Chapter Thirteen

“May I join you?” Remington stood beside the porch swing, one hand on the chain. Phoebe was either ignoring him or so deep in her own thoughts that she didn’t hear. He decided he’d go with the latter and put the question to her again. When her head came up suddenly, he knew he had chosen correctly.

She inched closer to the far arm of the swing to give him plenty of room. The swing bounced a bit when he sat, but the movement stopped once he stretched his legs and used his boot heels to keep it steady.

“Have I thanked you?” she asked without looking at him. It was late in the day and dusk was settling over the ranch, muting the colors that been so vibrant this afternoon. “I can’t remember if I thanked you.”

“I don’t recall if you said it outright, but it’s never crossed my mind that you weren’t grateful. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“I’ve never been good at leaving a thing. It niggles.”

“That doesn’t sound restful.”

“It’s not, so thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He grinned when her laughter mocked the idea. “What? You don’t believe me?”

“No, it couldn’t have been a pleasure, and you’re a liar to say so.”

He chuckled under his breath.

Their silence was easy. Remington gave the swing a small push every once in a while and let it sway until it stopped on its own. He removed his hat, dropped it beside him on the porch, and pushed a hand through his hair. He turned so that he was angled in the corner of the swing and thought about closing his eyes until he realized she was watching him. He merely lifted an eyebrow.

Phoebe shrugged and looked away.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Tell me. I don’t like the niggles either.”

That made her smile. “If you must know, I was thinking that you aren’t without your hat often. There was the train, of course, after you were knocked senseless, but I couldn’t truly pay attention then. Tonight, though, you weren’t wearing your hat at dinner, and it was the first I’ve seen you without it for longer than it takes you to plow furrows in your hair. Until now.”

Remington’s hand went straight to his head, only this time he didn’t rake his hair. Instead he feigned a deeply thoughtful expression as he rubbed behind his ear. “Yes, well, Ellie won’t cuff you for wearing a hat at the table.”

“That explains dinner. What explains now?”

He dropped his hand to the arm of the swing. “End of the day, I suppose. I don’t sleep in it.”

“I wondered.” Her gaze drifted past him as she tried to get a look at the hat.

“You want to try it on?” he asked.

“I do. Could I?”

In answer, Remington scooped it up and presented it to her.

Phoebe did not put it on immediately. Holding the brim in both hands, she turned it slowly, studying it. “Shoulders wore a black hat like this. So did the others.”

“A hat like that is common around here.”

“This isn’t.” She fingered the silver band. “I don’t remember anything like this on their hats.”

“That’s a good observation. I’ll take it off if I decide to rob a train.”

She smirked and lifted the hat above her head. “Are you certain you don’t mind?”

“I wouldn’t give it to another man to put on, but you’re not going to stretch it.”

“God forbid.”

He looked pointedly at her feet. “Would you allow Fiona to put on your shoes?”

“Not if I wanted to wear them comfortably again.”

“Exactly. Go. Put it on.”

Phoebe lowered the hat carefully. It would have slipped to her eyebrows if not for the thick twist of hair at the back of her head. She did not try to force it past the combs. “Well?” she asked, raising her head as carefully as if she were balancing a stack of books.

“Fetching.” He leaned over. “Here. Let me.” He adjusted the tilt and reshaped the brim then sat back and critically regarded his work. “I stand corrected. Very fetching.”

“Fool.” But that pronouncement did not keep her from leaving the swing to go to the front room window. She angled her head from side to side trying to catch her reflection in the glass. “I believe you are right. It is very fetching.” She turned to him. “Oh, you needn’t be smug about it. I’m sure you’ve been right before.”

“Once. Maybe twice.”

Shaking her head, amused, Phoebe returned his hat on her way back to the swing. When she sat this time, she swiveled sideways and rested her back against the arm. She lifted her feet onto the seat, hugged her knees to her chest, and made certain her skirt remained a modest cover.

Remington set the hat in his lap, fingered the brim. “Do you think you’d like one?”

“Do women wear them?”

“Sure. Some. If a woman’s working the ranch, she’ll wear one.” He saw her clear skepticism. “I’ll introduce you to Willa Pancake. Willa McKenna now. She and her husband go to the same horse auctions I do. This will pin back your ears.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned in. “She wears trousers, too.”

Phoebe touched one of her ears. “I do believe it’s pinned back.” She resumed hugging her knees. “Trousers. Really?”

“Hmm.”

“I suppose it’s a practical choice. Like the hat.”

“That’s right.”

