More Than a Rancher

Jenna stared at him, not knowing what to say. Finally she decided that the way to combat ignorance was education. “Sandro, with the right training, Paul could probably be a very successful dancer. But if he waits until he’s eighteen, every other talented dancer will have way more knowledge and ability than him. Why would you want to set him up for failure?”

“If he’s that talented, he’ll catch up. He can wait.” A muscle in Sandro’s jaw twitched and his brows were furrowed. Jenna could almost feel the stubbornness thicken the air around them. It was that strong.

“That’s not fair!” Paul argued. “I’ve told you, I don’t want to wait. This is what I want. You got to cook! Why can’t I dance?”

“Because there’s a price,” Sandro said heavily. His initial ire seemed to have dissipated and now he just looked depressed. He picked up a bag of produce and shoved it in Paul’s arms. “Go load these. And wait for me in the car.”

Paul didn’t move.

“Is there a way that Paul could get to a dance school?” Jenna asked. “I know there’s nothing in Benson, but in Carson City, maybe?”

“It’s too far,” Sandro answered shortly.

“Sandro, come on!” Paul rested the bag of produce on the counter. “What about those cooking classes in San Francisco you’re gonna do? On the weekends. I could go with you and take classes with Jenna.”

“You’re teaching cooking in San Francisco?” Jenna looked at Sandro in surprise.

“A weekend gig.” He glared at his little brother. “It’s temporary.”

Jenna couldn’t believe there was such a clear solution right in front of them. “It’s a good idea. I teach classes for teenagers on the weekends. It’s a sliding-scale fee—people pay what they can. It would be perfect!”

“No, it wouldn’t. Paul needs to help on the ranch on the weekends.”

“I’ll do extra chores during the week,” Paul countered.

Sandro opened the refrigerator with a little more force than necessary. He pulled out leftover ingredients and dropped them in the chest cooler. “I think we’re done talking about this.”

“Sandro, this is nuts!” Jenna exclaimed. “Why can’t Paul have the same chance you did to follow your dreams?”

“He can. When he’s older.” Sandro shoved the lid onto the full cooler and picked it up, signaling that the conversation was over.

Paul glared at his brother. “This is why I didn’t tell you about meeting her today! Because I knew you’d get all upset.” He looked at Jenna over the groceries. His eyes were sad, his mouth typical-teenager sullen. “Thanks, Jenna,” he told her. “For the dance, for the advice, everything.” He pushed his way out, the back door slamming behind him.

Sandro watched him go and then looked at Jenna. He must have seen the outrage in her eyes because he set the cooler on the counter and sighed. He looked away, running his fingers through his unruly hair in a gesture of frustration. “You must think I’m a jerk.”

“Pretty much,” Jenna answered truthfully.

“I’ve got my reasons.” He looked almost as sullen as Paul.

“I’m sure you think you do. But I wasn’t kidding when I told you he’s got talent. He’s a natural. Why won’t you let him pursue it?”

Sandro shook his head. “You wouldn’t get it, Jenna. You grew up in San Francisco, right? With Mommy and Daddy signing you up for your ballet classes and clapping at your recitals?”

She nodded. It had been true, once.

“It’s different out here,” Sandro told her. He picked the chest cooler up again.

“Wait.” Jenna stopped him. Her heart ached for Paul. She knew what it was like to want, more than anything, to dance. “I’ll be right back.”

Jenna went back to the hall for her purse, found her wallet and took out a business card. On the back of it she scribbled her cell phone number and her weekend class schedule. She returned to the kitchen, relieved to see that Sandro had waited. She pressed the card into his hand. “Take this,” she ordered, “in case you change your mind.”

Sandro studied the card for a moment. When he looked up, he was half smiling. “There’s glitter on your business card.”

“It’s ballroom dance. We’re way into our glitter. And sequins.” She tried not to sound defensive.

“Well, thanks, but I won’t be calling,” he told her, shoving the card into his back pocket, the hint of humor vanishing.

“Why not?” This was all so mysterious. Clearly she wasn’t going to win this argument, and she wanted to understand why.

He must have seen it in her face, because the steel in him softened just a little. “Because I can see down the road for Paul and it isn’t pretty. I wanted to cook and my family and my friends gave me nonstop grief for being different. I handled it, but it made me a lonely, angry kid. Eventually it made me a runaway. I don’t want that for my little brother.”

Jenna studied the stern lines of his face, new sympathy filtering through the irritation and frustration. Sandro might be misguided, but his motives were pure—he was protecting the brother he loved.

