed, Rory glanced around. Unless he was mistaken—which he highly doubted—her blue eyes held the same hint of longing his mother’s had. Though Rory was trying to hide it as she searched for an excuse to hightail it for parts unknown. Garret wasn’t about to let that happen. He had a bet to win, and the Rose brothers had arrived, which meant the purse was now a full 200. He took her elbow and led her a few steps away from the table to where there weren’t quite as many people. “Now you’re free to dance.”
Her glare could cut glass. “I’ll tell you what I’ve told every other man here tonight.” Sharpening her gaze a bit more, she said sternly, “No.”
The pink-and-white getup she had on tightened over her breasts as she took a deep breath to refill her lungs. Her shape, well defined by the dress, was made for admiring, and he’d done that often enough, admired it. He’d never admit that or let it show. A woman’s sweet body and charm had twisted him once, and that would never happen again.
“Doesn’t any man understand what that word means?”
Garret let his gaze roam over her once more. “What word?”
“No,” she answered. “No, I don’t want to dance. I’ve said that a hundred times tonight.”
Playing dumb, he said, “I didn’t ask you to dance. I said you’re free to dance if you so choose.”
“You’re the only one who hasn’t,” she snapped. “The Rose brothers only arrived a few minutes ago and I had to repeat myself five times over to each one of them.”
The setting sun was shining through the wide doors beside them, and while painting the sky an array of colors, it also reflected in her cheeks, made her eyes a deeper blue. It also had her hair, which was pinned on top of her head in a fluffy sort of way with dozens of little curls hanging around the edges, glittering like gold dust.
A noise or movement or some such distraction had him glancing over his shoulder, where he spied close to two dozen men all looking their way. The Rose boys—men, actually; all five of them stood over six feet and not a one of them was married—were positioned at the front of the group. He and his brothers were as tall as the Roses but not as heavy. Those boys were as barrel-chested as racehorses, and he had to wonder just how seriously they held this bet.
“You know,” Garret said, acting as if he’d just come up with the idea, “you could dance with me.”
“Excuse