She nodded, thoughtful. “Why don’t you and Fiona get along?”

Remington blinked. “What?”

“Practical,” she said. “As soon as I heard myself say it, I remembered something I said to your father this afternoon, that Fiona is nothing if not practical, and then I recalled that he told me you and Fiona are like oil and water, though he didn’t say who is water and who is oil. I’m wondering what makes you that way.”

“Your thoughts do that often? Hop like a frog from lily pad to lily pad?”

“They do. You have to learn to follow because I generally don’t take time to explain. I made an exception.” Before he could comment, she said, “So what is the answer?”

He shrugged. “Oil and water, like my father said.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is, but I can appreciate that from where you’re sitting, it’s not a satisfactory one.”

“Is there somewhere else I should be sitting?”

Had she posed that question with any hint of flirtation, he would have lifted his hat and invited her onto his lap. Flippancy had no place here because the bent of her mind was serious. “Beside Fiona,” he said. “You should be sitting beside Fiona. Opposite might be better.”

“So I can see her face when I ask her? I can understand why you’d think that, but Fiona’s had years of practice schooling her features. If you believe you know what she’s thinking or feeling, it’s because she wants you to know.”

Remington thought that was probably true. “Just the same, you’ll have to put your question to her.” He thought that would end it, but Phoebe immediately reminded him that she did not give up the bone easily when it was between her teeth.

“You said I was like her.”

“Did I?”

“You did. I remember because I don’t favor the comparison and it’s rare that I favor the person who says it.”

“Another exception for me? I am encouraged.”

“Don’t make me regret it. My point is—”

He held up a hand, cutting her off. “I know your point. You’re going to say that we get along and ask me why that is.”

“I was going to say we get along reasonably well and ask you to identify the particulars that make the difference.”

He gave her a long, steady look. Dusk was a deeper shade of gray now, cloaking her in shadow, making her features more difficult to read. Still, the lack of inflection in her voice and that butter-wouldn’t-melt tone told him all he needed to know. “You weren’t going to say that. Nobody would say that.”

Phoebe was not entirely successful swallowing her laughter.

“There’s a difference,” he said. “You think I’m amusing.”

“I think you’re a fool, but all right, I’ll allow that a fool can be amusing.”

“And there’s another. You give it right back.”

“You must not know Fiona very well if you think we are different there. I’ve never known her not to give it back.”

“Not the same. Not the same at all.”

She was quiet, then, “Sometimes Fiona can be a bit mean-spirited.”

“A bit? Mean-spirited?” Remington drew back, took a moment to modulate his response. “She’s your sister, which is why I did not want to have this conversation, but you pushed and here we are.” He wasn’t sure Phoebe was breathing any longer so he said it quick and matter-of-fact. “Fiona is cruel.”

Phoebe’s lips parted. She stared him. “Not always,” she said on a thread of sound. “Not even very often.”

“I hope you are trying to convince yourself because I’m unlikely to change my mind.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Afraid so.”

“What did she do to you?”

Remington returned his hat to his head and adjusted the brim. “Well, she didn’t hurt my feelings, if that’s what you’re thinking. As for what she did, what she continues to do, you’ll have to hear it from her.”

“We are not talking about oil and water any longer, are we?”

“No. And we are not only talking about me.” Because he’d said more than he meant to, Remington started to rise. He was halfway to his feet when he saw her put out a hand. He stopped. “What is it?”

“Don’t go. It was nice. Before.”

He sat down slowly. “It was nice.” He caught her opening her mouth to speak. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll never know for sure if you’re apologizing for her or for poking the bear.”

“Oh.”

“Uh-huh.”

They were quiet then. Occasionally the swing creaked. A horse whinnied. A cow lowed. But they did not speak. It was deep into that silence that Phoebe stopped hugging her knees and straightened her legs. She used the toe of one of her soft leather ankle boots to poke him gently in the thigh.

Remington gave a small start, looked down at her foot, and then at her. He had no difficulty making out her absurdly wide smile in the deepening shadows. “Full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Half full.” She poked him with the other toe. “All full now.” She laughed, trying to pull back when he made a grab for her foot.

“Not so fast,” he said, circling her ankle with his hand. He didn’t try to pull her close, didn’t try to make the moment into something neither of them was ready for. Instead, he lifted her foot and placed it on his thigh and then did the same with the other. “Just leave them there,” he said, resting his hand over both. “Like that.”

So she did. And fell asleep while he slowly rocked the swing.

Not long after that, the bear returned to hibernation.