polished wood might have been stuffy if it weren’t for the pile of boots under the seat and scattered farm toys parked in random positions on the floor.
“Sorry for the mess. A bunch of men live here and we’re hopeless.”
She laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had anything to laugh about.
“Barry uses the floor for his farming and ranching,” Jace said, motioning to little tractors and pickups and other various pieces of machinery that were tiny replicas of the ones Bronte had seen working in the fields. “I’ve tried to teach him to park things in the ‘shed,’ which is an old cupboard in the family room. But as you can see, I’m not having much luck.”
Jace motioned for her to follow him. On opposite walls, two doorways led away from the entry. To the right, she could see a formal parlor decorated with period antiques, a crystal chandelier, and an enormous fireplace. But to the left, she was led through a very modern family room with leather sofas, a huge television, and strategically placed side tables. A discarded pair of sneakers—probably Barry’s—a newspaper, a plethora of remotes, and even more scattered ranch equipment and herds of plastic cows and horses proclaimed that this was a room for comfort rather than show. It was a guys’ room, stripped of frills and focused on comfort.
“You’re getting the benefit of a full deployment of Barry’s machinery, I’m afraid. He had Lily helping him ‘plant the south forty.’”
“I’ll make sure she helps him pick them up.”
“No need. Barry goes berserk if you move his stuff. Once a week, we have a lady come in, so he knows he has to drive everything into the barn so she can vacuum. Other than that, we tend to walk around it.”
“That’s sweet.”
Jace grimaced. “It’s not so sweet if you’re walking through the room in your bare feet and land on a swather, but”—he shrugged—“he’s come so far in the last few years, it’s a foible I haven’t bothered to corral.”
He moved to the back of the room to a heavy swinging door with brass hand- and kickplates and held it open for her. As she passed through, she found herself in a kitchen that screamed “the seventies!” with oak cabinets, an avocado and harvest gold motif, and Formica cabinets with a set of mushroom shaped canisters that had probably been someone’s ceramics project. If it weren’t for the modern appliances, she could have believed she’d walked into a museum.
Although she’d tried to keep her expression neutral, Jace must have sensed her surprise. “I know. Horrible, isn’t it? But everything works, so we’ve never bothered to update it.”
“I’d be happy to give it an overhaul if you’d give me the go-ahead,” a female voice wryly offered.
As the door swung back into place, Bronte could see a woman reaching to put a baking dish into one of the upper cupboards. She was tall and voluptuous—a fact made even more apparent by the tailored snap-front blouse she wore and her tight designer jeans. Her hair was long and loose, falling down her back in a riot of curls that Bronte wouldn’t be able to re-create, even with a hot curling iron and a gallon of hairspray. When she turned to face them, Bronte was struck by her prettiness, but even more by the aura of happiness that seemed to surround her like an invisible glow.
Bronte immediately felt dowdy and flat-chested. Why, in all their encounters, had she assumed that Jace was single? Clearly, if he wasn’t married already, he would be soon, because this woman had an easy familiarity with his kitchen—and with Jace—that Bronte absorbed even in the fleeting seconds they’d shared the same room.
“Bronte, this is P.D. Raines—”
“Short for Prairie Dawn,” she inserted.
“I was getting to that,” Jace groused good-naturedly.
“Sometimes, you forget.” P.D. patted his cheek as she brushed by him to hold out her hand. “I’m Elam’s girlfriend.”
S
“Sorry for the mess. A bunch of men live here and we’re hopeless.”
She laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had anything to laugh about.
“Barry uses the floor for his farming and ranching,” Jace said, motioning to little tractors and pickups and other various pieces of machinery that were tiny replicas of the ones Bronte had seen working in the fields. “I’ve tried to teach him to park things in the ‘shed,’ which is an old cupboard in the family room. But as you can see, I’m not having much luck.”
Jace motioned for her to follow him. On opposite walls, two doorways led away from the entry. To the right, she could see a formal parlor decorated with period antiques, a crystal chandelier, and an enormous fireplace. But to the left, she was led through a very modern family room with leather sofas, a huge television, and strategically placed side tables. A discarded pair of sneakers—probably Barry’s—a newspaper, a plethora of remotes, and even more scattered ranch equipment and herds of plastic cows and horses proclaimed that this was a room for comfort rather than show. It was a guys’ room, stripped of frills and focused on comfort.
“You’re getting the benefit of a full deployment of Barry’s machinery, I’m afraid. He had Lily helping him ‘plant the south forty.’”
“I’ll make sure she helps him pick them up.”
“No need. Barry goes berserk if you move his stuff. Once a week, we have a lady come in, so he knows he has to drive everything into the barn so she can vacuum. Other than that, we tend to walk around it.”
“That’s sweet.”
Jace grimaced. “It’s not so sweet if you’re walking through the room in your bare feet and land on a swather, but”—he shrugged—“he’s come so far in the last few years, it’s a foible I haven’t bothered to corral.”
He moved to the back of the room to a heavy swinging door with brass hand- and kickplates and held it open for her. As she passed through, she found herself in a kitchen that screamed “the seventies!” with oak cabinets, an avocado and harvest gold motif, and Formica cabinets with a set of mushroom shaped canisters that had probably been someone’s ceramics project. If it weren’t for the modern appliances, she could have believed she’d walked into a museum.
Although she’d tried to keep her expression neutral, Jace must have sensed her surprise. “I know. Horrible, isn’t it? But everything works, so we’ve never bothered to update it.”
“I’d be happy to give it an overhaul if you’d give me the go-ahead,” a female voice wryly offered.
As the door swung back into place, Bronte could see a woman reaching to put a baking dish into one of the upper cupboards. She was tall and voluptuous—a fact made even more apparent by the tailored snap-front blouse she wore and her tight designer jeans. Her hair was long and loose, falling down her back in a riot of curls that Bronte wouldn’t be able to re-create, even with a hot curling iron and a gallon of hairspray. When she turned to face them, Bronte was struck by her prettiness, but even more by the aura of happiness that seemed to surround her like an invisible glow.
Bronte immediately felt dowdy and flat-chested. Why, in all their encounters, had she assumed that Jace was single? Clearly, if he wasn’t married already, he would be soon, because this woman had an easy familiarity with his kitchen—and with Jace—that Bronte absorbed even in the fleeting seconds they’d shared the same room.
“Bronte, this is P.D. Raines—”
“Short for Prairie Dawn,” she inserted.
“I was getting to that,” Jace groused good-naturedly.
“Sometimes, you forget.” P.D. patted his cheek as she brushed by him to hold out her hand. “I’m Elam’s girlfriend.”
S
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