The Marriage Season Read online

Beyond a doubt, this had to be the most unusual first date ever.

  “Food,” Tate said succinctly as they left the building. “Next order of business. Apparently, making domestic decisions, especially about kitchens and fridges and stoves, causes intense hunger.”

  Bex smiled and agreed that it was time to eat. Privately, she was glad he hadn’t accepted his aunt’s invitation to dinner. The people in Tate’s family were probably quite friendly, but sitting down to a meal with them might be too much, too soon.

  Besides, she had no idea where this was all going—or if it was going anywhere. Tate was a widower and he’d never mentioned his wife. He had two young sons to bring up, a major construction project to complete and a new business to organize.

  Bex’s own situation was hardly less complicated; she had her sister and nephew living with her all of a sudden, plus fitness club franchises opening across the country, which meant that, of necessity, she traveled a great deal. There were “significant learning curves” attached to “growing the business,” as her financial adviser, who had a great fondness for corporate clichés, constantly told her. And, deep down, she wasn’t completely sure she’d ever gotten over Will’s death a decade ago.

  Bex grasped the permanence of that loss, accepted that there were no guarantees in life. But emotionally…well, some part of her still expected her lost soldier to come marching home.

  Granted, things were different now. Tate wasn’t fighting in a war. Unfortunately, there were other dangers besides bullets and bombs and, like anybody else, he could die. He was a man who flew small planes and would be working with large animals, both situations that could put him at risk… Death could happen close to home, not just on a faraway battlefield, as it had with Will.

  Bex pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind. She was with an attractive—make that sexy-as-hell—man. No need for any big decisions yet. If ever…

  Why not simply enjoy the moment?

  The restaurant was busy, since it was a Saturday evening, but they got a table for two fairly quickly, which might have been due to the flirtatious hostess and her interest in Tate as he explained that, no, sorry, he hadn’t made a reservation. Bex was still trying to decide if she should be amused or annoyed when they were seated.

  “Does that always work?” she asked, settling in.

  “What?” Oh, so innocent.

  “That suave, charming way you have. That smile.”

  He pretended to be puzzled, picked up his menu and finally grinned at her over the top of it. “Assuming that I am suave and charming, with a memorable smile, I have only one question. Do any of those things work on you?”

  Now they were getting onto unstable ground. In fact, this was a quicksand sort of question. Bex felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach, unrelated to hunger, and took her time answering. “The way a man smiles certainly makes a difference to a woman,” she said seriously, feeling like a humorless fool, but unable to respond in kind. “And yours just happens to be wicked.”

  He flashed it then, full force, with that hint of a dimple in his left cheek included, no doubt, to increase the wattage. “Fear not, fair damsel,” he teased. “You’re safe with me. Translation—lighten up a little.” He watched her for a long, silent moment. “I think you just gave me a compliment. I’m still processing that.” Another pause. “My aunt liked you.”

  Bex had managed to relax, ever so slightly. “She saw me for about thirty seconds.”

  “I know Gina Calder pretty well. She has the instincts of a barracuda when it comes to sizing people up.” Another of those conversational hairpin turns followed. “Are we ordering separately or do we want to share?”

  This entire evening she’d been outmaneuvered. Bex gave up. “I say we share. You choose for both of us because I’m too hungry to think. I am planning to have a glass of wine, though, and I’ll feel guilty you can’t, but my feet still hurt and you didn’t tell me I’d be meeting your family. So we’ll be even.”

  “I would never drink and fly a plane or drive, but I supervised three boys for at least half the day. Do I get sympathy points for that?”

  “Absolutely. Once we touch down safely, I’ll be the first to hand you a cold beer.”

  “Like a serving wench? You’d wear the outfit? I want a low-cut bodice.”

  “Don’t push it.”

  In the end, ordering was a joint process, and they chose spring rolls and mango salad to start, followed by shrimp pad thai and lemongrass chicken; everything was delicious. Her glass of California chardonnay was exactly the kind she liked and accompanied the meal perfectly.

