The Cowboy's Return. Susan Crosby
drained her water bottle, set it aside, then tugged on her gloves. “My goals were taken into consideration when I applied for a federal grant for the high tunnel and got it. I want to build a standard greenhouse, as well. But first I need to prove I have enough business to warrant it. I’m not certified yet, but I’m working on it. I’ll succeed. I have to.”
“I gathered that,” he said, then shook his head. “Flowers. Who knew?”
She smiled, which took years off her face. “You probably don’t make a habit of decorating your dining room table with a bouquet.”
“How’d you guess?” He set his bottle next to hers.
“I didn’t know how successful the flower business could be. I found out by accident when I worked the farmer’s market for the first time last year. I brought a bouquet from the yard to decorate my stall. It was the first thing that sold. The next week I took along as many as I could put together. They all sold. This year I made it an official crop.” She pointed toward the back of her property. “I’ve got all that acreage out there that’s not being used. I’m thinking about having a real flower farm after I’m certified.”
“You’re ambitious,” he said as they carried a long, unwieldy beam together.
She nodded but didn’t add anything. The determined look on her face said more, however. He wanted to dig deeper and find out why, to understand. He’d never had to start a new venture on his own, had always known what his place in life would be.
And had sometimes fought against it.
He’d never struggled like Annie, although he’d often worked long, hard hours and fought Mother Nature on plenty of occasions. He’d been bone-weary, ached from head to toe and wished he was anywhere but on a horse chasing stray cattle, but he also loved it. Couldn’t imagine himself being anything but a cattleman.
Around six o’clock, Annie went inside to make dinner. The old greenhouse was mostly taken care of, split into two piles, reusable and trash. The salvageable items would be stacked in the barn, the rest hauled to the dump.
Mitch opened the hood of his truck, which brought Austin and Bo over to investigate. Austin climbed up on the bumper and looked inside, mimicking Mitch.
“What’d you think is wrong with Lulu?” the boy asked.
Mitch fiddled with various parts. “There’s some rust from sitting for so long. Could be that’s all it is, ‘cept I drove her about fifty miles before she conked out. The gas is fresh, but the oil isn’t. Know much about engines?”
“Nope. Mom’s always mad if something goes wrong with our truck because she can’t fix it. Too many computers in it or something. She calls it a con … cons something.”
“Conspiracy?”
“Yeah. She’s pretty funny when she’s mad.”
Mitch enjoyed that image for a minute. “She fixes trucks?”
“Her dad taught her when she was a kid. She fixes everything. Or tries to, anyway. Repairmen are not in our budget.”
The way Austin said that made Mitch smile. “Your mom seems like one mighty strong woman.”
Austin shrugged. “She cries sometimes. At night. In bed. When she thinks I can’t hear.”
The thought twisted Mitch’s gut tight. “Farming’s hard work.”
“Yep.”
“For you, too,” Mitch added, fiddling with a belt.
“I can handle it.”
The grown-up way the boy said the words got to Mitch as much as hearing that Annie cried sometimes. Once again, it reminded him of how simple his life had been in comparison. He’d always known there would be hearty food on the table and a solid roof over his head.
Mitch gathered his tools and started pulling parts. He explained the function of each piece to Austin and let him handle them, showing him how they fit together to make a working unit. Bo padded over and sniffed Mitch now and then, giving him a good stare with his direct blue eyes, finally lying down between them as they worked. Then a chicken came into view, taunting him, and the dog was off and running.
The peacefulness of the moment struck Mitch after a while. He couldn’t remember a time like it, except—Mitch swallowed around a lump in his throat. Except when he was a kid and his grandfather was teaching him how to work on the truck. It was their time, uninterrupted by chores or other demands. The bond they’d forged because of that time together never once weakened.
After a few minutes the screen door creaked open. “Dinner in five,” Annie called out.
“That means come in and wash up,” Austin said.
“Think we’re having chili?” Mitch asked as they climbed the front porch stairs. “That or omelets.”
But the scent that hit Mitch when he opened the door was of frying onions. His mouth watered. “Smell’s great,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the kitchen wall, waiting for Austin to finish up in the bathroom before taking his turn.
“Cheese omelets,” she said. “Fried potatoes and onions, sliced tomatoes. Plenty of bread, too.”
He spotted an electric bread maker on the counter. She must’ve put the ingredients in earlier.
“Anything I can do?”
“It’s under control, thanks.”
Mitch watched her turn out a large omelet onto a plate, then she pulled two plates from inside the oven, with smaller omelets already on them, and started piling them with potatoes and onions. She knew her way around her kitchen, her movements smooth and practiced. His gaze landed on the apron bow that rested just below the small of her back, inviting a playful tug, he thought, then a sweep of his hands over her smooth, tight rear.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. He turned to one side, the doorjamb blocking her view before she could notice he was getting aroused. That would be the quickest way to be sent packing, for sure.
“Thanks for your patience with Austin, Mitch. He’s a very curious boy. I know he asks a lot of questions.”
“He’s a good kid. You’ve raised him well.” He hears you cry during the night, and he worries about you, is protective of you. “He told me you can fix just about everything.”
“‘Necessity is the mother of invention.’ I’m grateful for the internet. I can pull up instructions on how to do most anything.”
“Then why’d you need a handyman?”
“Muscle. Can’t get that online, can I?”
Austin came running down the hall and took a seat at the table. Mitch didn’t spend a lot of time cleaning up, either, anxious to dig in. The omelets were light, perfectly cooked, the bread fresh and hot, no butter necessary, which was a good thing, since she hadn’t put any on the table. The potatoes and onions were browned and mouthwatering.
“I’d forgotten how good a tomato can taste,” he said.
“From vine to table in ten minutes. Can’t get better than that,” Annie said.
Mitch saw her shoulders drop, her face smooth out, and was glad for the visible signs of relaxation. “What do you do after dinner?”
“We commune with nature,” Austin said, grinning.
Annie swatted him playfully. “We chase the chickens into their roost. Actually Bo herds them, and we shut them in. After that we tidy up the grounds, do a little raking, that sort of thing. Then we sit on the porch and admire our land.”
“Or play video games or watch TV,” Austin added.
“And I have lots of computer work to do. Then we’re in bed pretty early.”
“The