Chapter Two

 

The recipe required only five ingredients—raspberries, cream, oatmeal, honey, and whisky—all of which Claudia had on hand, so she made cranachan for dessert. Kara helped by snitching whipped cream and raspberries.

"Time to set the table," Claudia said. When she could, she signed as well as spoke, both to keep her interpreter's skills sharp and to reinforce Kara's lip-reading abilities. Kara popped a final raspberry in her mouth and gathered up silverware, placemats, and linen napkins from the dry sink.

The Bar J had originally been a larger property, which accounted for its enormous bunkhouse, stable, and outbuildings. Through the generations, some land had been sold, and other acreage had been married away or bequeathed to relatives who'd since sold up and left the valley. The trouble with immigrant roots was that transplanting became part of the family heritage, and ranching wasn't for everybody.

Claudia took the roast from the oven and spooned the juices over the potatoes and carrots tucked beside the meat, then covered the whole with foil. Kara came back into the kitchen and got the salad bowls, salad, and water glasses while Claudia put the individual servings of cranachan back into the fridge.

She and Kara had a routine, and whether the dining room was full, or they had only a guest or two, the routine was the same. Before too much longer, Kara would be looking at colleges, though, and then who would set the table?

Claudia nearly dropped the water pitcher as a sound came from the dining room.

Laughter—Kara's laughter, which was as hearty as it was rare. Hotay could make her laugh, or Boo. When Claudia emerged into the dining room, Mr. MacLeod was slowly finger spelling and Kara was suffused in mirth.

"They're not the same," Claudia said. "British Sign Language and American Sign Language have different roots. If you know British Sign Language, you and Kara share about a third of your vocabulary. American Sign Language was based on the French system in use in the late-eighteenth century."

"So I could get my face slapped fairly easily," Mr. MacLeod muttered, making a symbol for apology.

Kara went off into reassurances, most of which probably went over Mr. MacLeod's head. He tried to respond anyway, and what followed was a sort of back-and-forth Claudia had seldom seen.

She was a certified deaf interpreter whom the county court called upon when legal proceedings involved a deaf party or witness, and yet, she'd never had to deal with the sort of translation Kara and Mr. MacLeod were engaged in. They silently traded signs, Mr. MacLeod with the ponderous care of the rusty conversationalist, Kara with the fluency of one who'd been signing for years.

Claudia watched the conversation, and felt both touched and…extraneous.

Dinner was more of the same, with Kara and Mr. MacLeod cobbling together a dialogue while Claudia tried to facilitate without intruding.

"That was a surprise," Mr. MacLeod said as Kara disappeared into the kitchen with a stack of dishes in hand. "I have a deaf cousin, and so I've picked up a little signing over the years. I had no idea there were different sign languages."

"There's an international version that's of limited use. Shall we move to the great room?" Claudia suggested. "You can eat dessert while I get the fire going."

Cowboys were polite when there were ladies present, and yet, Claudia was still taken aback when Mr. MacLeod held her chair.

"You don't need to make a fire for me," he said. "If it's your custom, you must suit yourself."

"The temperature's dropping." Outside, the temperature was dropping. "I'll start a fire in case the power goes out when the storm hits. We have generators, but I try to save them for true emergencies."

Mr. MacLeod followed her to the great room, which was dark but for the motion-sensor night-lights near the front door.

"Have you lived here all your life?" he asked.

Hotay was on the mantel, a feline alligator waiting to bask in the warmth of the nightly fire.

"I went off to Texas A&M for a bachelor's, and I've seen Washington, DC, because I took some courses at Gallaudet University. I take it you like to travel?"

The small talk came easily for Claudia, but Mr. MacLeod wasn't as glib as she'd first thought. He considered his answers and chose his words.

"I did like to travel," he said, passing Claudia the long matches. "Then I saw Texas, and that was that. I want to make my home here."

Claudia lit the kindling and tinder beneath the logs. "Have you been through one of our summers?"

"I've been through three, two of them in Houston. I've also been through Scottish winters, when the sun goes down at three in the afternoon, and Scottish summers, when the sky is still light at midnight. Both places have their charms, but here…"

He waited for Claudia to find a place on the sofa, then came down about a foot away before continuing.