  She did meet his father briefly later that evening, when they stopped by the house. Tate’s dad was an older version of his son, with some silver at his temples and a genial smile.

  Later still, as they taxied along the runway before takeoff, she was already yawning. “He seems nice.”

  “Most of the time he is. But appearances can be deceiving.”

  “Duly noted. I might point out, though, that none of us are nice all the time.”

  “That’s the third yawn. Feel free to nap. It’s a short flight, but you still have to take Josh home.” He pretended to be concentrating hard. “Let’s see, you ran a race, took a flight you didn’t know you were going to take and helped a hopeless bachelor organize what I suspect will be a killer kitchen. Like I told my aunt, you’ve had a full day.”

  Bex sighed, admiring Tate from the corner of her eye.

  He had a clean profile and handled the plane so effortlessly he didn’t even seem to be thinking about it. She was tired, but pleasantly so. It had been a lovely evening, and a treat just to get away. Her feet did hurt; tomorrow, she knew from experience, they’d really hurt. Something to look forward to, although she’d signed up for it, so there was no one to blame but herself.

  “You, on the other hand, supervised three boys all morning—as you modestly pointed out. You took them to the race, then you flew us to Cheyenne, drove us around and also did the shopping. And now you’re flying us back,” she said with a sleepy smile. “You’ve had a full day, too.”

  The night sky was brilliant with stars, the earlier inclement weather having headed south into the Midwest. A vast arch of velvet black was studded with diamonds, almost like something Melody would make. That gave Bex an idea.

  Tate had already done a lot for Josh—and he’d met her nephew mere days ago. She wanted to thank him. Melody had made an impressive clock for her husband, Spence. Everything she did was one of a kind, and in this particular case, she’d used an outline of their ranch house as a background, Tripp had cut the metal pieces required by her design and a local artisan had made the frame from wood found on the property. Everyone who saw it urged Melody to expand her jewelry design business to include artistic clocks.

  Unique, personal… Bex loved the thought of it.

  A similar piece with a silhouette of his new log house would fit perfectly in Tate’s new kitchen. She could commission it, Mel could create it and Tripp would help again because he and Tate were friends. She knew full well that Melody would never take her money. Bex could provide the kitchen design and color of the cabinets, so maybe all of them could go in on the project together.

  Housewarming gift: solved.

  This landing was as smooth as the last one. Even though it was past Josh’s bedtime, it wasn’t too late, considering two flights, the shopping and dinner. At least she’d be able to sleep in tomorrow, since it was Sunday.

  “I’m going to sleep like the dead myself,” Tate said, as if reading her mind on the drive back to the Galloway ranch. “This house-building thing was going to be challenging, I knew that going in, but I’m looking forward to being settled again.” He sent her a quick smile. “Word of warning—for a vagabond pilot, I’m darned boring. Coffee black. Toast with butter, no jelly. I’ve eaten all kinds of different food, like I did tonight, but just give me a medium-rare steak, a baked potato and a salad, and I’m happy.”

  “Word of
warning?” Bex looked at him, which wasn’t a chore for any woman. “Is that your way of asking me for another date?”

  “Not very smooth, but yes.”

  There was that darned smile again.

  “Hmm, I’ll have to mull it over,” she told him mischievously. “I’ll get back to you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  TATE POURED ANOTHER cup of coffee and went over the plans again. One of the tough decisions he’d have to make was the size of the barn itself. He didn’t have the resources to be too extravagant; still, it would be so much easier—and save money—to do it right the first time, rather than adding on later.

  He might have to consider asking his father to invest, after all. That would be the more practical route, but he balked at it.

  One of the things he wanted to include was a small separate cabin/bunkhouse next to the stables so that eventually, with luck, he could hire staff to help with the horses. Staff who could live right on the ranch. Stalls had to be mucked out, horses would need to be fed, exercised, started or trained, if they were going to be sold as saddle horses. With a few animals he could handle all that, but turning this into a legitimate business meant he’d require help.

