LITMIR.BIZ

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playing and Corb claimed his wife for a dance.

      Winnie watched the pair walk off, hand in hand. They were so good together. Would she and Brock have been as well suited? She’d never know.

      Winnie turned and headed to the bar to get a glass of cranberry and soda. There were still a few people she ought to talk to, then she’d go home. She’d told Eugenia that she wouldn’t be out very late.

      Once she had her drink, she swiveled back toward the dance floor—and found herself face-to-face with Olive.

      The matriarch of the Lambert family was looking her best tonight. Her silver hair was beautifully styled and her trim figure looked sharp in a vintage Chanel suit. Olive always managed to look like a lady—even when she didn’t act that way.

      “I haven’t had a chance to welcome you back to Coffee Creek.” The words were nice, but Olive’s eyes were cold.

      Winnie accepted the tepid hug Olive offered, catching a hint of classic Chanel No. 5 perfume as she did so. “Thanks, Olive. I was wondering if you’d like to pop in at the café next week to meet Bobby.”

      “My grandson, you mean.” Olive’s green eyes glittered with affront. “I must say I was surprised—and hurt—that you never sent us a birth announcement.”

      Trust Olive to make an issue of this, here, in public. “I did call,” Winnie said.

      “Your message said nothing about having a baby! We had no idea you were even pregnant.”

      Winnie pulled every inch she could out of her spine. This woman had intimidated her at one time, but no longer. “Well, you would have if you’d returned my earlier call, after Brock’s funeral.”

      Olive’s eyes dulled. “That was a terrible time. I wasn’t up to talking on the phone.”

      “It wasn’t a great time for me, either.” And yet she’d made the effort to get in touch with her fiancé’s mother, even though she knew Olive didn’t like her. She’d hoped they could come together in their shared grief over Brock’s death. And she’d wanted to break the news about her pregnancy in a more personal way, not through a generic birth announcement.

      But Olive hadn’t called back. And a month later Winnie had tried again, with a similar result.

      “You could have written. Or sent word via Corb or Laurel.”

      “I could have,” Winnie agreed. “But you may have guessed by now that I have a stubborn streak.”

      She met Olive’s glare without backing down. The honest truth was she still resented Olive for being so cold toward her. She knew—because Brock had told her—that Olive had tried to talk him out of marrying her. Olive had thought that her youngest, and favorite, son was making a mistake in marrying a simple farm girl from Highwood. Brock had laughed about it later, when they were alone.

      But she hadn’t.

      “I was trying to save you and Brock both a lot of heartache. You weren’t suited for each other.”

      Winnie’s heart raced. This woman was unbelievable. Like a snake, she struck quickly with her venom. “You can’t know that. He loved me. And I loved him, too.”

      A drop of soda spilled onto her foot. Realizing her hands were shaking, she put her glass on a nearby table. She wanted to leave. But Olive had her cornered.

      And she wasn’t finished.

      “You don’t have any idea what it takes to be a rancher’s wife. You couldn’t have—”

      Suddenly Winnie spotted a familiar figure, a man in a dark gray suit. He was headed for the bar, but he didn’t seem to have noticed her. She put out her arm and managed to snag a bit of his sleeve.

      Jackson turned.

      “You wanted to dance? We’d better do it now, since I have to go home early.”

      Jackson’s gaze went from her to Olive. The widowed mother of four children—three, now that Brock was gone—had two spots of red burning on her cheeks.

      “We aren’t finished here, Winnie,” Olive said.

      “If you want to meet my son, then I think we are.”

      Winnie kept her hold on Jackson and pulled him toward the dance floor. Sensing his reluctance, she figured he didn’t like to dance.

      “Sorry to drag you out here,” she said, once he’d swung her into his arms with surprising finesse. “Olive was in attack mode and I needed to escape.”

      “No one does attack mode quite like Olive.”

      Jackson was two-stepping like a pro—why didn’t he like dancing when he was so good at it?

      She glanced up at his handsome face. His gaze was fixed across the dance floor, almost as if he didn’t want to look at her. “You two don’t get along, either, do you?”

      According to Brock, when his father decided to take Jackson in under the foster-care program, Olive had been opposed to the idea.

      Dad almost never went against her wishes, Brock had said. But that time he did.

      “No, we don’t. It’s one of the reasons I decided to go work on Silver Creek Ranch,” Jackson allowed, swinging her out, then pulling her back in.

      “Holy cow, you’re good at this.” He led with assurance and moved perfectly with the beat.

      “So are you.”

      “It’s easy when you have a good partner.”

      Jackson’s eyes narrowed. He glanced away again.

      “So tell me about Silver Creek Ranch.” She needed to distract herself from how nice his hands felt on her waist and her shoulder. Silver Creek was owned by Maddie Turner, Olive’s sister. The two women had been estranged for decades, since the death of their father.

      “It’s in tough shape. Maddie is a good person, but a terrible businesswoman. I had to sell some land to raise enough money to begin restocking the herd. Fences need mending, and the barn could use some work, too. But I’m taking it one step at a time.”

      He didn’t mention anything about the promise Maddie had made to him. Winnie knew the details thanks to Laurel. Maddie was suffering from terminal lung cancer and she’d told Jackson that if he came to live with her on the ranch and invested all his savings, she’d leave him everything.

      Given that Maddie had no children of her own, it wasn’t such an outlandish proposition. But according to Laurel, Olive was furious. She felt the land ought to be going to one of her children. Never mind the fact that she hadn’t allowed any of them to speak to their aunt when they’d been growing up.

      “I’m sure you’re very busy. But do you have time to come in to the café for coffee one night next week?”

      For the first time Jackson’s step faltered. He recovered in the next second, found the beat and pulled her with him back into the rhythm.

      “I’m not big on coffee.”

      Was that why in the past he’d come so seldom into the Cinnamon Stick?

      “Or cinnamon buns, either, I assume.” The buns were the specialty of her café, baked fresh every morning by a former cowboy and recovering alcoholic who’d turned over a new leaf in his sixties, Vince Butterfield.

      “Not much of a sweet tooth,” Jackson agreed.

      “Well.” Was he just making excuses? “Maybe you could drop by just to talk, then?”

      He swung her out, gave her a twirl and then swirled her back a little, just as the song ended. A few people dancing near them clapped.

      “Nicely done, Jackson.” Corb had Laurel in his arms and they were both grinning.

      Yes, nicely done, Winnie had to agree.

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