"Half of Scotland is owned by a few hundred people. The whole country isn't any bigger than South Carolina. If I walk down the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, I will run into at least one person who knows me by name, though I haven't lived there for ten years. In Texas, there's room to breathe and to dream."

Rain spattered hard against the windows as the fire caught and the first sparks sailed up the flue.

"You're a romantic, Mr. MacLeod." Claudia had meant to tease him with her observation, but she'd also spoken the truth. What kept her on the Bar J in good years and bad, what got her out of bed on the frigid mornings and sweltering mornings alike, was the dream of building her ranch into a legacy for Kara and the children Kara might have.

"I'm Scottish," he said. "Part poet, part barbarian, my grannie used to say. What about you? Would you leave here if you could?"

Ranch life was so relentless, from the chores, to the financial challenges, even to the socializing on Sunday in the churchyard, that Claudia would never have asked herself that question.

"This is my home, Mr. MacLeod."

"Declan, please. Scotland was my home."

"Do you miss it?"

"I love it, and I go back frequently, but that's not the same thing. How did Kara lose her hearing?"

An abrupt change of subject, suggesting Scotland wasn't a topic that held his interest. Visiting with Mr. Mac—Declan—was all too interesting. He didn't overshare, and he didn't play keep-away.

Kara brought out the cranachan and ate hers with them. Even over the course of the evening meal, Declan had picked up a few signs, and his finger spelling was coming more fluently as Kara told him about liking biology and being passionate about riding.

All very lovely of him, but instead of appreciating his efforts, Claudia was resentful. Declan was charming without being too smooth, and he had a scrumptious accent, but did he have to look so damned good gobbling up his dessert too?

***

Why must Claudia Jensen look so wistful when eating her sweet? She nibbled a dessert that reminded Declan of home, family meals, and fuzzy cows at a time when he ought to have his mind on business.

The girl, Kara, went bouncing back to the kitchen with the dirty dishes, exhibiting the limitless energy so frequently wasted on the young.

"You asked about Kara's hearing," Claudia said. "Kara was four. Her parents were in Africa, doing some sort of research on the sociology of tribal women. They'd been there about six months when Kara got meningitis, and proper medical care took a long time to reach. Too long. She's lucky to be alive."

Declan asked, even knowing the answer wouldn't be happy. "And her parents?"

"Killed in a car accident coming back from some study of regional conflict in the Basque area of Spain. My sister and her husband loved to globe-trot, and the more obscure the destination the better. You ask if I'd leave if I could, and the answer is probably not, but I haven't done traveling enough to know. Leaving the ranch for any length of time takes more coordination than a lunar landing, so it's a good thing I love it here."

Well, damn. Better for Declan if Claudia resented her home and chafed against its limitations as he'd chafed against the suffocating weight of history and tradition in Scotland.

"What about Kara? Does she like ranch life?"

Claudia drew her legs up, so she sat tailor fashion on the couch. Her knee brushed Declan's thigh, and he nearly bolted from the room.

"Kara loves the horses, and horses go with the ranch. The horses have spared us the usual teenage rebellions, so far. I'm dreading the first boyfriend."

"Why? My siblings tell me the first one is usually just a starter model. It's the ones a child takes up with at college who deserve a parent's worry."

How much of Claudia's dread was because she'd be alone on this ranch she professed to love if Kara found a young fellow to start a family with? 

"Everything is so much harder when a child is deaf," Claudia said, leaning her head back against the cushions. "Deaf children are perfect marks for all kinds of predators, because the children are at once isolated and overprotected. Some people don't even teach their children the words to describe the harm that can stalk them. We don't realize how ignorance leaves a child vulnerable. There's more cranachan in the fridge if you're in the mood for a midnight snack."

Declan was in the mood to kick his boss's arse. Hard.

"All parents worry, Claudia. The idea isn't to wrap our children in cotton wool. It's to teach them what they'll need to correct their mistakes, make sense out of their failures, and learn from experience. Tell me about the horses."

Declan liked horses well enough, but what he really wanted to know was how Claudia's hair stayed up in that French-braided bun without visible support. The engineer in him wanted to understand a complex structure, the barbarian in him wanted to unravel all of the lady's mysteries.

