share.”
“Thanks. I will, if you don’t mind my smelling like a horse and a few other things. Last time I showered or saw food was sometime yesterday, I think.”
Liz glanced up sharply from filling the cup. “You mean you haven’t eaten since then? I have chicken salad left from supper, and fresh pumpkin bread—if you don’t need something more substantial, that is.”
“Sounds good, but. I wasn’t hinting. Don’t go to any trouble on my account. Ben has leftover hash I can warm in the microwave. I’m sure there’s plenty. The boys hate hash.”
“It’s no trouble.” She rose and gathered her blanket and guitar.
Gil automatically took the thermos.
She led the way, turning to place a finger to her lips when they got inside. Her nod indicated that Melody slept behind the partially closed door leading off the living room.
Gil gazed around at the piles of costumes. “Don’t I pay you enough?” he whispered. “You need to moonlight as a seamstress?”
Waiting until they reached the kitchen to answer him, Liz explained she was sewing costumes for the school play. Then she snapped on the light.
Gil had been about to comment on the event—that it was a big all-community affair—when the light gave him a clear look at her granny nightgown. He was sure his face turned five shades of red. “I, uh, didn’t realize you were dressed for bed,” he stammered. It wasn’t even that the gown was provocative, he decided. More that it suggested a casual intimacy he’d been a long time without. Suddenly Gil asked himself what in hell he was doing in this woman’s kitchen at two in the morning.
Liz had her back to him and her head stuck in the refrigerator, apparently unfazed by the situation. Gil wiped nerve-damp palms down his thighs. So why was he bothered by it? Maybe because Lizbeth Robbins had sneaked into his thoughts so much this past month.
Liz set a bowl on the counter, got out a plate and scooped him a generous helping of chicken salad. Moving easily, she unwrapped a fragrant loaf of pumpkin bread and cut him two thick slices. Still brandishing the knife, she pointed to the small dinette table that sat in one corner. “It’ll be sort of hard to juggle a plate and a cup standing up. Take a load off, why don’t you?” She poured the contents from his metal cup into a ceramic mug and placed it in the microwave. “I’ll warm this up.”
Gil discovered he hadn’t moved, except to take off his Stetson and maybe cleave his backbone to the connecting door. It flashed through his mind that his ex-wife wouldn’t have been caught dead in a gown that covered so much flesh. Nor would she have been standing in the kitchen serving him food in the dead of night. Ginger had rarely even cooked supper. Her thoughts and her time were only for herself—and her rodeo obsession. It shocked Gil to realize he hadn’t seen that when they dated—before they married and brought babies into the world.
Perhaps he would have if he hadn’t missed the ranch so keenly when he went away to college. Ginger was the first woman he’d met who loved horses as much as he did. Not for the same reasons, though.
Liz gazed at him curiously as she warmed her own mug of cocoa. “Are you too exhausted to eat? I don’t want to force this on you.”
“What? Oh, no. It looks great. Sorry, guess I spaced out. For some reason I was thinking about the twins’ mother.” He ambled over to the table, set his plate on one of the green-checked place mats and then pulled out a chair. His back to her, Gil didn’t see the way Liz abruptly stopped pouring and sucked in her breath.
“Tomorrow’s All Hallows’ Eve,” she said, carefully carrying the mugs of cocoa to the table. “It’s when we traditionally remember our dead. For two weeks I’ve been fighting memories of Corbett. Experts say the only grief harder to bear than losing a spouse is losing a child. So…your wife died? No one’s said.”
Gil stiffened, a forkful of
“Thanks. I will, if you don’t mind my smelling like a horse and a few other things. Last time I showered or saw food was sometime yesterday, I think.”
Liz glanced up sharply from filling the cup. “You mean you haven’t eaten since then? I have chicken salad left from supper, and fresh pumpkin bread—if you don’t need something more substantial, that is.”
“Sounds good, but. I wasn’t hinting. Don’t go to any trouble on my account. Ben has leftover hash I can warm in the microwave. I’m sure there’s plenty. The boys hate hash.”
“It’s no trouble.” She rose and gathered her blanket and guitar.
Gil automatically took the thermos.
She led the way, turning to place a finger to her lips when they got inside. Her nod indicated that Melody slept behind the partially closed door leading off the living room.
Gil gazed around at the piles of costumes. “Don’t I pay you enough?” he whispered. “You need to moonlight as a seamstress?”
Waiting until they reached the kitchen to answer him, Liz explained she was sewing costumes for the school play. Then she snapped on the light.
Gil had been about to comment on the event—that it was a big all-community affair—when the light gave him a clear look at her granny nightgown. He was sure his face turned five shades of red. “I, uh, didn’t realize you were dressed for bed,” he stammered. It wasn’t even that the gown was provocative, he decided. More that it suggested a casual intimacy he’d been a long time without. Suddenly Gil asked himself what in hell he was doing in this woman’s kitchen at two in the morning.
Liz had her back to him and her head stuck in the refrigerator, apparently unfazed by the situation. Gil wiped nerve-damp palms down his thighs. So why was he bothered by it? Maybe because Lizbeth Robbins had sneaked into his thoughts so much this past month.
Liz set a bowl on the counter, got out a plate and scooped him a generous helping of chicken salad. Moving easily, she unwrapped a fragrant loaf of pumpkin bread and cut him two thick slices. Still brandishing the knife, she pointed to the small dinette table that sat in one corner. “It’ll be sort of hard to juggle a plate and a cup standing up. Take a load off, why don’t you?” She poured the contents from his metal cup into a ceramic mug and placed it in the microwave. “I’ll warm this up.”
Gil discovered he hadn’t moved, except to take off his Stetson and maybe cleave his backbone to the connecting door. It flashed through his mind that his ex-wife wouldn’t have been caught dead in a gown that covered so much flesh. Nor would she have been standing in the kitchen serving him food in the dead of night. Ginger had rarely even cooked supper. Her thoughts and her time were only for herself—and her rodeo obsession. It shocked Gil to realize he hadn’t seen that when they dated—before they married and brought babies into the world.
Perhaps he would have if he hadn’t missed the ranch so keenly when he went away to college. Ginger was the first woman he’d met who loved horses as much as he did. Not for the same reasons, though.
Liz gazed at him curiously as she warmed her own mug of cocoa. “Are you too exhausted to eat? I don’t want to force this on you.”
“What? Oh, no. It looks great. Sorry, guess I spaced out. For some reason I was thinking about the twins’ mother.” He ambled over to the table, set his plate on one of the green-checked place mats and then pulled out a chair. His back to her, Gil didn’t see the way Liz abruptly stopped pouring and sucked in her breath.
“Tomorrow’s All Hallows’ Eve,” she said, carefully carrying the mugs of cocoa to the table. “It’s when we traditionally remember our dead. For two weeks I’ve been fighting memories of Corbett. Experts say the only grief harder to bear than losing a spouse is losing a child. So…your wife died? No one’s said.”
Gil stiffened, a forkful of
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