In a moment the kids were gone. Seconds ticked by in silence.
“Must be tough,” Colt said finally.
Casie scowled at him. Her mind was spinning, but despite the recent emotions that had just buzzed the kitchen like angry bees, Dickenson looked relaxed. Maybe that's what happened when you were raised in a family of seven. No one tiptoed. Everyone came out swinging and learned to roll with the punches. Or maybe that's just who he was. Not that she cared.
He was leaning easily against the back of his chair, left elbow hooked over the wooden dowel, expression open and homey, dark eyes shining below a mess of glossy black hair. It took her a moment to remember he had spoken.
She cleared her throat, lowered her gaze from the one maverick lock that had fallen across his dark brow. “What's that?” she asked
“Must be a real hardship,” he said, “always being idolized.”
She chuffed a laugh before she even thought about it. “What are you talking about?”
“What am I . . .” He shook his head. “Damn, woman, if the kid was any crazier about you, he'd carve an idol in your image.”
“Don't be an idiot,” she said, but Ty's feelings for her
were
pretty obvious. Even
she
couldn't completely ignore the fact that he felt beholden to her. The idea made her feel squirmy. She deepened her scowl. “He just doesn't like
you
.”
“Guess not,” he said and chuckled.
She stared at him, wondering if he really didn't care. Not that everyone had to like
her,
but she certainly preferred it that way. The term
people pleaser
was a little too mild for her sort. “Why do you suppose he didn't want a ride home?” she asked, changing the subject.
“I'd guess he didn't exactly tell his folks he was out the door in the middle of the night.”
Casie blanched. She should have realized his exodus could cause trouble, of course. But her own parents hadn't had to worry much about her sneaking out in the wee hours. Maintaining a 4.0 GPA had consumed most of her time during her high school years. In retrospect, she kind of wondered why she'd bothered. “Maybe I should go over there. Explain that he's been helping out around here.”
“I don't think that's a good idea.”
“I think you're wrong,” she said, realizing she'd been negligent. “I mean, I've never even talked to them.”
“Yeah, well . . .” He lifted a shoulder and carefully hooked his right index finger through the handle of his mug. It jostled uneasily against his cast. “Let's keep it that way.”
“What? Why?”
He shrugged and took a sip of coffee. It had cooled a little, allowing him to drink without squinting through the steam. He slouched back in his chair, looking lean and earthy. Beneath his wash-softened flannel, he wore a gray waffle-knit undershirt. The top three buttons were undone, the fabric curled slightly away from the hollow in his sun-darkened throat. A leather cord hung from his neck, disappearing beneath the warmth of his clothing, and for a second she wondered what rested on the end of that thong. “From what I hear, Gil doesn't exactly welcome people messing around in his business.”
“Is that what Ty is to him?” Casie asked. She felt something coiled and carnivorous unfurl inside her. Which was odd. She wasn't the coiled, carnivorous type. She was more the type that was eaten by carnivores and kept her mouth shut while it happened. But she couldn't seem to help herself. Maybe it was lack of sleep that made her thump her mug onto the scarred tabletop. “His business?”
Colt lifted both hands palms out as if to fend her off. “Hey, I'm not the bad guy here.”
She silently acknowledged that truth and lulled the carnivore back into captivity with the promise of a soup bone. “I know,” she muttered.
“What?” he asked, turning his head a little as if to hear her better.
“I said, I know.”
“Well, you should tell the boy,” he suggested.
She lowered her brows in question.
“Cuz he doesn't seem aware,” he said and snorted softly before lifting his mug to his mouth again. His lips were wide and sensual. Little wonder she'd been so weird whenever he was involved in her life. Lips like that would make any teenager's hormones sizzle like bacon on a hot skillet. Not that she'd liked him . . . exactly. The memories made her twitch inside, seethe outside.
“Well, not everyone can adore you, Dickie.”
“How long have you been trying to teach me
that?
” he asked and shook his head as if amused by old memories. He chuckled, returning his gaze to hers. “That's a lesson I learned way back in high school. I think you called me. . . .” He narrowed his eyes, thinking. “Dick the drip.”
She shrugged, pushed back her chair. “It could have been worse.”
“Yeah?”
“Coulda been Dick the . . .” Another shrug escaped. “. . . dick.”
He chuckled, popping that devilish dimple into his left cheek. “You wouldn't have done that.”
“You stole my . . .” The word
heart
popped into her head, but she shoved it into the cellar and slammed the trap door. “Gel pen,” she said.
He ignored her explanation. “I don't think you knew what a dick was.”
“I know one when I see one,” she said and immediately regretted her words when he laughed out loud. She rose to her feet to hide her embarrassment. Damned fair skin. “You want another strudel or what?”
He lifted his plate. “I'm not a complete moron.”
“Jury's still out on that.”
“Dammit, Case, I wouldn't have thought your tongue could get any sharper.”
And wasn't that odd. She was usually kind of nice. Ask anyone. She turned toward the oven to hide her bemusement. “You want more coffee, too?” she asked, lifting the loaded spatula.
“Sure,” he said. “That Em . . . she's amazing, huh? Soft heart, eyes like a doe, and good in the kitchen. Some lucky bastard's going to get himself one hell of a girl.”
Her knuckles looked white against the spatula. She eased up a little.
“Wonder where she learned to cook like that.”
“I wouldn't know.”