"Kara rides jumpers, which is one of the equestrian sports where the clock decides who gets a ribbon. Fastest clean time wins. A rail either stays up or comes down. No points for style, turnout, gaits, or flirting with the judge. It's as close to fair as a competition can be, and she loves that. I love it too."

Claudia's whole demeanor had subtly shifted, from weary and introspective to quietly animated.

"Do you compete?"

"Not anymore. I did all through college and considered doing the pro thing, but then Kara needed a home and my dad got sick. I coach, I teach, I train, but I don't compete."

Because leaving the ranch to chase a horse show circuit was out of the question.

"Maybe competing is something you can get back to after Kara goes off to college?"

Just like that, the shadows descended again. "College costs money, Declan. Tons and tons of money, for a good school that can handle Kara's educational needs. There's a program over in Big Spring, but they have very few majors. Gallaudet University has more majors, but Washington, DC, is exorbitantly expensive."

This was how Declan had felt in Scotland, hemmed in, limited, frustrated. Every option foreclosed before he'd had a chance to explore it.

And Thad Brewster, with no regard for the human cost, had decided this woman must be deprived of the ranch that anchored her spirit and sheltered her child.

"I have some time to get college figured out for Kara," Claudia said, stifling a yawn. "Her grades are spectacular, she's taking AP classes, and the Internet and translation apps have been her salvation. Not every kid barrels straight into college, anyway." She dropped her feet to the floor, her knee brushing Declan's thigh again as lightning flashed at the windows.

"I don't mean to be rude," Declan said, standing, "but I'd better turn in if I'm to be a cowboy tomorrow. Thanks for a lovely meal, and for shifting my reservation ahead."

He didn't think, he simply extended a hand down to her, intending to help a tired lady to her feet.

Claudia rose, her hand in his, and because they stood between the couch and a coffee table, she ended up quite close to him.

Quite close.

"Off to bed with you," she said, patting his chest. "If you haven't ridden in a while, you'll want to start out slowly."

Overhead, thunder boomed so loudly the heavens might have been splitting asunder. Declan's heart hammered almost as loudly.

As the thunder died away, the temptation to wrap his arms around the woman before him was as overwhelming as it was stupid. He was here to steal her ranch, more or less, and making a pass would add dishonor to injury.

Claudia went up on her toes and kissed him, a friendly little buss to the cheek. "G'night, Declan. Glad you'll be with us this week."

He stared at the fire, which was throwing out almost as much heat as his imagination. "If a good-night kiss is one of the amenities at the Bar J, you should be booked solid for the next two years."

His attempt at levity failed. Claudia's smile said she knew it for the dodge it was, and she was pleased that Declan had needed to dodge.

"You never did tell me what you want for breakfast," she said, not budging an inch.

What Declan wanted was a new job and a do-over with Claudia Jensen. "Anything hot."

Damn.

Her smile became luminous, turning her into a fireside houri. "Bacon, eggs, toast, grits, with all the trimmings. You'll need your energy."

She sauntered off to the hallway—Don't look, laddie. Not a single, witless peek—and Declan stalked off toward the kitchen. Cranachan had whisky in it, and Kara might know where the rest of the bottle was to be found.

***

Storms were part of life in the Texas Panhandle. Pounding rain, sleet, flash floods, snow…nothing boring about weather in the Canyon, but this storm had an edge to it that made Claudia uneasy. The wind wasn't steady, it gusted and dropped, and then roared anew. The rain came and went, alternating a pattering downpour with freezing torrents. The lightning and thunder had apparently parked directly over the Canyon for the night.

Maybe the weather was to blame for Claudia's overture to Declan MacLeod, for that's what her kiss had been. An invitation to flirt, at least, but with seven days to see where the flirting went, she'd been offering…more than a friendly gesture.

And why not? Why in the Sam-damn hell not? She shucked out of her jeans, did the toothbrush and washcloth drill, put her hair into two braids, and tried to find a reason to behave more cautiously where Declan was concerned.

Her instincts declared that he was decent down to his bones. He hadn't mentioned a wife, girlfriend, or fiancée. He didn't wear a ring, and he had no pale, telltale circle on his fourth finger to suggest he was either prevaricating or on the immediate rebound.

