Trouble for Matty.
He drained the last quarter of the glass, put it in the sink, and took his laptop out of his briefcase. Standing at the counter, wearing only boxer shorts–and those in deference to Matty being in the house–he had a letter drafted in ten minutes.
Two minutes more, he had the laptop and briefcase closed, and the envelope and its enclosures back where he'd found it. He'd polish the letter at the office and have it off in the morning mail. The rest of what he needed to do would take a trip to a bank in Jefferson, but he could do that tomorrow.
And Matty need never know that he was protecting her, the way he always had.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Matty was stretched out on the family room couch watching a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie from Donna Currick's extensive collection when she heard the outside kitchen door open.
It was the third night in the past week he'd gotten home after 10.
She frowned as the thought surfaced. She wasn't keeping track of him.
"These leftovers for me?" He came into the family room carrying the plate she'd left for him, and since a forkful of cold roast beef was already headed for his mouth, she figured he knew the answer.
"You could have heated it up."
He mumbled something as he chewed before finally saying, "It's good like this. And faster."
He gestured with the fork for her to bend her knees to make room for him on the couch. When she did, he sank into the cushion with a faint grunt. She sat up, with her legs stretched between them. It made it easy to watch him while he ate, his absent gaze fastened on the TV screen.
His shirt was rumpled, with one more button undone than his usual conservative two. His thick hair showed evidence of a pair of big hands pushing through it. His five o'clock shadow bristled with an additional five hours of growth. Lines at his mouth seemed to have dug deeper. She knew for a fact that the shadows under his eyes were new.
"You better look this tired because you're working too hard and not because you're out carousing, or I'm going to demand Brandeis as immediate compensation."
His lips twitched in an abbreviation of his usual grin. "You're not getting your hands on Brandeis over this, kiddo. It's about the farthest I could get from carousing."
"Owen Marshall?"
He glanced at her, then away. "Yeah."
That's all he would say, she knew, because Owen was his client. But she'd heard bits and pieces over the past week, from folks in town, from what Cal had picked up from a hand who was helping them, from Dave's foreman Jack. The Marshalls owned a big, thriving spread at the other end of Clark County. Owen was the strong-minded head of the family. At 60-something he'd expected there to be plenty of time to arrange for the next generation to take over the ranch smoothly. Then he'd collapsed, and they'd discovered widespread cancer. Now they were in a race to arrange matters so the ranch didn't get eaten up by taxes, disputes or family squabbles.
It wasn't that much different a situation from what Great-Uncle Henry had faced. Except he never had acknowledged he might die, there'd been only her to inherit–and they hadn't had Dave Currick working to prevent the mess she'd found herself in. The mess he'd been so instrumental in giving her a chance to dig out of thanks to his willingness to marry her. There wasn't another soul on earth she would have asked.
She swallowed. And changed the subject of her own thoughts.
"I called all the people on your list for that legal get-together. They're all coming," she announced.
"So I hear. Thanks." He put his empty plate on the chest. "I also hear you've done more than invite them. Ruth was saying how impressed the various office managers are at your efforts to find out their bosses' special likes and dislikes."
Now it was her turn to watch the screen while he studied her. "If you're going to have someone as a guest you should make them as comfortable as possible."
Especially if you want something from them. But she wasn't going to share that piece of the fund-raiser's creed with him...not yet.
"Besides," she added, "it helps me to know what to buy."
"Chips and beer," he suggested.
"I think you've taken care of the beer." She shifted the subject. "I, uh, thought I'd let you know, I've got somebody coming by tomorrow, around 10."
"I'll be gone by then, so I won't be in your way."
"I didn't mean it that way. I just meant–Besides, it's your house."
"Most people would say it's our house, considering we're married."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Maybe he was trying to goad her, maybe not. Either way, he was clearly exhausted, and she wasn't going to get into that wrangle now.
"Anyway, I wanted to let you know. I left a folder on your desk with some stuff to look at. You must be swamped now, but when you have a chance."
"What kind of stuff?"
"It's material I've accumulated. I'd thought about it for the Flying W, but without the capital... But you could make it work on the Slash-C, especially where the creek drops down from The Narrows–"
"Whoa, Matty. Pretend you're talking to someone with a brain of mush and keep it simple, okay?"
She smiled at him. "If you piped that creek and had a turbine at the bottom, you could generate electricity. It would probably be only marginally profitable, so it would take a while to earn back your investment, but with the improvements in turbines it's a better deal. And it would protect you some against rising energy prices. You know you wouldn't be able to use the power directly?"
"Yeah, I know that. The electric company pays you for the power."
"Right, they have to even out the flow, clean it up, to prevent spikes. But if the price they're charging for electricity goes up, so does the price they pay you, so it is a cushion that way."
"How'd you get the idea?"
"Riding back and forth, seeing the creek where the trail cuts through The Narrows and then drops sharp," she explained. "That would be ideal."
"How'd you know about it in the first place?"
