would have been fine,” he assured the Becketts. Maybe that wasn’t entirely accurate, but he didn’t want them making too much of his actions, which hadn’t been entirely altruistic. “She just got a little turned around. I’m sure she would have found the fence and made it back to the house with no problem. Please. It’s no big deal.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Carol said, shaking her head. “But I’m grateful all the same, and so is Laney.”
He very much doubted gratitude was what Laney was feeling for him. Not from the frown she flashed at him when she thought the Becketts weren’t looking.
Slade bit into a cookie and groaned with pleasure. His own mother didn’t cook a lick, and since there was no other woman with a constant presence in his life, the only fresh baked goods he ever got besides Carol’s occasional but heartfelt forays into baking were Phoebe Hawkins’s fare from Cup O’ Jo’s Café in town. Phoebe was a professional chef and her baked goods were delicious, but they lacked the significance of being baked just for him, with love.
He poured himself a tall glass of ice-cold milk and took a long drink, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand to prevent a milk mustache. He caught Laney’s gaze and she lifted a brow.
What? Was she laughing at him?
“You’ve never heard of milk and cookies?”
She smirked. “You’ve utterly ruined your tough-guy cowboy image for me, you know.”
He shrugged, trying to make light of her comment, even if it was a direct strike to his ego. “Don’t knock it until you try it.” He met her gaze, speaking without words. Or knock me when you don’t even know me.
She glared right back at him, and her gaze was no less telling. It stated clearly that she knew him well enough to judge him and find him wanting.
“Consider the cookies and milk the least we can do as your reward for a job well done,” Carol said, grinning mischievously and seeming completely oblivious to the silent war brewing between her two guests.
“If I’m going to get cookies and milk every time I’m good, you can count on me to rescue fair damsels every day of the week.”
He was joking, of course, and the Becketts chuckled along with him, but instead of joining in the laughter, Laney frowned.
“I am neither fair nor a damsel in distress,” Laney remarked. Slade wondered if Carol and Grant could hear the ice in her tone or if she only sounded cold to him.
Apparently he was the only one who’d interpreted her frostiness because if anything, Carol’s eyes sparkled not with surprise, but with concern for the woman. “We’re just grateful you’re here with us, Laney. We only wish the circumstances were better.”
Laney’s expression fell and for a moment even Slade felt sorry for her. She looked thoroughly devastated at the reminder of Brody’s death. He’d known his fair share of female deceit in his life, but could a woman fake that kind of pain?
“Speaking of,” Slade inserted, seeing an opening to ask what was really on his mind. Maybe it was wrong of him to take advantage of the moment, given Laney’s current vulnerability, but he wasn’t sure how else to bring up the subject. It was now or never. “How long are you staying, Laney?”
Hmmph. So much for casual. He couldn’t have sounded worse if he’d tried. Every eye in the room turned on him in surprise. He wished he had figured out a more tactful way to ask the question, but he was as good at being tactful as the proverbial bull in a china shop, bumping around and smashing things—feelings—with his words.
“Didn’t she tell you?” Grant asked, scratching his red-blond beard. “She’s staying in Serendipity for good. This is Laney’s permanent home now.”
As a matter of fact, she hadn’t mentioned anything about her future plans, not that he had asked. He was relieved to hear it all the same. How else would he be able to be a part of Baby Beckett’s life?
Of course, that meant he’d have to deal with Laney on a regular basis. But he’d do what he had to do. The baby was that important to him.
“Nice of you to give her somewhere to stay for now,” he acknowledged. She’d probably be looking for a place of her own soon. Maybe he could help her find something, extend the olive branch, so to speak.
“Oh, no.” Carol shook her head, her white curls bobbing. “You misunderstand. It’s the other way around. It’s nice of her to give us a place to stay.”
“What?” Slade’s pulse roared in his ears and his voice rose. His gut turned wildly and lurched in nauseating waves. “What are you talking about?”
“Brody never told you?” The depth and restraint in Carol’s tone suggested Slade had better calm down before speaking again. He recognized the mother tone of her voice when he heard it and took it as the warning it was. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm the whirlwind in his mind.
“Sorry,” he muttered, though he wasn’t really feeling it. He stared at the ground as if a hole would open and swallow him, which might be the better way to get out of this sticky situation. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice. You just caught me off guard.”
Which was the understatement of the century.
Carol rolled cookie dough balls in her palms as if it was every day that she said things to him that turned his whole world upside down and backward. “It’s in the will. Black and white, just as we expected it to be. There are no surprises here, Slade. Brody left everything to Laney.” She smiled at him without an ounce of anxiety or regret showing in her features, and then her warm, compassionate gaze shifted to Laney. “She owns this ranch, part and parcel.”
* * *
If glowering were an art form, Slade McKenna would have made a million dollars out of it. At the moment, his face was an alarming shade of red, almost as if he were being choked with the effort of holding his temper in check. He clenched his fists into tight knots and Laney could see his pulse hammering in the tense lines of his neck. She didn’t even want to know what was running through his mind right now, but she suspected she was about to find out.
“Brody. Left. Her. Everything?” He separated each word into its own unique sentence, each one with more emphasis, more power, than the last.
Laney felt the unfathomable urge to duck beneath the counter to avoid the coming explosion. Clearly Slade was doing everything in his power to contain his words, but she had little faith in his self-control. He was too much like Brody, only more volatile in temper. Just as recklessly, foolishly impulsive, with no restraint. If he was this angry, then sooner or later—likely sooner—he’d snap.
The prospect was distinctly unsettling. The man was downright scary in his current state. He looked completely mad, poised to snort and kick in every direction.
But no matter how she was quaking on the inside, she didn’t allow herself to do so much as flinch. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing he had affected her in any way, much less that he had intimidated her. She straightened her spine and squarely met his gaze, ready for whatever fireworks were about to explode.
Except they didn’t.
He
