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That was another problem, because he did like it. He liked it a lot. She didn’t let him get so caught up in himself or the ranch that he couldn’t see beyond it, and that hadn’t happened in—
So long that he couldn’t remember. He’d been putting his shoulder to the wheel since setting foot on Pine Ridge soil, but maybe it wasn’t a question of working harder. Maybe it came down to working smarter.
Corrie had been with Zeke that morning. Lizzie was taking the afternoon as long as the remaining mares stayed quiet. He walked up to the house midafternoon. Zeke should be napping and he’d have a few minutes of quiet time with Lizzie.
That thought made him walk a little quicker, but when he kicked off his barn boots and came through to the kitchen, Zeke wasn’t napping. He was perched on one of the tall stools, making a cake. With Lizzie. And the sight of them, laughing together, daubing frosting onto the cake, softened another corner of his heart.
“Did I miss someone’s birthday?” he asked.
Zeke slipped off the tall stool as if he were a much bigger kid and dashed toward his father. “Nope. Lizzie and me—”
“Lizzie and I.” The two adults corrected him in unison, and then they smiled. At the same time. At one another, with the miniature cowboy grinning between them, almost as if it was supposed to be that way.
“Lizzie and I,” Zeke corrected himself, sounding bored with the effort. He beamed at his father. Frosting smeared his shirt and the back of his hands. “My Lizzie said we’re making a cake just acause.”
“Because,” she told him. “Because we can and we thought everyone would really, really love cake.”
“Because it’s so delicious! Right, Dad?”
Heath reached out and swiped a finger along the edge of the frosting bowl and tasted it. “It is amazingly delicious.”
“And now Zeke is going to decorate the cake,” said Lizzie. She held up a plastic cone half-filled with frosting. “Remember how we practiced? Hold the bag tight with one hand and squeeze with the other.”
“I will.” He scrambled back to his seat, grinning.
“Don’t lick your fingers like I did,” warned Heath. “You’re fixing this for other folks to eat, so you’ve got to be careful.”
Lizzie didn’t mention that Zeke may have already licked his fingers a time or two. “Blake Melos called the house phone twice. He left two messages. Which means he’s probably calling your cell and you’re ignoring him.”
“Was ignoring him,” he corrected her. “I texted him that I’d be at the meeting, although the diminished grazing bill is a done deal. I don’t see the good in talking it to death. Not when we’re so bogged down in work right here.”
She handed Zeke a bottle of spring-colored sprinkles that Heath was pretty sure were a new addition to the kitchen, because Cookie wasn’t a sprinkle kind of guy.
“I’ve been here a long time now,” he went on, “and most folks here mind their own business.”
“Which could explain the failing town,” she noted as she watched Zeke’s attempts to squiggle frosting onto the cake. “I’ve never lived in a small town, but I’m pretty sure folks are supposed to rally together when things are rough. Aren’t they?”
“You’ve got big game hunting and tourism on one side of this issue and failing sheep farms on the other. Beef is taking over and that lessens the effect of anything the sheep ranchers might say and hay’s battling it out with potatoes as the top crop. Why get into a war we can’t win?”
“Because maybe the other ranches don’t have the means to switch things up and need that hill grazing to survive. This place is well-established and had money for a solid start. Not everyone has that option.” She was guiding Zeke’s hand to keep at least some of the frosting on the cake, but shifted those pretty eyes up to him. “If no one’s producing market lambs for the West Coast, you’ve got a lot of disappointed customers. A lot of ethnic celebrations use lamb as part of their festivities. Pointing out the beneficial factors to the governor might not be a bad idea. I’d be glad to write the letter for you.”
He tensed instantly. “I can write my own letter.”
“So why use the journalist to help?” She made a face of pretend surprise. “My bad.”
“My Lizzie helped me write a letter, Dad.” Zeke kept on dotting the white-frosted cake with yellow blobs. “She’s a good teacher.”
His Lizzie? Heath drew his brows down, good and tight. “You mean Miss Lizzie.”
