“Thank you, Mr. Tempesta,” she says, sounding properly gracious. “I appreciate the welcome. I’ve always been curious about your ranch.”
My father is satisfied with her answer and Mel steps up next, her face alight with excitement. We’re not in the habit of hosting pretty young women here. Cecilia is a novelty.
Mel embraces Cecilia and gushes with praise. Cecilia looks over her shoulder and when our gazes connect, a few seconds pass before she shifts her eyes away.
Why do I get the feeling she was searching for me, hoping to be comforted by the fact that I’m nearby?
It’s a thought worth chewing on while I remove Cecilia’s cat from the truck.
My father is already on his way back to the house. He motions to the staff to disperse. Mel talks a mile a minute and steers Cecilia to the front porch while promising the kitchen staff has been hard at work preparing an epic multi-course Italian dinner.
With Cecilia’s cat in hand, I join my brothers. The animal thumps around in the crate, unhappy with being transported yet again.
Tye elbows me with a grin and jerks his chin toward our guest. “We have the power to make this really easy for her,” he reminds me.
“We do,” I agree, my eyes glued to Cecilia’s body as she daintily climbs the porch steps. “But we won’t.”
My brother laughs.
6
CECILIA
The mouse has lost its black felt nose and the ability to squeak.
I’ve yet to see Louisa touch any of the cat toys that arrived with her, but this one appears to have been well loved at some point. That’s why I’m on my hands and knees while dangling it from a stringy yarn tail.
“Look!” I shake the toy mouse and pitch my voice far higher than normal. “It’s your friend, Louisa. It’s Mr. Mouse.”
The cat’s unblinking eyes stare right through me. Her nostrils twitch. She remains hunched beneath the bed and everything about her manner says she thinks I’m dangerously insane.
With my knees now feeling bruised by the knotty hardwood floor, I give up. The rejected mouse gets tossed into Louisa’s cozy new bed on the floor. She refused to sleep there last night, preferring to remain hidden beneath the four poster bed in the middle of the room. Twice she darted out to use the litter box I set up in the adjoining bathroom. The bowl of cat food in the corner remains untouched.
I would have been overjoyed if she’d snuggled up in bed beside me. No luck there.
At least caring for Louisa has allowed me to stay distracted from my own predicament. I was exhausted enough to sleep soundly when my head hit the pillow last night but now it’s a new day and I can’t put off thinking about my situation.
I’ve been given a week.
One week to select a Tempesta husband. Cassio Tempesta waited until we were all seated in the dining room and made this declaration in a very nonchalant manner as he passed the antipasto tray.
“If you don’t need a full week, Cecilia, just say so. From this moment, you are free to make your choice.”
Naturally, I would choose to return to my cozy Arizona apartment with nothing more dire than job hunting on my mind. This isn’t one of my options.
And I suppose I now have only six days left to announce my decision.
The room’s three tall windows are covered with dense blackout drapes. I push these aside, only to be struck with a sharp ray of sunshine. The shutters are partially open and I’m dazzled by the magnificent view of Storm’s Eye Ranch. The scene is downright postcard-worthy and I pry the shutter slats apart so I can take a better look.
From here I cannot see the boxy barn or the long horse stables that were pointed out to me last night. A wooden rail fence hems in the yard surrounding the house. Beyond the fence, a pair of horses idle at the crest of a shallow hill. The horses are mounted by riders in cowboy hats. I’m not sure if they are the Tempesta brothers or members of the ranch staff.
The plush towel wrapped around my wet hair starts to unravel and I remove it with one restless shake, nearly losing my glasses in the process. For now the wet towel gets draped across the back of a cushioned chair pushed against a small writing desk. Combing my fingers through the tangled, damp mess of my hair, I take a long, searching look at the vista outside the window.
The cowboys have disappeared. They must have cleared the hill. When I squint, I can make out the dark brown peak of a small house nestled between the hill and a distant tree grove.
Yesterday’s arrival was riddled with new experiences amid waves of anxiety. Whatever information was given to me about ranch operations wasn’t retained. I was surprised by how many buildings are on the property. Some of them, like the barn and the stables, have obvious uses. I don’t know about the rest. After a very brief orientation, I spent an uncomfortable dinner trying to fork occasional bites of rigatoni and wrack my brain for polite responses whenever Cassio Tempesta required one.
Not that the Tempesta patriarch was unpleasant. I remember the fearsome rumors about him and don’t know how to reckon the courteous host of Storm’s Eye Ranch with the stories of a vengeful madman who roams the halls of his gothic mansion carrying on imaginary conversations with his dead wife.