Up close, he was a mighty solid slab of male, and even at the end of the evening, he'd smelled good.

"Not like you," Claudia said to Hotay. "You smell like mesquite smoke now, but by this time tomorrow, you might smell like the muck pit."

Fresh manure gave off heat, and Hotay was not discriminating about his sources of warmth.

Claudia slipped into a flannel nightie—the sheets would be frigid—and climbed into bed. Fatigue hit her like a mule kick—and Sunday was supposed to be her easy day—and yet sleep would not come.

Other good-looking, appealing men had come to stay at the Bar J, and a few had even been willing to do the six-hundred-thread-count two-step. Claudia hadn't been interested.

Maybe she was lonelier now, more tired, more broke…or maybe Declan MacLeod was something special.

That was her last thought before a sandpapery tongue scraping across her chin woke her up.

"Hotay."

He was a weight on her chest, like a worry, only hairier. He licked her chin again, and Claudia sat up to shift him to her side.

"Storm got you rattled, cat?"

The floodlight shining across from the barnyard into Claudia's window confirmed that the power was still on. The rain was coming down steadily, but the wind had gone quiet.

"Mralph."

Hotay had some Maine Coon in him, and his voice was distinctively expressive.

"Don't fret," Claudia said, stroking a hand over his head. "By morning the sun will be out, and we'll be two inches of rain closer to green-up."

"MRALPH." Hotay hopped off the bed and leaped up onto the windowsill, where he marched back and forth, tail switching.

"It's two in the stinkin' darn morning, cat. Either go eat a mouse or come back to bed."

He sat and wrapped his plume of a tail over his paws, then batted at the vase of pansies perched on the sill.

"Knock my flowers over, and I'll—"

Another gentle tap on the vase sent the flowers an inch closer to the edge of the sill.

"That is my grandma's vase, you evil varmint." Claudia tossed the covers aside and pushed off the bed. "You bust that vase and the coyotes will feast on your bones. I'll provide the hot sauce and throw in a side of—"

Claudia shut up, because when she stood by the window, over the steady rain, she could hear a rhythmic concussion from the direction of the barn.

"A loose door?" Claudia and Kara had brought in the horses right before dinner. Triple checking the latches on the stall doors was part of the routine. The wind had been awful, though, and a window might be banging loose.

If that window came off its hinges, it could injure a horse.

"Damn it to hell, cat. Remind me why I love living here."

A bathrobe would just get muddy, so Claudia pulled on an Irish cable-knit sweater that hung nearly to her knees, then grabbed a slicker from the hooks lining the back hallway. She shoved her feet into a pair of green wellies by the door and slogged across the yard to the barn.

The rain was brutally cold, and the pounding got louder when she gained the relative protection of the stable. 

"Night check, my friends," she said softly, because her scent might not have carried to the horses amid the cold rain and bitter breezes. "Everybody please be tucked up all cozy in your straw."

Though the night-lights were on, they shed just enough illumination to save Claudia from tripping over a muck wagon. She ran the beam of her cell phone flashlight over each stall, working her way down the aisle as the pounding grew louder. Something hitting wood, hard, repeatedly, though each stall held the horse it was supposed to.

The second-to-last stall belonged to Boo, who was kicking the wooden division between his stall and his neighbor's in a steady, unhappy rhythm. Bored horses did that, or horses in pain.

"You okay, dude?" No matted coat, no runny manure in the straw, no signs he'd been rolling, nothing to indicate a potentially fatal bellyache.

He thumped the wall again with a back hoof.

Instinct prodded at Claudia. Boo's antics had the horses across the aisle pacing around in their straw bedding. The Belgian gelding—Prince—wuffled, and the sound had a worried quality. But then, Prince was a ton of equine marshmallow.

"What about you, Strawberry?" Claudia asked, moving to the corner stall.

Her belly reacted before her mind made sense of what she saw. Fear got her by the vitals, and panic tried to crowd after.

A sturdy hoof protruded from between the bars of Strawberry's stall. He was a good-sized roan, absolutely sensible under saddle, and on no planet should his back foot have been sticking up at nearly eye level through the iron bars of his stall.

