Lauri Robinson by DanceWith the Rancher Page B

had been mad at her for most of the past year. Ever since his mother had hired her to assist with personal things. Rory didn’t believe it was necessarily the assistance Garret minded or the money his mother paid her but the suggestions she continuously voiced. Sons or not, the three McCoys, Garret, Jeb and Toby, were grown men and needed to accept their mother, Abigail, couldn’t do everything she used to do.
    Of course, none of the boys had witnessed what she had last summer at the church picnic, and she’d promised Abigail McCoy she’d never tell anyone—other than Dr. Richardson—about the episode. The man kept a close eye on Abigail, as well.
    “Here you go.” Rory handed Francis McMillan a cup of punch. “Please return the cup so I can wash and refill it.”
    “I will, Miss Boyle,” the young man with continually smudged glasses said. “Thank you.”
    A grunt from Garret said he’d noticed Francis’s bright cheeks as much as she had, but Rory chose to ignore him as she continued to hand out punch.
    When the long line ended—momentarily since the music had started up again—Garret asked, “Isn’t there anyone to relieve you? Or wash those cups that keep piling up?”
    “No.”
    “What if you want to dance?”
    She cast him a look that clearly stated how she felt about dancing before spinning to dip four used cups in soapy water, then rinsing them in a second tub. A part of her wished she wasn’t stuck behind the punch bowl, but it was better for the town to believe she was pining for Jim Houston. It would help if Garret McCoy wasn’t as pesky as a mouse in the pantry: no matter how much they were ignored, neither would go away on his own.
    Lifting a brow, Garret asked, “Why don’t you have any help?”
    “Because I don’t need any help.” Pretending his presence didn’t bother her, Rory went right on washing, rinsing and drying cups. Once that was done, she refilled the punch bowl, preparing for the dancers that would descend upon her table as soon as Chester Franks set down his fiddle. The Virginia reel he was playing had her feet aching to slide across the dance floor. Even before Jim, she’d never been able to dance, enjoy such events wholeheartedly. A preacher’s daughter wouldn’t; therefore, she didn’t. What she wouldn’t give, though, for Garret McCoy to sashay her across the floor.
    Regret, shame and a few other deep-set emotions threatened to rise up. Garret would never dance with her, and the only person she could completely blame—besides Jim—was herself.
    The music ended and thirsty dancers arrived. Rory became so busy making small talk, smiling and pretending the world was a wonderful place, she nearly tipped the punch bowl when someone reached around her from behind and set down four clean cups.
    Keeping her composure wasn’t easy or fun, but she did so, even managed to thank Garret as he kept her supplied with clean cups until the mad rush was over. Then she used a few more minutes to calm her nerves by lifting several jars from the basket beneath the table.
    Garret picked one up, opened the lid and handed it to her to pour into the bowl. “What’s in these?”
    “Fruit juices,” she answered, accepting another jar he’d opened. “I use the pulp for jam and save the juice for punch. I mixed it with sugar and apple cider at home.”
    There wasn’t much space between the makeshift shelf holding her washing tubs and the table of punch and cups, and he filled a good three quarters of that area, leaving her little room and even less air to breath.
    All three of the McCoy men were hard workers, gone from the house when she arrived and not home until long after she’d left, taking care of their cattle, plowing or planting fields and rounding up the wild mustangs. Although Garret had gone to law school, he much preferred rounding up and selling mustangs.
    Their mother was proud of all three of her sons, told Rory that all the time, but it was the oldest, Garret, who