Dakota Home

Fifteen minutes later, Maddy was on the road, headed for Jeb’s ranch. Never in her life had she met anyone quite like Margaret Clemens. But if Margaret was sincere about wanting Maddy as her friend, then Maddy would look forward to what they could learn from each other. Besides castrating bulls, of course.

Having saved Jeb’s ranch for last, she was disappointed to find him gone. He’d taped a note to his door, instructing her to leave his groceries in the kitchen.

His supply order had been relatively small, and she carried it inside easily enough and set the box on the counter. Then—because she couldn’t resist—she moved into the living room.

The kitchen was compact, but by contrast his living room was spacious and inviting. A big overstuffed chair was positioned next to the fireplace, an open book draped over the arm. Maddy glanced at the title and saw it was a courtroom drama she’d read herself.

Above the fireplace hung a huge picture of five or six buffalo nestled beneath a cottonwood tree in the middle of a snowstorm. Their dark hides were heavily dusted with snow. The landscape was mostly white with tufts of brownish grass poking out through the drifts.

It took her a moment to realize this was no painting but an actual photograph, and she wondered if Jeb had taken it himself. One day she’d ask him. As she stepped closer to study the image, her foot nudged something hard and she looked down to see several pieces of wood on the floor, next to the chair. There were four carvings in various stages of completion.

Crouching, Maddy examined the pieces and found them intricate and beautiful. Three were of buffalo and another was of a cowboy, his head lowered as if he carried a heavy burden of sadness. She marveled at Jeb’s talent, and knew she’d glimpsed something intimate here, something private. She sensed that he’d be embarrassed if she were to mention seeing his work.

What she’d told Lindsay recently was true. She was attracted to Jeb McKenna. Admittedly she had no business being curious about him, or his home, but she felt a strong impulse to learn exactly who he was, what he was. She recognized his pain and longed to ease it.

On impulse, Maddy reached for a piece of paper and wrote.

Hello, Jeb,

Sorry I missed seeing you. Your order’s on the counter, as you requested. If I forgot anything, let me know and I’ll include it in next week’s delivery.

I like your home. The picture over the fireplace is incredible. Again, I’m sorry I missed you.

Until next week.

Maddy Washburn

She propped the note against the salt-and-pepper shakers on the kitchen table and quietly left.

Heath Quantrill was fast losing patience with Rachel Fischer. For nearly a year now, Heath had been dating Rachel on and off—mostly off—with the hope of becoming—He stopped midthought. The hope of becoming… Damned if he knew anymore.

He pushed his chair away from the desk. Maybe that was his problem. He didn’t know what he wanted from Rachel. Then again, he did know. Only she wasn’t interested.

Last winter he’d made the mistake of taking her to dinner and making the wrong assumption about her. Okay, it’d been more than that; it’d been a definite error in judgment. And he’d been sorry ever since. He liked Rachel, enjoyed her company. She was wise and funny and she’d suffered a devastating loss. She knew. She understood.

Heath was a man who’d dealt with painful losses, too. His parents were dead, and his only brother, Max, had been killed eighteen months earlier, when he’d tried to avoid hitting a deer during a snowstorm.

Heath had been in Europe at the time, traveling from country to country without obligations, living one grand adventure after another. He was certainly in no hurry to return home. The bank his grandparents had started was in capable hands. Max had been the one with financial ability, and Heath was more than happy to let his older brother handle the business. Besides, Heath and his grandmother had argued from the time he was a teenager. He’d concluded that it was better for everyone involved if he stayed away—from the bank and from Lily Quantrill.

Then Max had died and Heath had no choice but to come home. His grandmother needed him, and to his surprise, Heath discovered he needed her, too. They were all that was left of the family. Overnight, Heath found himself responsible for the business. The Quantrills had been in banking for three generations, and there were now ten branches in as many towns and cities around the state.

As part of his training he’d taken over the management of the Buffalo Valley bank—the original location. He worked there three days a week and two days in Grand Forks at the corporate office. It was when Rachel Fischer applied for a loan to buy a pizza oven that he’d met the young widow.

