The Cowboy's Hidden Bride, page 6
“He tried to apologize this morning. I was still so angry I told him to go to work. He left without eating any breakfast. We always eat breakfast together.” Maggie’s face crumpled. “We never fight like this.”
“I’m sorry. It sounds really rough.”
Maggie sighed. “I’m beginning to think I should go back to work.”
Maya stilled. That was a big change of heart. “What about Katie?”
“I’m sure my parents will watch her. I hate asking them to do more than they’re already doing, but they love spending time with her, and we’ll be able to save money more quickly. They’ll understand that.”
“How long has it been since you worked?” That seemed like the kind of factual question that could steer them away from emotional waters.
“Four years. I quit right before Katie was born. Guess that was a mistake.”
“Of course it wasn’t a mistake. You’ve had four years at home with Katie—I’m sure you wouldn’t give that up.”
“No, of course not.” A tear leaked from Maggie’s eye. “It’s just, I wanted this last year—” She shook away the thought. “It’ll be okay.” She scrubbed away the wetness on her cheek. “She’ll go to kindergarten next year anyway.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Things can’t stay the way they are if Bart is this miserable. Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith and trust it’ll work out for the best.”
Maya glanced at Lance and caught him looking her way again. It would be a leap of faith to let herself admit she’d like to get to know him better.
Probably a leap right off a cliff.
Even if she did get butterflies when she met his gaze.
The following morning, Lance’s stomach tightened in anticipation as he approached the turnoff to Thorn Hill. If he went straight, he’d see Maya at her farm stand. He definitely shouldn’t do that, as much as he wanted to.
Behind those trusting eyes, Maya Turner was… well, a Turner. If she thought she could take over the re-enactment, she was as bad as Noah, who was always interfering in Thorn Hill these days. Next thing he knew Liam would think he could tell him how to run his ranch. Him and his organic certification idea. The first time Lance had heard of his plan from Olivia, he’d nearly laughed out loud.
No ranch in Chance Creek was certified organic. It took years to finish the process. It was… ridiculous.
But the idea had been nagging at him ever since.
Lance tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. Liam couldn’t be on to something, could he? Was he actually getting a jump on them with his crazy idea?
Hell.
Maybe he should visit Maya’s farm stand. Get some information out of her. He’d buy something to cover up his real intentions. She baked a mean pie.
He wouldn’t mind a pie.
Wouldn’t mind seeing her again, if he was truthful. It wasn’t fair she looked so damn good all the time. And was interested in history. He wasn’t sure he’d ever dated a woman before who cared about the past.
Not that he was going to date Maya.
Lance sat at the crossroads a long moment, curiosity and hunger—and lust, he supposed—warring inside him. Hunger won out. And lust, although he hated to admit it. He kept driving, pulled in near the lane to the Flying W, parked and adjusted his hat. Maya shaded her eyes, recognized him and immediately began to fiddle with her wares, as if she was far too busy to give him the time of day, although he was pretty sure she was sneaking a look at him now and then.
He wondered if there was a little lust mixed into her curiosity, too.
Chuckling at the thought, he pushed open his door and climbed out. At least he had a good excuse handy to explain his presence on enemy territory. He’d ask if she’d come up with an idea to raise money—and see if she’d confirm she was already working on a script for the re-enactment. Last night, after talking to Ethan, he’d decided to take the bull by the horn, and he’d sent out an email to everyone reiterating that he expected them all to report on their fundraising efforts at the next meeting. It had galled him to have to ask Mia for the updated email list, but she’d supplied it cheerfully.
As he approached, Maya stuffed something under the table into a large cloth bag, reminding Lance he still had the piece of lace from her cap back at his ranch. He should probably return it.
“You again,” Maya said as he approached. Was she working on another sewing project? He hoped she knew he hadn’t destroyed the last one on purpose.
“Me, again,” he agreed and found it difficult to go on. She was a distracting sight. It was hot enough to make her T-shirt cling to her curves. She’d knotted it at her waist and wore a pair of jean shorts. He couldn’t see her long legs under the table, but he’d bet she’d kicked off her boots.
He could forget his errand, forget the re-enactment—and Liam’s crazy plan to certify the Flying W—and simply round the table, pull her to her feet, tip her chin up with a finger and kiss her.
Would she let him?
Or would she deck him?
The image of her trying to knock his lights out made him chuckle.
“What?” Maya demanded.
“Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll take one of those peach pies.”
“That’s eight dollars and fifty cents.”
“Eight-fifty?” Lance stopped, wallet in hand. That was highway robbery. “You charging me a Cooper tax or something?”
“A Cooper tax?” Maya rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Lance—”
“Here I’m being a good neighbor, taking time out of my day to support your stand. When was the last time your family has done anything to—?”
“Lance, listen—”
Was she doing it to make fun of him? To let him know exactly what she thought of him? “You’re as bad as Liam is.”
