“Not a problem.” Then she smiled, even as her heart twanged with missing Landon. “Boys? Girls?”
“Boys. Two of them. Loud. Constantly moving. Fight every five minutes. You’ve been warned.”
At that, a laugh burst from Mallory’s chest. “How about early afternoon, if that works for you?”
“One-thirty? That’ll give us time to get home from church, get them fed.”
Church. Sunday dinners. An ordinary life she dimly remembered. Missed more than she’d realized. “Sounds good.” Sounds wonderful...
“Buzz at the gate, somebody’ll let you in.”
“Will do,” she said, then ended the call, holding the phone to her chest as she heard the front door open. If she wasn’t mistaken, that weird, tingly feeling in her chest was...excitement. Lord, she was in a worse way than she thought. Because damned if she wasn’t looking forward to meeting this forthright-to-a-fault dude with the low, rumbly voice.
“Hey, honeybunch,” her mother called out. “We’re home!”
And no way on God’s green earth was she sharing that tidbit with her mother.
Edgar’s little nails scritched across the tile as he scurried over to Mallory, then stood on his hind legs so she could scoop him into her lap. Because she loved the scrawny little bugger beyond all reason. Mama followed shortly, fluffing her hair and wearing that look in her eyes that Mallory wished she could figure out how to banish once and for all. Not that she had anything against her mother’s chronic optimism—heaven knows she wouldn’t have made it this far without it—but all that cheerfulness did get tiring.
“So your Dr. Talbot called,” she said, and Mama—who’d been unloading grocery bags onto the city-block-sized quartz counter in the kitchen—jerked up her head. Surprised, maybe, but not in the least bit guilty.
“My goodness, he works fast,” she said, grabbing two jars of peanut butter and carting them over to the pantry. “I didn’t expect to hear from him so soon.” Shoving up her sweater sleeves, she returned to the counter, scooped up a half dozen boxes of pasta. “I assume he was calling about the horse?”
“He was. And thanks for cluing me in, by the way.”
Mama gave her a look. “It wasn’t anything I planned, for goodness’ sake. But I was there, you know, with Edgar, and the thought popped into my head. Like these things do. I really didn’t mean to go behind your back—” Her face fell as she clutched the boxes to her chest. “You didn’t go and say something dumb, did you?”
Mallory stuck out her tongue, then sighed. “No, you’ll be glad to know I managed to act like a civilized human being.”
“Well, that’s a load off my mind. So what’d he say?”
“That his brother has a rescue that might work.”
“He does? How wonderful! Isn’t Dr. Talbot the nicest man? And, oh, he has two of sweetest little boys. So what did you say?”
Mallory steered her chair into the kitchen and snagged an apple out of the bowl on the counter, polishing it against her jeans’ leg before biting into it. Honestly, trying to follow her mother’s train of thought was like playing pinball. Blindfolded.
“We have a date,” she said, chewing, smiling slightly at her mother’s gasp. “To see the horse, Mama. And you seriously need to give it a rest.”
“Not a chance, missy. Not after what Russell did to you—”
“He didn’t do anything to me. Which we’ve been over a million times. It just didn’t work out. These things happen.” Her mother made an if-that’s-what-you-want-to-tell-yourself face. “It was for the best, Mama,” she said gently. “You’ve got to let this go. I have.” Mostly.
Tears welled in her mother’s eyes. “You really think this is for the best for Lannie?”
“For God’s sake don’t let him hear you call him that. And would you rather he live in a house where nobody was happy? Really?” Her appetite gone, Mallory wheeled over to dump the apple core in the under-counter garbage can. “Also, there’s a new Mrs. Eames, as you may recall. So, onward and all that.”
Mama’s eyes brightened. “So does that mean—”
“No,” Mallory said, knowing exactly what her mother meant.
“What am I ever going to do with you?” Mama said with a dramatic sigh, only to come over and plant a kiss on top of Mallory’s head before collecting her dog and sashaying out of the room, leaving a trail of Giorgio in her wake.
Mallory smiled, only to release a sigh of her own. Because that was the question of the century, wasn’t it? Not so much what Mama was going to do with her, as what she was going to do with herself. Since frankly she wasn’t all that keen about spending the rest of her life without male companionship. Without love and affection and, okay, sex. True, things didn’t work the same way they had, but they still worked. She definitely still...yearned, as Mama might say. But she wasn’t so much of a fool as to think all she had to do was join an online dating service and—bam!—she’d be swarmed by seventy billion takers.
And not only because her legs were basically useless. There was also that whole who-she-used-to-be-before thing to take into account.
But to admit that she yearned—or dreamed, or wished, or whatever you wanted to call it—would a) make her sound as though she felt sorry for herself, which, no, and b) give her mother ammunition. Which, hell no.
Still. What was the harm in indulging a few tingles? A curiosity about the supposedly gorgeous man attached to the sexy-as-sin voice? A man with a sense of humor? And kids? Boys, no less? What was the worst that could happen? She’d get to spend an hour outside, on a beautiful fall day, with a decent guy. And she might even end up with a horse for her son out of the deal. Could be worse, right?
Heh. Maybe she didn’t want to know the answer to that.
A faint whiff of fireplace smoke tainted the cool, still air, mixing pleasantly with the smell of horse and dirt—the scents of his childhood, Zach thought. His life. What home smelled like.
“I can’t believe you don’t know who Mallory Keyes is,” his brother Josh said as they stood in front of the fenced pasture where several of the horses grazed while they still could. In a few weeks the grass would be frozen, gone, and the horses would be on hay. Waffles was one of them, the early afternoon sun glinting off his pale gold coat. Yes, like syrup glistening over waffles. Behind them kids—and one ancient golden retriever—cavorted, as Josh’s four-year-old boy, Austin, gave Zach’s two a run for their money.
These days most of the fences were strung wire, of course. But this one, closest to the house, was still old-fashioned post-and-rail. A pain to keep in working order, but Granville Blake, whose family had owned this ranch in its various permutations for generations, wouldn’t have it any other way. His nod to tradition, Zach supposed. Now, his forearms propped on the chewed-up top rail, Zach looked over at
