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“You should get the recipe, maybe help her make one while we’re in Burdett,” Mama suggested, a not so subtle reminder that time was precious, and one day Grandma Carter wouldn’t be around to make our favorite foods.
“If she’ll let me in the kitchen, I’d like that.”
She placed a hand on my cheek, her expression tender. “You’re going to New York after her. I’m glad.”
My chest tightened. We weren’t talking about Grandma Carter anymore. “It wasn’t really a choice, Mama.”
“Things have a way of working out despite how we think they’re going to go.”
“I’ve been patient like you said. There’s just no getting through to her.” I should’ve put the stress ball in my pocket.
“You will.”
“I don’t see how. She lied to me.” After all this time, that still hurt. I expected more from Mulaney.
“Are you sure about that?”
“We had an agreement, and she didn’t hold up her end of it. That’s a lie.”
“It’ll be good for the two of you to be in a new situation together. Just make sure you have to spend a lot of hours with each other. Don’t give her the opportunity to keep avoiding you.” A mischievousness I hadn’t seen the likes of from my mother in an age appeared.
“Any ideas on how to do that?”
She winked. “I can think of a thing or two. There’s going to be a lot of shuffling of people in the new office. Space will probably be at a premium, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. I’d only been to the building once. “I have no idea—”
“Don’t you think?”
I canted my head and squinted at her, realization dawning. “What other ideas do you have cooking up there?” I tapped her temple.
“We’ll make her come around one way or another,” she promised. And Mama would. Mulaney had been a daughter to her since we were kids.
I squeezed her shoulders. “I’m holding you to that.”
Chapter Seven
Mulaney
About forty-five minutesout of Houston, I turned off the two-lane highway onto a dirt drive, bumping along past the nativity scene in front of the house until I pulled up to an immaculate white stable with a colonial red roof. I recognized the old Chevy truck parked out front as Franklin Harper’s. I’d been coming to Franklin’s farm for years to ride his horses, an escape for me when the stress became too much.
I jumped down onto the dirt, a layer of dust coating my leather riding boots. A gust of wind had me grabbing my jacket out of the truck, tugging it around me as I headed past the stables to the pasture behind it. Franklin leaned on the metal fence, a piece of straw sticking out of his mouth as he watched a wild beast with a deep chestnut coat run in the enclosure.
“Mulaney.” He stuck out his hand as I approached, and we shook. Franklin was almost a decade older than I was, in his late forties, though his weathered skin made him appear more mature. I’d never seen him wear anything other than dirty jeans, a threadbare flannel shirt, and a light-colored cowboy hat that covered his salt and pepper hair. “He ain’t gonna like this.” Franklin nodded toward the horse that trotted over when he noticed me.
“Hey, handsome,” I said. He blew out a puff of air through his nostrils into my face. “I know you’re mad because I didn’t make it out here for our date last week, and you’re going to stay mad at me for a while.” I patted the end of his nose, and he snorted, taking off again at a full-blown run.
“He nearly tore the trailer up when we brought him here,” Franklin cautioned.
“That was a few years ago. And he was only a colt.”
“He ain’t no better now,” he fired back wryly.
Franklin trained horses and taught people to ride them. Three years ago, he’d gotten word of a colt that had been severely beaten by his owner, trying to tame the wild beast into submission. Because of that, the horse couldn’t stand to be near anyone. He went berserk at the sight of a whip and became only marginally crazy in proximity to a saddle. It was sheer circumstance I’d been here the day he arrived. Franklin wasn’t exaggerating. The poor boy had bucked and banged against the trailer during transport. He was cut and bleeding when he bolted out of confinement once the door was opened.
He was wild, couldn’t be tamed, and the most beautiful colt I’d ever seen, and I’d seen my share. His dark coat was shiny, and his luminous eyes were dangerous. I was instantly smitten. We’d had a moment. With all the frenetic energy around him as he zigzagged the pasture, he’d stopped, those menacing eyes focused on me. Understanding passed between us in a split second. I wasn’t like other women, and he wasn’t like other horses. He recognized that, saw something in me he didn’t mind so much.
I bought him that day, a relief to Franklin until I told him my new boy was staying there. I couldn’t very well keep him in Houston, and more than that, I’d grown to trust Franklin. He had a way with horses. He treated them with a gentle hand. Franklin eventually relented, always willing to do what was best for the horse. I’d named him Ragnor, which meant warrior from the gods, but we lovingly called him Rage for short.