“I’m not anything—I’m raising money for the Historical Society! Why are you being such a bear? Cooper tax.” Her tone said exactly what she thought of that. She shook a little cardboard box at him. Inside, change jangled together. “I got your email last night, and I’ve already raised twenty dollars so far for the museum by hitching up the prices on my baked goods. It’s not a lot, but it’s something. How much have you raised?”
Nothing. But he wasn’t going to tell her that. He was doing a damn fine job of making an ass out of himself today. A minute passed in silence while Lance struggled to come up with retort. Finally, he reached into his wallet and shoved a wad of money at Maya.
“Keep the change.” He grabbed his pie and stalked back to his truck, wanting to kick himself. He couldn’t help replaying the incident in his head over and over as he made the short drive back to his ranch. He’d jumped to conclusions. Said some things he regretted. Acted like a right old fool. And he hadn’t gotten any of the information he set out to get.
When would he learn to think first before he acted?
That wasn’t the only thing bugging him, though. When he’d sent the email telling everyone to start raising money, it hadn’t occurred to him how pressured that might make some of them feel. If Maya wanted to use her farm stand to collect donations, he’d have expected her to put out a tin with a sign asking for them. It made him uneasy that she’d raised prices on her baked goods when he was darn sure she and her family depended on her income from the stand. If people thought she was overcharging them, they’d take their business elsewhere and not come back. Thinking over it, he realized she’d placed no signage to explain the increase in her prices. No one would understand they were making a donation to the museum fund.
He should have said something.
It was too late now.
It took a while for Maya to calm down enough to pull out her notebook and get to work. Lance was so damn handsome she always forgot how frustrating he could be.
Cooper tax.
She’d scrambled to hide the pages of writing she’d produced so far this morning when Lance arrived. It would take a lot of work to get the script into shape, but she’d gotten a start.
She couldn’t believe his reaction to the price of her pie. He’d been the one to send the email around demanding that all of them start raising funds on their own for the museum. Now he thought she was charging him more because he was a Cooper? As if she’d ever stoop to something so low. It bothered her he thought she would prey on him just because of the difficulties between their families.
She wouldn’t let him get to her, she promised herself. Even now she was more upset about the state of the society and the museum rather than anything he’d done. She’d only just found a group of people who shared a common interest with her, and LeRoy Devlin was shutting the whole darn thing down.
Lance’s orneriness was icing on the cake.
At least he was gone now, and she doubted he’d be back.
She settled in for a long afternoon.
Two days later she was back at the farm stand working on her script again when she spotted Lance’s truck pulling in and parking. Her heart rose before she reminded herself he’d ripped her cap—and complained about the price of her pies. She certainly wasn’t attracted to him, no matter what her body might think.
She stashed the pages away in her purse, set it under the table, pushed her hair back from her eyes and stifled a groan. She’d spent the morning sweating, despite the shade of the canopy. Her produce was wilting, her baked goods going limp in their plastic wrap. She’d had barely any customers so far. Who wanted to get out of their air-conditioned trucks to stop and shop in the baking sun?
At least she was making good progress with the script. She’d showed some of it to Mia, who’d read over it and made some good suggestions. They’d decided to come up with stories of their own, rather than trying to make them about historical personages. They simply didn’t have the time to do the research that would require. Maya had written several more pages of dialogue this morning.
“Go on, get out of here,” she yelled at Lance when he opened his door.
To her consternation, he just grinned, waved and ignored her. He went to the back, dropped the tailgate and lugged something out of the bed of his truck.
“I mean it, Lance. I don’t have the patience to deal with you today.”
Lance didn’t answer. He hefted the wooden object he held in his hands and closed the distance between them.
“Do you need pie? Here, take a damn pie.” She scooped one up and popped it in a bag.
“Not here for pie.” Lance flipped the board around so the other side was facing her.
Maya’s mouth dropped open. “Home-baked pastries and handmade crafts? What’s that for?”
“Just what it says. You need a sign so people know what you’re selling. That way you’ll raise more money.”
“You made this—for me?” Lance looked so damn good in his work jeans, boots and a T-shirt that stretched over his muscular torso every time he moved. Maya swallowed when a wave of longing washed over her. She could almost feel those hands of his on her hips—that mouth brushing over hers.
She nearly groaned again.
“Not for you—for us,” Lance said.
“Us?” She had no idea what he was talking about. She was too busy imagining the things she could do with him if they were alone. Why did he always bring out this side in her?
She needed a boyfriend—
One who wasn’t Lance.
“The more money you raise for the society, the less I need to do, right? Not everyone speeding down that road knows what you’re selling here. Now they will.” He went to prop the folding sign near the road where people would be able to see, leaving her sputtering. “Besides, no one knows what I’m selling.”
Heading to his truck again, he gestured at the other wooden objects in its bed. As he began to haul out pieces of furniture and decorations, Maya stood up to see them better, her lust morphing into curiosity. Since when did Lance know how to build furniture?
The pieces were each unique and finely detailed. If she wasn’t mistaken, the designs were from another era, just like her sewing. Even the sign had been crafted in a painstaking way.
She was beginning to think she didn’t know Lance at all. “Did you make all that yourself?” she finally asked, not knowing what else to say.