But poor Paul was going to have some long, bitter teenage years ahead if he wasn’t allowed to dance until he left home. She couldn’t do much more for him, but she had to try. “I’m sorry that happened to you, and I admire you for wanting to protect your brother. But don’t you think that if you forbid it, he’ll just want it more?”

There was a bag of groceries on the floor and Sandro was nudging it with his foot. Fidgeting, but possibly listening.

Jenna played her last card. “Maybe you should just let him try it. Dance training is hard. It’s difficult, repetitive and sometimes even boring. Most people end up quitting. Paul will probably lose interest when he gets to know the reality of it.” It was true that most people quit, but Jenna was pretty sure Paul wouldn’t. She could recognize a fellow fanatic when she saw one. Paul would make dancing his life—but Sandro didn’t need to know that right now.

He was watching her speculatively. For an instant she thought he’d say yes, but the moment passed and the wall was back between them. “I think I know what’s best.”

“Maybe.” Anger rose again. Her voice was sharper than she meant it to be. “I suggest you think a little more carefully before you squash his dreams.” She turned on her heel and left the room, sad for Paul and, oddly, sad for Sandro, too.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_5320efab-d564-519d-b17a-6c823e54d2d5)

“WHAT DO YOU mean you’ll be in San Francisco?” Joe shoved the fence post deeper into the hole they’d just dug and gave it a kick with his work boot to make sure it was solid. Sandro glanced at his brother, all six-plus solid feet of him. Joe was a year younger than Sandro, but people always assumed he was older. With his light brown hair and broad face, he took after their father in more ways than just looks. Joe loved the ranch, had never questioned that his future lay there. He was the oldest son in every way but birthright.

Sandro poured the quick-setting cement into the battered wheelbarrow. Paul brought the hose over and let the water spurt over the dry powder. Grabbing a shovel, Sandro started mixing. “I’m teaching classes at a cooking school. It’s a great gig. It’ll pretty much pay for all the new appliances in the restaurant.”

“Oh, yeah. The restaurant.” Joe said the word as though it tasted bad in his mouth. “It’s a big weekend, Sandro. Pops wants all hands on deck to move the sheep.”

“Well, Joe, Pops has to understand that the sheep aren’t my first priority. I’m trying to help out with the ranch as much as possible, but I came back here to start my own business.”

“Okay,” Joe said reluctantly. “I get it.” He bent down with a level to straighten the post. “But why take Paul with you?”

Sandro started shoveling the concrete into the hole and Paul picked up his shovel to help. They were careful not to look at each other. “I’ll need extra help. My class is completely full. If I don’t have an assistant, there’s no way I can pull it off.” He glared at Paul, silently cursing his brother’s endless arguing, two weeks of it, that had finally worn him down.

He hated to admit it, but Jenna had been right. The more he’d said no, the more Paul had insisted he had to take her dance classes. Sandro could only hope she was right about the other part, that Paul would change his tune once he realized how hard the training really was. He jabbed Paul in the ribs with his elbow. “Besides, he’s a whippersnapper. Not much use to you out there anyways.”

Paul stood up at this and punched Sandro in the shoulder.

“Easy there, little brother.” Sandro grinned. “You don’t want to mess with the big guns.” He set aside his shovel and flexed his biceps a few times while Paul cracked up.

“Will you two stop clowning around so we can get this done?” Joe grumbled. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we have a truckload of these to set in the next couple days. Besides—” he held out his own arm, enormous muscles bulging “—I wouldn’t go showing off those biceps around here, Sandro. You may be the oldest but you’re a scrawny bastard. Comes from spending your life in a kitchen instead of doing man’s work.”

“Well, it’s a pity we can’t all be muscle-bound meatheads like you, Joe. But given the choice, I’ll take my brains over your muscle any day.” He ducked as Joe’s giant fist came at him in a mock swing. “So it’s a done deal. I’m taking Paul to San Francisco and the rest of you mindless country boys can follow the sheep up the hills.”

The truth was, Sandro liked moving the sheep. Riding into the mountains on horseback, making sure the flock got up to the summer meadows, was a hell of a lot more relaxing than teaching a bunch of pretentious San Francisco foodies how to make a decent paella. And the route to the pastures was beautiful, too. But the cash he’d make from these classes was way too tempting. And if it meant that Paul would finally stop making his life miserable and get a dose of reality to cool his dancing obsession, that would compensate for missing the ride. Hell, he’d missed it for the past decade anyway—what was one more year?