At first he hadn’t given her much notice. In fact, he’d refused her loan until his grandmother had taken him to task. She’d pointed out that Rachel was willing to invest in the community when few others were doing so. That one loan had been a valuable lesson. His grandmother had insisted all his schooling wouldn’t do him a damn bit of good unless he learned to look at loan applications with his head and his heart.

He’d frequently looked at Rachel with his heart in the months since. Their first date had ended in disaster. Heath knew she was attracted to him, and frankly it was mutual; as a result, he’d said some things that would’ve been better left unsaid. Afterward they’d ignored each other. Okay, she’d ignored him and he’d pretended to ignore her.

Being rejected by a woman was a new experience for him. She’d been serious about it, too. Time had proved it wasn’t just a ploy or a trick to keep him interested. Quite simply, she didn’t want what he was offering. Once he was able to set his ego aside, Heath had asked Rachel for a second chance, which she’d granted, and to date, eight months later, he’d been a perfect gentleman. He’d challenge anyone to fault his manners.

Twice now he’d taken her to dinner with his grandmother. He’d spent time with Mark, Rachel’s ten-year-old son. He’d gone out of his way to prove himself and the sincerity of his intentions. He just didn’t know how much longer he was going to have to do penance.

Rachel’s small restaurant was situated where her parents had once operated the Morningside Café. She’d started out making and delivering pizzas on weekends; demand had escalated to the point that she now opened the place five nights a week. No one was more surprised than Rachel herself at this success.

The first time Heath tasted her pizza, nearly a year ago, he knew she had a winner. Rachel prepared her own sauce from the tomatoes that grew in her garden, and the crust was completely homemade. As soon as she got her bank loan, she’d purchased an oven, and she was in business.

In the past year, she’d managed to pay off the pizza oven and purchase ten new tables and chairs. She’d renamed the restaurant The Pizza Parlor. Needless to say, pizza was her specialty, but she also made lasagna—the world’s best. He should know; he’d eaten enough of it.

Heath was the last one to leave the bank. After he’d locked up, he paused at his car and looked down Main Street. He couldn’t be in Buffalo Valley and not think of Rachel. Not that it did him much good.

Oh, they dated occasionally. Very occasionally. With the restaurant open five nights a week, that left only Sunday and Monday evenings free, and she insisted those were her nights with her son.

In other words, she didn’t have time for him.

He’d say one thing for her: She certainly knew how to hurt a man’s ego. Every other woman he’d dated since his return had been flattering and eager for his company. Yet after two or three dates with anyone but Rachel, he simply grew bored.

Taking his briefcase, he walked over to the restaurant, certain he was setting himself up for another disappointment.

“Hello, Heath,” Rachel called out when she saw him. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been busy.” He picked up the menu, although he already knew what he wanted. “How’s the lasagna today?”

“Good as always,” she promised, emerging from the kitchen, water pitcher in hand.

“That’s what I’ll have,” he said. “Everything going okay?”

She nodded. “Wendy Curtis is working for me now.”

Heath wasn’t familiar with the name.

“She’s from a farm outside Bellmont,” Rachel explained. “They grow mostly wheat, some soybeans. Wendy’s kids are in school now, and I hired her part-time in September.”

“Business must be good.”

“Very good.” She filled his water glass. “You want ranch dressing on your dinner salad?”

“Please. Still driving the school bus?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. She’d stopped doing that around the same time she stopped doing the books for Hassie Knight. Giving up those jobs had been an act of faith for her. Her entire income now came from the restaurant and what she collected from Social Security. He’d asked the question because he craved conversation with her; he wanted to hear something that would tell him he’d been in her thoughts, too. Their last official date had been in July, following Lindsay and Gage’s wedding, and he’d gone out with five or six women since then. Not one of them held his interest or stayed on his mind the way Rachel did.

“Janice Moser’s driving the school bus these days,” she told him. Rachel disappeared and returned a few minutes later with his salad and a basket of bread sticks. “Your lasagna will be ready soon.”

“Do you have time to chat?” he asked. It wasn’t as though she was busy right now. It was only a little after five, early even for him.

“Sure.”

He pulled out the other chair for her. She sat down, folding her hands demurely.

“How’s Mark?”

“Fine. Leta Betts watches him for me. It works out all around. She said she’d go stir-crazy nights if it wasn’t for Mark keeping her company. Says it gives her a reason to cook dinner.”