“Yeah, I made it myself. Right after we got back to Chance Creek from Idaho. Found my grandmother’s workshop. I’d forgotten about all that. She wasn’t a Cooper; she was a Jones. No wonder she could run rings around—” Lance set down the last chair with a thump, and Maya wondered what he’d been about to say. She didn’t think she’d ever heard Lance run down his own family before. Usually he was defending them… because usually someone else was attacking them, she realized with a twist of her gut. That couldn’t feel good. “I don’t know if anyone will buy anything,” Lance went on, “but they’re just taking up space. Maybe people will stop for the furniture, notice they’re hungry and buy some pie.”
He wouldn’t look at her. Maya wished he would. Wished she could let him know how impressed she was at the quality of his work. Her gaze dipped to his hands. They’d made this furniture. Had rubbed it smooth.
She’d like to feel those hands on her.
All over her, to be specific.
“I sell more than pie, you know.” She kept it light.
“I like your pie.”
Maya watched as he arranged his pieces into an eye-catching display around her stand. They belonged in an art gallery somewhere, not on the side of a dusty road.
She should probably offer her baked goods for free to entice people to check out Lance’s stuff.
She held her tongue as he worked, though, suspicious about his motives. They were both raising money for the museum, so she supposed it made sense for them to join forces and run a stand together—except that he was a Cooper and she was a Turner.
Coopers and Turners didn’t do anything together, no matter what images her brain was conjuring in its overheated state.
Except for Noah and Olivia, who did everything together, she reminded herself.
What would it be like to do everything with Lance?
Flushing with heat, she tried to clear her mind of the disturbing thoughts. Being with the cowboy might be all kinds of fun.
All kinds of wrong, too.
“Why aren’t you doing this on your own property?” she said to cover her confusion.
“Because I can’t sit watching it all day. I’ve got work to do. Your family’s already stationed you out here. You can collect money for me as well as for you.”
That was handy for him, wasn’t it? “Aren’t you worried I’ll steal it?” she asked tartly.
He stopped. “You thinking about starting a life of crime?”
“No.”
“Look, we’ve both got the same goal. Save the museum. Warren—” He broke off. “It’s killing him to think it’ll be shut down.”
Maya nodded, relenting a little. She didn’t know Warren nearly as well as Lance did, but the strain in his voice at the last meeting had made that clear. She liked that Lance seemed protective of the older man. Lance was like Olivia; underneath that thick Cooper skin, he had heart.
She wondered if he had Olivia’s imagination, too. She wished she could ask him twenty questions. Get to know what was happening inside that head of his.
“So will you help me to help him?” he asked.
He was appealing when he was uncertain. His gaze searched hers, and she wondered why someone so staunchly on the Cooper side of things was reaching out to her this way. She couldn’t help remember their dance at Olivia’s wedding. The gentle way he’d held her. The beat of his heart when she’d rested her head against his chest. There were depths to this man. “Okay,” she heard herself say.
He held her gaze a moment longer, as if he was wondering as much about her thought process as she was wondering about his.
He nodded finally and got back to work. Maya watched him, enjoying the play of his muscles as he lifted and carried the furniture and set it into place. When he was done, he shut the tailgate and came to join her under the awning, plunking himself down on her spare folding chair. She was far too aware of him, and she had no idea what to say, so she kept quiet. So did he, until they both straightened at the sound of horses’ hooves clip-clopping in the distance.
“James Russell,” Maya murmured.
“Who’s he got with him?” Everyone in Chance Creek was familiar with the Russells, the quirky older couple who’d thrown convention to the wind some years ago and decided to carry on with their lives as if they’d traveled back in time to the early 1800s. The Russells’ barouche—an ornate open carriage—was a work of art, and Maya had always wanted to take a ride in it.
“It’s Avery—from Westfield Manor.” Avery was fairly new to Chance Creek, and Maya doubted she’d be familiar with the feud between the Turners and the Coopers. It probably wouldn’t strike her as odd to see Lance sitting alongside her at her farm stand. Anyone else in Chance Creek would think that pigs might start flying next.
James, a stout older man in the coat and breeches of a Regency-era English gentleman, climbed down from his high perch at the front of the barouche and helped Avery down after him. When she reached solid ground, she spent a moment setting her high-waisted gown to rights. While the Russells maintained a nineteenth-century existence because it pleased them, Avery and her friends did so because they ran a Jane Austen–style bed-and-breakfast at the manor.
“Food and furniture. I love it!” Avery’s gaze immediately lit on an apron Maya had been fiddling with earlier this morning, which sat folded on the table. “And old-fashioned aprons, too! How wonderful!”
“See? I told you people would like this setup.” Lance shot an amused glance at Maya.
James and Avery ended up looking over every piece of furniture, then turned their attention to the food on display, James buying several pies and a basket of blackberries, while Avery picked out a lemon strudel for herself.
“I knew there was a farm stand out here but hadn’t heard about the furniture and clothing. You guys should whip up a website for your woodworking and sewing. People are going to want to know about this. Especially since the inventory will change all the time, right?”