"Oh, I read about it a while back–must be three or four years ago. I updated the numbers recently, thinking if the price of turbines comes down enough..." She sighed. "I'd love to do it for the Flying W, but we don't have the capital. At least not yet. But the grant money is going to start us toward where we could think about projects like that. This is exactly the sort of difference I thought the grant could make. It's too bad the committee can't see the good that came from getting around stupid rules."
She expected a response to that–at least some crack about how she'd gone about getting around the rule. But he said nothing.
He'd turned away from her to stare hard at the screen.
Only then did she become aware that her left foot had been rubbing slightly against him, the sole of her bare foot sliding a few inches up, then dropping back down against the side of his hip. She jerked both her feet back, wrapping her arms around her knees.
"Anyway, I thought it might be something you'd be interested in for the Slash-C."
Dave muttered something under his breath.
"What?"
"Geez, you can see right through her dress."
She followed his gaze toward the TV screen. Fred and Ginger were dancing their climactic, dramatic dance. Her dress clung to her body, but covered her from throat to toes–until the light behind her shone through it, revealing her legs all the way to the top. "Not most of it."
"Enough."
"It's no worse than a bathing suit."
"All right, all right. I just don't remember this being so..."
She relaxed. He obviously hadn't even noticed her foot's reprehensible behavior. She released her grip on her knees and let her legs straighten–though she was careful not to make contact.
"I should hope not. You were a kid when we watched these."
"That doesn't mean I didn't notice things like the female form at a pretty young age." He gave a low whistle. "Things like those legs."
He cast a long loo
k at her legs, stretched out on the couch between them. A sparkle of heat lit in her chest, until she sternly dampened it with logic. There was no backlighting here, and the knit of her sweats was far from see-through. If he thought about her legs at all, it was how they failed to measure up to the dancer floating across the screen.
"Are you telling me that you lusted after Ginger Rogers when we were still practically in the sandbox?"
"I don't recall a sandbox, but putting that aside I'd have to be pretty stupid to lust after someone who's old enough to be my grandmother or more. Especially since I'd be lusting after what was only an image on the screen in the first place. Long gone, and only an illusion to start with. You really think I'm that stupid?"
An edge to his words let her know he wasn't talking about Ginger Rogers anymore. She suspected the long gone was them, and the illusion was the belief they'd once held that they were meant for each other.
She pushed a twinge aside. "So if it wasn't lust, why did you watch all those old musicals?"
"With my mother? What choice did I have?"
"Your mother never made you watch those movies–you wanted to."
"Maybe I didn't want to be left out."
She considered that, remembering the coziness of those occasions. She certainly hadn't wanted to be left out. But she'd been a lonely child being raised by loving but elderly grandparents. "You mean because everybody else was watching?"
"Mostly."
"Mostly? Come on, why else?"
"Well, something Dad said once stuck in my head." The left side of his mouth curved up. "I asked why he watched those movies, when I knew he liked car chases and westerns, and he said that he figured as long as Mom got a chance to dance with Fred Astaire now and then in the movies, she wouldn't miss being Ginger Rogers so much that she'd go looking for a real partner."
"Your father's very wise."
"I suppose so, but let me tell you it was a confusing thing to tell a six-year-old. I kept watching those movies waiting for Ginger Rogers to be replaced by my mother. Yeah–go ahead and laugh," he invited in mock indignation, "but if it hadn't been for the other reason Dad told me for watching those movies, I could have had real emotional scars."
"What was the other reason, then?"
"Because if we watched Mom's movies without squawking, she couldn't complain when we watched The Three Stooges."
"Now that sounds like the Dave Currick I remember!"
* * * *
Dave rolled over and answered the phone with a growl.
He'd been up all night the night before with a colicky horse. In the morning he'd had a court appearance that went longer than he'd expected, followed by lunch with a client. Then back to the courthouse to file papers for the Marshalls, before he'd holed up in his office trying to find a solution for the lunch client's title problems. By the time he'd gotten home well after midnight, all he'd wanted to do was crash.
Updates he'd received all day on the colt had been good, but he wanted to see for himself. Intending to go check on the horse before he gave in to his body's complaints, he'd shucked off his slacks, white shirt and sports jacket, dragged on a t-shirt and jeans. Then he'd sat on the edge of the bed to pull on the thick socks he wore with his work boots.
Next thing he knew, the phone was ringing.
"Oh, Dave, did I wake you? I was sure I'd figured the time difference right..."
"Mother? Where are you?" He'd gotten in the habit of making that his first question since she and his father had started frequent trips after his father retired. Sometimes the answer was as domestic as Des Moines, sometimes as exotic as–
"Bangkok, dear. But we'll probably leave tomorrow for Hong Kong. That's why I'm calling. I meant to call you in the afternoon, so I wouldn't disturb you and Matty, in case..."
He grinned with a tinge of grimness as he sat up. "In case what, Mother?"
He pushed down the spread that covered him. Had he pulled it up before he fell asleep?
"I have no intention of beating around the bush about this, Dave. I want grandchildren. They're a parent's reward for surviving their own children. And since Lisa shows no intention of obliging, I'm putting all my eggs in one basket–you."
"Follow the Fleet."
His jacket, slacks and shirt were no longer on the chair where he'd tossed them. His boots were out of sight.