"Shit," Claudia muttered, approaching Strawberry's stall slowly. "Shit, shit, shit."

The horse lay on his back. The hind foot wedged between the stall's bars prevented him from moving. If the gelding's foot and leg were okay, his back and hips were likely all pulled out of whack. Even if no structural damage had been done, lying essentially upside down would wreak havoc with the horse's digestion.

"Easy, boy," Claudia said, as Boo gave the wall another kick. "Easy, and we'll get Strawberry free here in a minute."

Though that meant finding the hacksaw to cut the bars, hoping the horse didn't thrash himself into a greater injury as Claudia sawed at the bars, hoping the horse didn't go into shock, or injure her when she tried to get him free—

"Stop frettin'," she said, quoting her late father, "and get busy."

The door at the other end of the shed row rolled open, and a man's shape was briefly silhouetted against the shadows.

Claudia clicked her flashlight off and on. "Don't turn on the lights, Declan. I have a situation here, and I need the horses to stay calm." Her voice was shaky, not from cold, but from sheer upset. "One of the horses is cast, and he's got a foot hung up. I don't think he's in shock yet, but I'm—"

Declan apparently knew not to run in a barn, but he hustled down the aisle. "I was standing at the terrace window when I saw you come down here. How can I help?"

"I need a hacksaw, some prayers, and a whole crap-ton of luck," Claudia said, going to Strawberry's stall. "He can't stay like that, and heaven knows what damage he's already sustained. Damned storms get them all wound up. He probably felt a little frisky—Declan, what the hell are you doing?"

He'd grabbed the metal bars on either side of Strawberry's foot and pulled against them. "Let's both try."

Declan wore his corduroy jacket over bare skin, and his jeans lacked a belt. As he exerted pressure on one of the bars, muscles rippled and shifted across his chest, but the bar didn't budge.

"Brace a foot against the crossbeam," Claudia said. "If you can bend the bar, I'll push the horse's foot back through."

It meant working in close proximity, and Declan sounded as if he was cussing in Gaelic, but the damned bar bowed just enough, and Claudia eased the horse's foot in the right direction.

"Thank Jesus!" She hugged Declan hard for one instant, then slid the stall door open.

Strawberry lay on his side, looking like a big, bewildered dog.

"Smart boy," Claudia crooned. "No heroic measures. Just get your bearings. I'll find you some painkiller, and we'll hope you can get up under your own steam in a few minutes. Declan, you know anything about horses?"

He stood in the stall doorway. "I know you'll catch your death in that getup. I can stay with him while you get proper clothes on."

Declan's hair was damp and disheveled, his tone repressive. Because Claudia had grown up around cowboys, she knew a worried man could sound a lot like an irritable one.

"Strawberry needs some horsey aspirin first," she said, pushing to her feet. "He's probably pulled muscles from stem to stern, torn ligaments, and possibly worse. In any case, managing pain is part of preventing colic. I'll be back in a second, but if you talk to him, talk sweetly. No scolding, no threatening, no—"

Declan tugged her from the stall and pulled a piece of straw from her hair. "I'll sing him a damned lullaby. Fetch the painkiller, and then get warm clothes on. I have enough on my conscience without you catching pneumonia."

He nearly growled when he was upset, but he was right—the barn was cold, and the night would be long. Claudia got a syringe of apple-flavored medicated paste from the tack room, gave Strawberry a generous dose, and tossed two flakes of hay into a corner of the stall.

"I'll be right back," she said. "If he tries to get up, let him. Strawberry's fourteen hundred pounds of muscle with a thinking brain about the size of a golf ball. Common sense doesn't always figure into his decisions, and he's had a bad night. Don't start the coffeepot in the tack room. It takes forever, and I'll bring you something hot from the house."

"Go," Declan said, pointing toward the barn door. "And no caffeine for me, thank you."

Claudia wanted to tell him not to give her orders, wanted to thank him, and wanted to hug him.

She shook her finger at him. "No heroic measures from you either. Your safety comes before his."

Declan turned her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle push in the direction of the door. "Warm clothes, Claudia, before I throw you over my shoulder and carry you to the house bodily."

For that, she did hug him, and then smiled all the way across the yard.