  The problem was if he so much as mentioned the word investment to his father, the man became relentlessly overinvolved. Let him put up one dime, and there’d be spreadsheets and reports and phone calls. All Tate wanted was to live on a serene piece of property with a spectacular view of the Tetons and raise horses and his sons.

  It seemed straightforward enough. In theory.

  His father’s approach to business was probably the correct one, but Tate wasn’t out to make a fortune, he just wanted to provide a good life for his children and have a simple existence in a more wholesome environment, rather than a crowded city.

  “I need to decide.” He ran his fingers through his hair and said it out loud.

  “’Bout what?”

  He hadn’t realized that Adam had wandered into the kitchen, still sleepy and decked out in his Batman pajamas, his hair messy, dark eyes inquiring.

  Tate saw a reflection of his own features in his son’s small face, and he had to admit that whatever problems he had in this world, they faded away when he looked at his child. “I was wondering if I wanted more coffee or a glass of orange juice. You need to make a big decision, too. Cereal or waffles?”

  “Waffles.”

  Of course the kid chose waffles, since they involved syrup. These were of the toaster variety, but Tate tossed some fresh blueberries on top and handed over a glass of milk. “You guys have fun last night?”

  Adam nodded, his mouth full.

  “Still want to go fishing?”

  Another emphatic nod.

  Naturally he’d guessed what the answer would be. “I hope Josh and his dad can go, too.” He’d mentioned it to them at the finish line yesterday; there’d been general excitement but no specific reaction to the option of including Greg.

  Adam swallowed and washed down his mouthful of waffle with milk. “Josh don’t want his dad.”

  “Doesn’t,” Tate corrected automatically.

  His son stopped eating for a moment to inform him, “He wants Aunt Bex to go instead.”

  “Fishing?”

  That was an interesting picture. She was the athletic type; no one would deny that. Still…he could also clearly remember the slender figure in that black skirt and the graceful curves under the gold sweater.

  “She’s a girl,” Tate pointed out, resting his elbows on the table. The house was small and there was no dining room, just space for a kitchen table. “You want to go fishing with a girl?”

  He was joking, but boys were boys, and he sometimes found himself swimming in the dark against a swift current. In other words, he didn’t always grasp what they were thinking—or why.

  Adam thought about it for a second and nodded again. “She’s not really a girl.”

  Oh, he was dying to hear where this was going. And his youngest son was absolutely right; she was every inch a woman, not a girl at all, and Tate was only too aware of it. “How so?”

  “She can run a long way.”

  “Okay, that’s true.”

  “Yeah, she can run as far as you.” He popped a few blueberries into his mouth. “You said so.”

  That stung a little, but male pride wasn’t the issue here. He had said that as they waited for Bex to cross the finish line. It never ceased to amaze him how children remembered even the most casual of comments. “What I said is that she can go the same distance.”

  “And it was a long way.”

  “It was, yes.”

  Adam shrugged his small shoulders. “So that means she can fish, too.”

  There was a certain logic to that argument, he supposed, at least to a six-year-old boy. Girl can run as far as a guy, girl can fish just like a guy.

  Maybe she could. He sipped his coffee and considered his response. “I guess I can ask her instead of Josh’s father. You’re sure that’s what Josh meant? Could be he’s mad at his father and they need to talk.”

  “That’s what he said. Aunt Bex.” Adam polished off his breakfast. “Can I watch TV?”

  It was Sunday morning, so Tate nodded. He tried to keep his children’s media interaction to a minimum, but cut them some slack on weekends. Since they both read and got good grades—he pushed for both—he allowed lazy Sunday mornings.

  Adam went off to the den and Tate heard the television come on. He returned to the architect’s plans for another look.

  Now, though, he was admittedly distracted.

  He’d only met Josh’s dad that one afternoon at the ranch, but what Tripp had told him didn’t inspire much confidence. He hoped one of his children wouldn’t choose someone else over him in a situation like this. There was also the issue that he’d prefer Bex as the other adult companion.