“Could be she taught herself. I mean, she seems pretty bright. Don't youâ”
The spatula smacked against the pan. Casie closed her eyes and cleared her throat. “Sorry. My hand slipped.”
He was silent for a moment. “Don't you think she's a great gal?”
“Of course. Maybe we can have her canonized afterâ” she began, then caught herself and gritted her teeth to keep any more dumb-ass words from slipping out. What the hell was wrong with her anyway? She really liked Emily. Appreciated her grit. Enjoyed her company.
“What's that?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She clenched her teeth, hoping to God he hadn't heard her. “She probably got her kitchen skills from her mother. That's where most people learn, isn't it?” she asked and slid the strudel onto his plate.
“You learn from Kathy?”
“No,” she said and forced her face into a placid expression as she turned toward him. She should be thrilled that he had moved on to another topic, but if the truth be told, her mother's death still hung like a saber over her head. Kathy Carmichael hadn't been afraid to live. In retrospect, it seemed like she had thrived on wild rides, late nights, and arguments that could raise the roof. But look where that lifestyle had gotten herâdead at age forty-nine. Or so Casie had always told herself. But maybe living cautiously was nothing more than a sort of lingering death. “I was too busy earning straight A's, remember?”
“And driving the boys crazy.”
She jerked her eyes up to catch his gaze, sure he was being sarcastic, but his expression was oddly sober, almost pained. “What are you talking about?” she asked.
“You,” he said and cut into his second strudel. “Always so cool and standoffish.”
“Me?” She laughed. “Cool?”
He watched her. There was something in his eyes. “Never needed anyone. Always knew what you wanted. Where you were going.”
“You're deluded.”
He shrugged and took a bite. “Half the boys in algebra were having wet . . .” He paused, grinned a little, cleared his throat. “Having dreams about you.”
She felt herself blush, tried to hold his gaze but couldn't. Jittery as a yearling, she fished out a strudel for herself. “You need to get more sleep.”
He took another bite and glanced up. “There's something mighty alluring about a girl that don't want you.”
“Is that why you're here, Dickey?” she asked and regretted the words the moment they had left her mouth.
He set down his fork and leaned back in his chair, one brow cocked up. “I'm just here cuz Em called saying you needed help.” He let the words seep into her brain for a second, reminding her that he'd done her a favor. “You didn't think it was more than that, did you, Case?”
“I . . .” Her lips moved. What the hell was wrong with her?
She
was the one who needed more sleep . . . or a muzzle . . . or maybe a lobotomy. “I just . . . another strudel?” she asked and lifted the pan. It jangled in her hand, bopping off the nearby coffee kettle.
He didn't respond. “You didn't think I might still be interested in
you,
did you?”
She turned her back to the coffee and skittered her gaze to his. The bruising was almost gone from his high-boned cheek. His expression was innocent. Almost pitying. She shifted her eyes away.
“No. I'm sorry. I didn'tâ”
“Sorry for what?”
She shook her head, put the strudel back down. “Listen, I should go check those cattle myself. It's not Emily's job toâ”
“You haven't been having thoughts about
me,
have you?” he asked. His head was canted a little, his expression quizzical.
“No!” She shot her gaze back to his. “No. Of course not. I'm engaged.”
“To a doctor,” he said and rose to his feet, mug in hand. The tendons in his left wrist were pulled taut where he'd rolled the sleeve up. The cast on his opposite arm was showing a little wear and tear, but somehow only made him look more earthy, more ridiculously appealing.
He seemed taller suddenly and nerve-rackingly masculine. She stepped back. Her mother had always wanted a bigger kitchen. Now Casie did, too, but maybe for different reasons. “Listen, I have toâ”
“Where is he, by the way?” he asked.
Her lips remained slightly parted. She snapped her gaze from the doorway. “Who?”
“Your doctor. Shouldn't he be here helping you out? I mean, this is no life for a woman alone.”
Something about his tone got her back up. She straightened slightly. “What do you mean by that?”
He shrugged. “It's damned hard work.”
Anger sizzled through her, happily replacing the embarrassment that had been there only moments before. It didn't matter that she'd said the same thing herself a dozen times. It wasn't his place to pass judgment on such things. “And you think women can't work. Is that what you were trying to say?”
He shrugged flannel-clad shoulders. A thread had come loose on his collar and lazily caressed his throat. He was close enough for her to see the individual flecks in his dark coffee eyes. “I'm just sayin' maybe it'd make more sense getting yourself a full-grown man to help out around here instead of them poor kids you got out there right now.”
She stiffened even more. “I'm not keeping them handcuffed in the basement, if that's what you think.” Anger seared her words. She was usually so good at delivering whatever punches she might throw.
“Geez, Case,” he said, brows rising. “If I knew there was a possibility of handcuffs, I would have come by sooner.”
“There isn't . . .” She was sputtering a little and took a deep breath, slowing her thoughts, tempering her anger. “Em volunteered.”
His lips curled the slightest degree, but his eyes were dead earnest. “We're talking about Emily?”
“Of course we're talking about Emily. Who do you thinkâ”
“She's awfully young,” he said, interrupting smoothly. “You'd better take it easy on her or her mother'll be here reading you the riotâ”
“But that's okay with you, isn't it, Dickey?” Her voice had gone soft and low. She tried to rein in her anger, but it had the proverbial bit between its proverbial teeth.
Colt narrowed his eyes, seeming careful of a trap. “What?”