Miss Ellie,” Kate said, pulling a snowy napkin from her right and placing it in her lap.
Justus frowned, but Vera actually laughed.
“It does seem like Dallas , doesn’t it? I thought so myself when I first visited. Couldn’t get that song out of my head for a good week.”
Kate didn’t expect Vera to catch on to her reference. It made her feel sorta petty. Time to play the guest. “Thank you for waiting on me. It took longer than expected to get back from Longview. There was an accident on the interstate, so Rick had to take a few side roads.”
The whole situation was awkward. No way around it. She looked to her right at Justus. He stared at his empty plate like a grumpy bullfrog. She looked to her left at Vera, who smiled a brilliant fake smile. Kate didn’t miss that Vera’s hands still trembled as she cradled the goblet of wine. And when Kate looked to the center, she found Ryan Mitchell staring at her.
It was an enormous portrait of the half brother she’d never known. He had to have been around eighteen. His smile held hope, his eyes humor. Boyish charm oozed from the palette of muted paint. Unlike the other paintings scattered through the halls of Cottonwood, this painting had no windswept Texas background. No cowboys or grit. No horses or cows. Just a boy framed against a blue background, smiling as if he knew the answers to life.
As she noted they shared the same cheeky smile, a strange feeling washed over her. It could have been regret, or portent, or déjà vu. She wasn’t sure, but it was something.
Before she could ask about the portrait, Rosa bustled in with several platters.
“Here I am. I made special dinner for Ms. Kate. Chile verde con puerco , and to start, caldo de res . And flan for dessert, Mr. Mitchell.”
Justus visibly brightened as Rosa sat a steaming bowl of soup before him. “Well, now, it’s been forever since you’ve gone to such trouble, Rosa. If I’d known all you needed was a guest, I would have brought someone sooner.”
“Si,” Rosa said. “We’ve had no one. When Mr. Ryan was here, we overflowed.”
“I miss him so,” Vera said, her eyes finding the monument to her son.
“No, no, Mrs. Vera. Ryan would say no,” Rosa said, bustling toward Vera and setting down sweet corn cakes and fragrant corn tortillas. “You enjoy Miss Kate being here. Mr. Ryan brought her here.”
Kate’s hand hit her wineglass and knocked it over. Thankfully, she’d downed most of it. Still, burgundy spread like blood on the snowy cloth. “Sorry. I—”
“I get it, Miss Kate. You eat the corn cakes. They are made the way my grandmother made them. God rest her soul,” Rosa said, crossing herself and pulling a towel from the pocket of her apron. She pressed the cloth to the spreading stain, soaking up the spill.
Kate glanced up at Vera. The woman’s brow was furrowed and her expression perplexed. She wasn’t going to let Rosa’s comment slide. “Rosa, why would you say such a thing?”
The housekeeper looked up from her dabbing. Kate stiffened because she knew Rosa would say something about fate. Or God. Or some mystical Mexican superstition. Kate didn’t make a habit of running from confrontation, but damned if she didn’t want to flee the table.
“I saw your note to God. You asked him to heal you. To send you an angel like Mr. Ryan to make the hurt stop.”
Vera flinched and Kate started a litany deep inside of “no, please, no,” but Rosa charged ahead. “I found the paper when I was putting the hose back into the carriage house. Sitting right by the angel. And the next day, Miss Kate gets here. See, he answered your prayer.”
Kate swallowed. Hard. Then she looked at Justus to see if he might put a stop to Rosa’s words, but he calmly slurped the soup before him, using his good hand. A trickle of the broth dripped from his chin. The bastard wasn’t going to say a thing.
“You think Ryan sent her?” Vera’s words were harsh. The woman pointed a slender
Justus frowned, but Vera actually laughed.
“It does seem like Dallas , doesn’t it? I thought so myself when I first visited. Couldn’t get that song out of my head for a good week.”
Kate didn’t expect Vera to catch on to her reference. It made her feel sorta petty. Time to play the guest. “Thank you for waiting on me. It took longer than expected to get back from Longview. There was an accident on the interstate, so Rick had to take a few side roads.”
The whole situation was awkward. No way around it. She looked to her right at Justus. He stared at his empty plate like a grumpy bullfrog. She looked to her left at Vera, who smiled a brilliant fake smile. Kate didn’t miss that Vera’s hands still trembled as she cradled the goblet of wine. And when Kate looked to the center, she found Ryan Mitchell staring at her.
It was an enormous portrait of the half brother she’d never known. He had to have been around eighteen. His smile held hope, his eyes humor. Boyish charm oozed from the palette of muted paint. Unlike the other paintings scattered through the halls of Cottonwood, this painting had no windswept Texas background. No cowboys or grit. No horses or cows. Just a boy framed against a blue background, smiling as if he knew the answers to life.
As she noted they shared the same cheeky smile, a strange feeling washed over her. It could have been regret, or portent, or déjà vu. She wasn’t sure, but it was something.
Before she could ask about the portrait, Rosa bustled in with several platters.
“Here I am. I made special dinner for Ms. Kate. Chile verde con puerco , and to start, caldo de res . And flan for dessert, Mr. Mitchell.”
Justus visibly brightened as Rosa sat a steaming bowl of soup before him. “Well, now, it’s been forever since you’ve gone to such trouble, Rosa. If I’d known all you needed was a guest, I would have brought someone sooner.”
“Si,” Rosa said. “We’ve had no one. When Mr. Ryan was here, we overflowed.”
“I miss him so,” Vera said, her eyes finding the monument to her son.
“No, no, Mrs. Vera. Ryan would say no,” Rosa said, bustling toward Vera and setting down sweet corn cakes and fragrant corn tortillas. “You enjoy Miss Kate being here. Mr. Ryan brought her here.”
Kate’s hand hit her wineglass and knocked it over. Thankfully, she’d downed most of it. Still, burgundy spread like blood on the snowy cloth. “Sorry. I—”
“I get it, Miss Kate. You eat the corn cakes. They are made the way my grandmother made them. God rest her soul,” Rosa said, crossing herself and pulling a towel from the pocket of her apron. She pressed the cloth to the spreading stain, soaking up the spill.
Kate glanced up at Vera. The woman’s brow was furrowed and her expression perplexed. She wasn’t going to let Rosa’s comment slide. “Rosa, why would you say such a thing?”
The housekeeper looked up from her dabbing. Kate stiffened because she knew Rosa would say something about fate. Or God. Or some mystical Mexican superstition. Kate didn’t make a habit of running from confrontation, but damned if she didn’t want to flee the table.
“I saw your note to God. You asked him to heal you. To send you an angel like Mr. Ryan to make the hurt stop.”
Vera flinched and Kate started a litany deep inside of “no, please, no,” but Rosa charged ahead. “I found the paper when I was putting the hose back into the carriage house. Sitting right by the angel. And the next day, Miss Kate gets here. See, he answered your prayer.”
Kate swallowed. Hard. Then she looked at Justus to see if he might put a stop to Rosa’s words, but he calmly slurped the soup before him, using his good hand. A trickle of the broth dripped from his chin. The bastard wasn’t going to say a thing.
“You think Ryan sent her?” Vera’s words were harsh. The woman pointed a slender
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