He drew in a slow, pleased breath as his eyes drank in her lovely face. “Fairy face,” he whispered. He bent again, brushing her mouth with his. “I’ll see you at lunch. Don’t let Margaret talk you to death.”
“I like Margaret,” she murmured.
“Margaret likes you, too, baby doll,” Margaret said from the doorway with a platter of eggs in her hand. She grinned toothily at King. “You lucky man, you.”
King actually flushed. “I’ve got work to do,” he mumbled, and he left them both there, pulling his hat down over his eyes with a jerk as he strode noisily from the room.
“Only walks that way when I’ve annoyed him,” Margaret assured her, grinning even wider. “But you’re the first girl he’s brought home to me to visit in a long, long time, so I reckon he’s in pretty deep. But you watch him, he’s no choirboy. He can be right dangerous in full pursuit.”
Elissa burst out laughing. “Oh, Margaret, you’re a jewel,” she said, and meant it. “He doesn’t love me, you know. I’m just his friend, that’s all.”
Margaret nodded as she sat down. “That’s right, and I’m a Halloween pumpkin,” she agreed. She helped herself to a cup of coffee and folded her hefty forearms on the table. She stared straight at Elissa. “Now, tell me about yourself. I hear you design clothes.”
It was like the Spanish Inquisition. By the time Elissa was allowed to escape and go exploring around the house, Margaret knew her favorite perfume, her entire family history—she’d hooted with delight upon learning King had brought home a minister’s daughter—and as much as possible of her potential future.
The ranch itself was a new experience. There were well-kept stables housing beautiful Appaloosas, cattle everywhere and a bull who seemed to have his own building and a full-time caretaker. He was red and white, like most of the cattle, and as big as a house. When King came home at lunchtime, he found her at the barn, staring at the creature.
“His name is King’s Pride 4120,” he informed her smugly, hands in his pockets. “He’s out of the foundation herd of Herefords Bobby’s grandfather began here, but I’ve improved the strain with selective breeding.”
“Why does he have a number?” she asked. “Has he been arrested or something?”
“That gets complicated.” He threw an affectionate arm around her shoulders and led her back to the house, explaining things like embryo transplants and daily weight-gain ratios and all the intricacies of breeding superior beef cattle. The technical information rattled around in Elissa’s head like marbles, but it was fascinating all the same.
“Margaret’s making beef-salad sandwiches for lunch,” she told him on the front porch, where the big green swing and several rocking chairs faced the open plains.
“How much has she dragged out of you so far?” he asked with a raised eyebrow and a dry smile.
“Before or after she got to the color of my underwear?” She laughed.
He just shook his head.
Lunch was quiet. Margaret went off to listen to the news while she worked in the kitchen, and King didn’t seem inclined to talk. Afterward, he saddled a horse for her with the ease of long practice and helped her into the saddle. This, at least, was familiar. They’d gone riding together in Jamaica several times over the past two years. She glanced at him under the brim of her borrowed straw hat, thinking how everything about him was familiar to her and yet subtly different these days.
He caught her glance and grinned. “Remember the day we rode down the beach hell-for-leather, and you fell off in the surf?”
“I’m holding on tight this time,” she retorted, wrapping the reins around her hand. “Lead on, cowboy. You won’t lose me.”
“Let’s see.”
He took off, nudging his Appaloosa gelding to a quick lead. She followed on her mare, laughing delightedly at the open land and his company and the sunny afternoon.
The calves were Herefords, and not newborn as she’d expected. The calves started coming in February and March, he told her, to coincide with his breeding program. They were fattened up and then sold when they reached the desired weight.
“It’s so sad to think of eating them,” she mused while she scratched a white-topknotted head above soulful brown eyes. “Isn’t he cute?”
He leaned against the fence post, his hat pushed back, his eyes watchful. “They tell stories about the cattle drives in the old days and how close the cattle got to their drovers. They say that