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Chapter Three
Of course he had a wife.
I mean look at the guy.
Kaylee’s heart pounded against her chest as she twisted the handle of her tote bag between her fingers.Get over it. Why should it matter to her? She wasn’t here for romance. She was here to save her writing career.
She forced her lips into what she hoped was a pleasant smile. “I look forward to meeting her. Your wife, that is.”
“Oh, no. I’m not married anymore. Well, I am, I guess. Technically. Just not…she’s not here. I mean, she died.”
Kaylee gasped as she covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.”
Luke shook his head. “I don’t know why that was so hard to say. She’s been gone five years now. She was in an accident.” He shrugged again, but there was no mistaking the pain etched on his face. “I guess I thought Faye would have told you.”
“No, she didn’t.” And she was going to hear about leaving that important detail out. It seemed like her editor was just tossing her into the deep end and letting her sink or swim. Her gaze was still on Luke, and she held back another sigh.
She could think of worse ways to drown.
Heat warmed her cheeks again as she grasped for something to say, something that would wash that look of pain from his face. “It’s hard. My mom died when I was a teenager, and I still miss her. Sometimes it feels like a long time ago, and other times it seems like she was just here yesterday.”
Oh, geez. Was that the right thing to say? Comparing the loss of a parent to the loss of a spouse? She should just shut up now.
Stepping farther into the room, she set her backpack on the bed then leaned toward the dresser, where an array of photos of Faye were clustered. A much younger Faye.
There was one of her in a cheerleading uniform, one of her in pigtails and a cowboy hat sitting astride a horse, and one where she was grinning as she held up a fish with what looked like the pond next to the farmhouse in the background. There was one with her standing in between a younger version of Luke and another boy who looked like a combination of the two, goofing around in front of an old green tractor, their heads tipped together, laughing, with Faye’s arms wrapped around each of their shoulders.
Kaylee shook her head. “It’s so hard to imagine the formidable Faye Montgomery as a Montana farm girl.”
Luke let out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, she was something back in the day. But we knew she’d never stay in Montana—she was always destined for something more. Our mom died too, when we were kids, and Faye took on the role of mother as well as big sister to our other brother and me. Which made it that much harder for her to leave, even though she’d been dreaming about it for years. I practically forced her to keep her plans for college, then our dad died, and I got married, and after that, there was no reason for her to come back to the ranch. I mean, she comes back to visit, sure, but Chicago suits her much better than this place ever did.”
“She’s an amazing woman,” Kaylee said. “Ferocious in her role as editor, but kind too. She’s always treated me well, and I have the utmost respect for your sister.” She was seeing Faye in a whole new light. “I can see how she’d take on that extra role. She’s a bit like a mom to me too—but not a cookie-baking mom. More like a stern, ‘you’re grounded if you don’t meet your deadline’ kind of mom.”
A laugh burst from Luke, and the sound warmed Kaylee’s insides. “Yeah, I can see that. I’m a grown man, and she’s still mothering me. She pays a couple of local gals to come out here and clean the place twice a month, and she worked out a deal for the diner to drop off a meal a couple of times a week.” He flashed her a grin. “She even texts me every night to make sure I’ve brushed my teeth before I go to bed.”
Kaylee’s eyes widened. “She does?”
Luke laughed again. “No, I’m just kidding about that. But she really does do the other stuff.” He lifted the suitcase and set it on the bed next to her backpack. “Speaking of cleaning up, I ought to let you get settled and get back to work. Those stalls in the barn aren’t going to clean themselves.” He waved as he backed out the door. “Bathroom’s across the hall.”
“Thanks,” she said, but he was already gone. She dropped her purse on the desk and headed for the bathroom to try to clean off her shirt. Gladys, who’d been sniffing out the perimeter of the bedroom followed her in and flopped on the floor.
She groaned as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her curls had gone nuts in the heat, and they looked like they were clinging to the pink hat like the tendrils of a vine. Her shirt was splotched and stained, and one side hung loose at her waist. It must have come untucked during her scare with the goose. She was a complete mess.
A stack of towels sat on the side of the sink, and she used a washcloth to rinse her face and scrub the stains from her shirt. She took off the hat and finger-combed her hair.
A few minutes later she emerged from the bathroom and walked into the kitchen to find Luke eating a piece of the mangled cake. He’d scraped a chunk from the box into a bowl and was scooping up bites with a spoon.
“Oh gosh. Why are you eating that? I thought you hatedvegetablecake.”
“Hate’sa bit of a strong word.” He scooped another bite onto his spoon. “Besides, you went to all the effort to bring a dessert. I figured the least I could do was to have a piece. And vegetable or not, it’s still cake.”
“You make a valid point,” she told him. “Any chance you’ve got another bowl?”
He chuckled as he opened the cupboard behind him and took down a bowl. “Spoon’s in the drawer to your right.” Using the side of a spatula, he scraped a mess of mangled cake and frosting into the bowl and passed it to her.
“This wasnothow I imagined this cake business would go,” she said, taking a spoon from the drawer and easing onto a stool across the counter from him. “What a disaster.”
She cringed as she thought about the box she’d squished between them and the frosting that had splattered all over him. She’d written plenty of scenes where the hero or heroine reaches up to brush a tiny smudge of flour or whipped cream from the other’s face. It was always wildly romantic as their fingers brushed the other’s cheek or came close to their parted lips. But it was always the barest trace.