  He didn’t know if she could go, or if she’d even agree. She was busy, and the idea might not appeal to her, anyway.

  In his experience, some women liked the great outdoors, and some women didn’t. That wasn’t exactly a profound observation, since the same could be said for men. There were boardrooms and designer suits on the one side, saddles and worn boots on the other, and everything else in between. Personally, he loved to fish, but he also liked a hot shower.

  His friend Russ, the cabin’s owner, had said, as if it didn’t matter much, that the place had hot water from a small heater under the sink, but only enough for washing dishes. The outdoor shower, which pumped water from the lake, was cold; however, you could heat a pail on the stove and pour it in for the final rinse.

  Not exactly a four-star resort.

  It was only fair to let Bex know what she’d be getting into, but…if he did, she might decline. Since he hadn’t been to this cabin himself, he wasn’t sure what precise degree of rustic applied. It sounded on the higher end of the spectrum to him—or lower, depending on your perspective. Still, during the summer Bex had participated in chaperoning a trail ride for a group of teenage girls, so obviously she wasn’t opposed to camping. If she had time to get away for a few days, maybe the idea would appeal to her.

  The prospect of the trip took on a whole new rosy glow.

  *

  HADLEIGH WAS IN her quilt shop, draping a new creation over a display rack, when Bex opened the door to the tinkling of the bell. Since she sewed like someone with ten thumbs, Bex always found her friend’s talent astonishing. In a philosophical discussion they’d had once over a glass of wine and some pasta dish Melody had whipped up involving garlic, peppers and a sauce made from homegrown tomatoes, they’d all agreed that their different strengths were probably what had kept them friends for so long. Just as Bex had explained to Tate the evening they’d flown to Cheyenne. During their high school days, Melody had been a cheerleader, and Bex a volleyball star. Hadleigh had aced home economics—renamed Family Studies, for some reason. She’d done it so effortlessly, as if she could create beautiful things in her sleep. Th
ey’d all muddled through adolescence and then college, a team for the most part, although they hadn’t always agreed.

  It was definitely time for a team meeting.

  On a Sunday, the shop stayed open because during the summer and winter tourist seasons, the town was busy. But autumn was quiet in Mustang Creek. So chances were they’d get some uninterrupted minutes today.

  “Mel’s bringing lunch,” Bex announced as she walked in.

  Hadleigh looked hopeful. “Please tell me it involves those turkey burgers from Bad Billie’s. I’ve been craving one all morning. I would’ve eaten one for breakfast.”

  “What is it with pregnant women? Can you read each other’s minds? Mel said the exact same thing.” Bex smiled. “I think your dream is going to come true. How’s the armadillo today?”

  Tripp had gone with Hadleigh to her first ultrasound, and he’d decided the baby resembled an armadillo, and the term had stuck. He’d always had a unique way of expressing himself.

  “He’s fine.” Hadleigh ran her hand over the curve of her belly. “Moving around, amusing himself by putting various degrees of pressure on my bladder.” She glanced at the display window and the sidewalk beyond. “Someone’s coming in. Can you watch the front for a minute?”

  “Of course.” She’d noticed, with mixed pity and envy, how often both Hadleigh and Mel dashed off to the bathroom these days. Maybe she’d be in the same predicament someday.

  And maybe not.

  When Mel walked through the door a minute later, bag in hand, Bex had just wrapped up a calico-and-cream set of placemats for a very nice middle-aged lady. She’d ordered her purchase online, and Hadleigh was ringing it up on the old-fashioned register.

  “Good call on the turkey burger,” Bex said after she’d thanked her customer. “H was pining for one.”

  Mel deposited the bag on the counter. “I know my girl. Billie sent extra pickles, too. Obviously he buys into that pregnancy rumor. I thought it was cute.”

  “I love his homemade pickles and I’m not pregnant,” Bex said, reaching for the bag. “I’ll be happy to eat them. You two stole all the cream puffs the other day. Dibs on the pickles.”