LITMIR.BIZ

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      Chapter Three

      Coop’s mind jolted, then went into free fall as he tried to process what Willow had just said. Would telling her he was sorry sound too trivial? Man, he hurt for her. Hurt also for the shy child who looked perfect, though petite for her age. Some part of that initial jolt came from hearing the child’s name. Lilybelle. It was a name Willow had talked about when she and Cooper were serious. What she’d wanted to name their daughter if they ever had one. Lily for Coop’s mother, and Belle for Willow’s.

       Coop was quite sure Willow named her daughter without informing Tate of the name’s origins. Tate had no doubt left it up to her, as his own parents had separated in a bitter divorce before Willow moved to Hondo. But Coop let all of those issues pass without comment. Instead, he focused on the child’s condition.

       “Lord, Willow, it must be extra-difficult for you, knowing how hard it was to care for your dad all those years,” he managed, his sympathetic gaze resting on the child. “I noticed she was shy with strangers, but I figured it was because you were protective of her, since you live way out of town and have no close neighbors.”

       “About the work that needs doing around here,” Willow said, crossing her arms and getting back to business. “I can afford to pay you for two days’ labor. The fence is probably the most important. I thought maybe you could set some of the posts deeper?”

       Coop shifted his attention back to Willow. “With our history, I can’t in good conscience charge you a dime.”

       She stiffened. It was plain at the outset that she intended to refuse. Coop wasn’t surprised when she said, “I pay my way. I don’t need your charity.”

       “Okay.” He held up his hands. “I won’t argue with you. I’ve got the time. You need a few things done. Pay me for fixing the fence. Then we’ll see about doing the rest for room and board.”

       A wide range of emotions flitted across Willow’s face before her too-thin shoulders sagged. “I’ll agree to those terms provided you’re okay with mine. You’ll bunk in the barn, and I’ll set breakfast and a sack lunch out on the porch. And the same with supper. If you want the night meal hot, be here to pick it up by seven. I have a hard-and-fast rule that no ranch hands are allowed inside my home. Ever.”

       “So I heard,” Coop drawled, mentally kicking himself for not going with his first impulse of hightailing it out of there the moment he discovered who the widow was. It irked him that there was no trust between them, despite the fact that they’d once shared every intimacy. He wondered when she’d grown so hard and closed off. Granted, her life had never been a cakewalk, what with having an invalid father, and a mother who was never at home because she worked two jobs. But, hell, they’d been lovers, and now she was leery of letting him step inside her ramshackle house. Telling himself the sooner he blew through the chores and left her place, the better, Coop slapped his hat against his leg, bounded down the steps and scooped up the reins.

       “Tonight’s supper will be macaroni and cheese,” Willow called. “We have that a lot because it’s Lilybelle’s favorite. I’ll set out a covered plate in about an hour.”

       He gave a curt nod, then led his horse, Legend, away. He found it hard to be curt. Willow talked big, but she looked defenseless, standing there hunched, one bare foot tucked beneath the other. Willow and her delicate child, who’d stared at Coop out of big, wounded eyes.

       In the barn, he asked himself again what he was getting into as he jerkily unsaddled his horse, but he shook off the thought, and set to work shoveling out two stalls for his animals. The barn was a mess he’d wait until morning to fully deal with.

       He decided to sleep out under the stars that night, where it smelled better. And speaking of smelling better… He dragged the partially repaired hose behind the barn and did his best to fix up a makeshift shower, glad there wasn’t anyone around to see him hop around or hear him curse the icy water. At least the shocking cold neutralized his lingering anger over Willow’s standoffishness.

       The shower made him late to pick up his dinner. It was nearly eight o’clock, but he was hungry enough to scarf down the congealed cheesy macaroni, and be thankful for it. The vegetable—zucchini—was less appetizing, but it helped fill the hole in his stomach. After he finished, he rinsed his plate and left it where he’d found it.

       In the morning, he saw Willow and Lilybelle crossing the field that flanked the house. They disappeared over a rise, making no effort to contact him. No big surprise there.

       Coop scavenged through the toolshed that sat adjacent to the barn, searching for what he’d need to mend the fences and shovel out the barn. He was astounded that the shed and tack room were both devoid of any of the tools one would expect to find on a ranch.

      * * *

      NOT CATCHING WILLOW at the house or elsewhere on the property for two days, Coop made do with the hammers, pliers and crowbar he carried in his pickup.

       Like clockwork, his meals appeared on the porch outside the door. They proved to be as meager as the grain boxes Willow should have filled to begin fattening her steers for market. Coop didn’t want to track her down and complain about the lack of anything resembling meat in any of his meals when it was clear that times were tough. Breakfast was usually pancakes, lunch was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and supper, a noodle dish with tomato sauce or white gravy.

       Cooper was fed up by day three. By then it was readily apparent that Willow intended to pull out all the stops to avoid him, or send him away completely. At breakfast she’d set out an envelope with two days’ pay in it and a note thanking him for his help. With that, he fired up his pickup and headed into town to hunt up a good restaurant and a feed store. He left the envelope full of cash where it was.

       Not caring that it was barely ten o’clock in the morning, Coop went into a busy local café and ordered a steak with all the trimmings. Satisfied, he paid and gave the waitress a good tip. “Can you direct me to the closest feed store?” Coop asked her.

       “Hank Jordan’s is the only feed store serving our area,” she said, drawing him a rough map on a napkin.

       Coop arrived at the feed store to find Hank himself behind the counter.

       “I’m doing some work for Willow Walker,” Coop said. “I need twenty sacks of grain, two hundred-foot hoses and rye seed for a couple of fifty-acre fields. I assume Mrs. Walker runs a tab for essentials?”

       “You assume wrong,” Hank said, peering at Coop over a pair of wire-rimmed half-glasses. “You the latest of her part-timers? Last two guys came in and bought mash for their horses. Don’t see much of the widow. Now, her husband was a piece of work. Had an excessive taste for gambling and booze, but he never seemed short of money. The missus rarely came to town, but when she did, she paid cash.”

       Coop frowned. “I’m actually an old friend of Mrs. Walkers. I haven’t seen her since before she married Tate, but her ranch is a little the worse for wear, and I want to help her out.”

       “If you ask me, she shoulda left that no-good husband of hers a long time ago, but she stuck it out. You know how people in small towns talk. Well, I’ve heard from more than one source that while she was pregnant, she was seen with bruises. My wife, who sometimes cashiers here, said she noticed, and asked, but was told they came from working cattle. No one bought that story. And no one held any liking for her man, who bragged that his dad, supposedly a wealthy rancher up north, bought him this ranch and stocked it with prime steers. If you and the widow go back a ways, you probably know more about the family than I do. One thing I thought was odd—after the big brawl where Walker was accidentally shot, his father swooped into town, claimed his son’s body, and took him elsewhere to be buried. I figured he hasn’t been providing for Mrs. Walker ’cause she’s been selling furniture and tools for grocery money and to replenish her kettle ever since the funeral. I hope you’re what you say—a friend—and it don’t make things worse for her that I’m telling tales out of school.”

       “No, no,” Coop stammered.

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