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"I cant remember the last time I had this on pancakes." Cale lifted the jar to give his hands something to do and pretended to read the homemade label. The scent of lilac was gone, he noted regretfully, and had been replaced with the musky smell of his own soap. It was just as well, he told himself. That soft flowery scent had brought back too many memories of too many nights he was better off not thinking about right now. Time enough to look back, when the snow stopped and she would leave him to go back t
o the ranch.
He watched her break eggs into the batter. She looked beautiful. He wished he could tell her so. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, "Pancakes are a big step up for us this week. 'You'll have to give me lessons."
"Be glad to." She turned her back to shield herself from his eyes. The urge to reach out and touch him had been so strong, so real, that it spooked her. If there had been a place to run to, she might have fled, but the storm whistled and sang outside the small cabin, and so she merely squared her shoulders and stirred the pancake batter.
"Yea! We're having pancakes!" Eric of the cowlick sang as he ran into the room.
"Yippee!" Evan dashed in, hot on his brother's heels, and slid in his stocking feet into the solid wall that was his father. Looking up, he asked earnestly, "Does this mean we don't have to eat cold cereal or sloppy eggs today?"
"What are you, a budding food critic? Sit." Cale pointed toward the little wooden table, and the two boys hopped over and seated themselves expectantly.
Cale forced his hands steady as he held the plate upon which Quinn layered pancakes. Forced himself to pretend that it had not been her leg that had touched his under the table. Forced himself not to grin like a total and complete idiot when she blinded him with a smile from across the room. Forced his hands to remain at his side rather than follow their natural course to her hips when she turned her back to rinse dishes at the sink when breakfast was over. Forced his lips not to seek the back of her neck…
"Daddy, we have nothing to do." Eric's little freckled face frowned hard, to emphasize the extent of grumpiness.
Cale paused. He was damned near out of options.
"Can't we rent just one movie?" Evan asked earnestly.
"No VCR, guys," Cale reminded them of the obvious fact that their four-year-old brains refused to accept, "and no TV."
"Why didn't Aunt Val buy a TV?" Eric lamented.
"Montana's a dumb place," Evan told his father. "It's cold and it snows all the time and there's nothing to do. It's dumb."
"I beg your pardon"—Quinn sat down on the edge of the wing chair—"but if I could put my two cents in…"
"Take your best shot," Cale invited.
"Montana is far from being a dumb place. As a matter of fact, they call it the 'Treasure State' because of all the great stuff that you can find here."
"Like what?" Eric's eyes narrowed.
"Like sapphires and copper…"
"What are sapphires?" Eric asked.
"Pretty blue stones that people set into jewelry. And of course, there are gold mines and silver mines…"
"Real gold mines?"
"Yes. And there are lots of great things to see in Montana. Get your dad to take you to one of the ghost towns one day when the weather clears up."
"Ghost towns?" Eric looked up at his father, his eyes widening. "Real ghost towns?"
"Oh, yes," Cale told them. "Several not far from here."
"They're making it up, Eric," Evan told his brother.
"No, we are not. Why, not two miles from here, at the bottom of the other side of the mountain, is Settler's Head."
"Settler's Head?" the boys asked in unison.
Quinn nodded. "If you want to hear the story, you have to sit down."
They sat, and listened as Quinn and their father traded tales of this ghost town or that.