"What?"
"Follow the Fleet," he repeated, looking around the room more closely. The drapes had been closed over the window that would have let a stream of earliest-morning light splash right across where he'd been sleeping. He usually left them open for that very reason. "That's the movie that song's from–the one about putting all your eggs in one basket."
His mother's laugh came over the line. "You're right! Imagine you remembering that from all those years ago."
"It wasn't all those years ago. About a week ago. Matty's been digging out your Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers videos, and we've been watching them."
About a week since he'd discovered how erotic a foot could be. Now he couldn't even look at Matty's cowboy boots without lusting for her.
"Isn't that sweet. And doing some dancing, too, I hope," his mother said archly. "Maybe cheek to cheek."
Better yet, mouth to mouth, the way they'd been last night–in his dreams.
"Mother, don't push."
"That's what mothers are for, Dave. Now, if I were a grandmother..."
"Isn't it time for me to say hello to Dad?"
"He went out for a walk."
Through the open door to the bathroom, Dave could see that the edges of the mirror bore a frosting of steam. Like someone had taken a shower in there some time before. While he'd slept. He felt his mood lightening. So, Matty had broken her own rule about his having to be out of the bedroom before she'd use the bathroom. Once broken, a rule became easier and easier to bend.
Considering all the efforts to let him sleep, it figured she wasn't in the house or she'd have answered the phone.
"Ah, so you figured it was a good time to meddle in your son's life."
"Of course, dear."
He chuckled. He and his mother had always been able to talk and tease... except over his relationship with Matty six years ago.
"Mom, after you married Dad did you ever regret what you gave up?"
"Regret? No. I would never exchange the life I've had with your father and with you kids on the Slash-C. Not for anything in this world. From the moment I saw him in that hotel lobby in Denver..."
Dave must have heard that story a thousand times. How Donna Roberts had arrived in Denver as part of the chorus and the star's understudy in a road company of "Sweet Charity"–her first big break. How Edward Currick, in the city for a stockman's regional meeting, had taken one look at her amid the gaggle of attractive young women trying to sort out luggage and room keys, and had fallen immediately.
Ed had stayed on after his meeting, attending all the show's performances. They'd spent every available minute together in the two weeks of the company's stop in Denver. But they'd told each other and themselves that it was just one of those things. A variation on the classic, intense, vacation romance.
So when the show's run in Denver ended, Ed went back to Wyoming and Donna went on with the company to San Francisco.
Ten days later, he'd shown up at the stage door, having driven two days. He stood in the rain, not saying a word, and she'd gone straight into his arms.
The next day they were headed back to Wyoming, and Donna's mother in Indianapolis was deep into wedding plans.
"Would I have liked to have danced and sung on Broadway, too? Absolutely. But I knew the choice I was making, and I made it gladly."
He didn't realize how long he'd been silent until he heard his mother's sigh.
"Have you asked Matty why she came back?"
He saw two roads ahead. If he told the truth and said no because he was afraid the answer was she'd just come back to get the ranch in shape to sell it, then his mother's natural questi
ons would lead to more truth–truth about this marriage being a sham.
"It's pretty obvious, isn't it? She inherited the Flying W, and wanted to get it back on its feet."
"Yes, but why did she want to get it back on its feet?"
And the road circled right back to where it was before.
"Maybe she was tired of all that convenient city living. Had a real yen for eighteen hour days in the saddle and no money."
He'd expected a rebuke for his sarcasm. Instead, he got a soft, "Oh, dear."
"Mom, you better hang up. You're going to have to cash in your return tickets to pay for this, and you'd have to live out your days in Thailand. Probably have to take a job as a geisha."
"That's Japan," she corrected. But he hadn't distracted her enough. "I've got something more to say to you first. You and Matty have a lot of things going for you–friendship, shared experiences, chemistry. But you came back together so fast that you're bound to have a period of adjustment while you learn to see each other realistically. Dave, are you listening to me?"
"Uh-huh. A period of adjustment. I'm surprised at you using a cliché like that."
"David Edward–" when she added the middle name he knew his mother meant business "–you can tease, but this is serious. The period of adjustment is especially important for two people like you and Matty. You're opposites in so many ways, and that's good because it balances out a couple in the long-run. But in the short-run it can make for a lot of friction–until you get that balance right. Do you know what I mean?"
A remembered phrase floated to the surface of his mind. "Balanced polarities."
"Exactly. But where did you come across that term?"
He chuckled "A woman in a flower shop in Jefferson said it about Indian Paintbrush when I said it reminds me of Matty. I meant the bold color and how tough it is and how it brightens things up. Mom? You there?"
"Yes, I'm here, dear. I was thinking about Indian Paintbrush and Matty."
"What about them?" he asked warily.
"Did you know Indian Paintbrush is Wyoming's state flower?"
"I suppose I learned it sometime, but I can't say I've thought about it much. Does this have a point, Mom?"
"Oh, yes, it has a point."
When a silence followed that statement, he laughed out loud. "But you're not going to tell me, are you?"
"No, dear. I think it would be much better if you figure it out yourself."