Life After Wife (Three Magic Words Trilogy, #3)(11)

Sophie heard the music and carried the bowl of cold sauerkraut to the den. She could hardly believe that Elijah would like that particular band. Hard rock went with his motorcycle image, not Zac Brown.

When he felt her presence, he turned quickly and almost blushed.

“I like this group,” he said.

“You couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket with the lid welded shut,” she said around a mouthful of kraut.

“Who cares? I love to sing, and that’s all that matters,” he said.

“You are off-key and out of tune,” she said flatly.

“So what?”

“Turn it down.”

“No. I like it loud. You don’t like it; you can go outside and pout.”

She looked around at the den. It did look better. The leather brought out the dark, raised panel walls. The television didn’t even look out of place set in the rustic entertainment cabinet system with doors that could close off the screen.

Zac began to sing something about getting away to where the boat leaves from. She’d like to get away to anywhere, but not forever. Ranching was in her blood, and in the past year she’d been more alive than ever. If she sold out, she’d never know what the rest of her life was supposed to be like.

“Well? You going outside, or are you going to bring me a Dr Pepper and listen to the CD with me while I take a rest? The movers are taking the other furniture to the bunkhouse,” he said.

“Get your own soda pop. I’m not your maid or your wife. There ain’t enough money in the world to pay me to be either.”

He popped the footrest down and headed for the kitchen. “Honey, there ain’t enough money for me to pay you to be either one. Anyone who’d eat cold kraut is crazy as an outhouse rat.”

She followed him. “You are lucky you’ve even got Dr Pepper. Aunt Maud and I like Pepsi. Someone just happened to bring in a six-pack of Dr Pepper for the funeral.”

Elijah deliberately eyed her from toes to eyeballs, this time without his sunglasses. “I would have pictured you with an ale in your hands instead of soda pop.”

“I’m half Irish, and believe me, if push came to shove, I could outdrink you any day of the week. Indians don’t hold their liquor worth a dang.” She shoved the fork into the kraut and brought up another mouthful.

He snarled. “That is disgusting.”

“You are changing the subject because you know I’m right about the drinking.”

“I do not drink, Sophie. In my profession, we had to have a steady mind and hand. Drinking didn’t go with it, but it had nothing to do with my Indian blood. I’m going to have a Dr Pepper,” he said.

“What’re the other genes?” she asked.

“Momma was a Whitehawk before she married Dad.”

“Chickasaw?”

“No, she was full-blooded Fox Indian from up in central Oklahoma. You got any smarty-pants remarks, say ’em now and get ’em out of your system. I don’t take teasin’ about my heritage.”

“Neither do I. First time you call me a Paddy, I’ll slit your throat in the night with a rusty knife. So you got anything to say about my Irish hair, my freckles, or my eyes, lay it out on the table now.”

Elijah almost grinned. Aunt Maud had been right when she said she was bringing the girl up out of the pits. She was hot-tempered, hot-looking, and there was no way she would ever let herself sink into the depths of despair again. Not Sophie! She was a full-fledged bag of pure sass.

“You don’t mention my ponytail, and I’ll keep quiet about your Irish-Afro hairdo,” he said.

“You got a deal. You want something to eat, get after it. There’s the microwave.” She carried her food out the back door to the deck, where she sat down in a lounge chair and propped her feet up. She’d never felt so alive in her life. Maybe she should eat kraut every day.





CHAPTER THREE


Sophie was sitting at the kitchen table, laptop in front of her, along with a cup of steaming black coffee and an empty plate. The aroma of bacon and hot biscuits filled Elijah’s nose when he stumbled into the room at five o’clock.

He was dressed in plaid cotton lounge pants and a white gauze muscle shirt that stretched across every well-defined muscle in his chest. Two major scars were visible. A long, skinny, white one on his upper left arm and a pockmark on his right shoulder.

Sophie didn’t see a single tattoo, which surprised her. Didn’t all military personnel prove how mean and tough they were by having some kind of art stamped on their body? Maybe he’d had his done where she couldn’t see.

If he noticed the blush, she hoped that he chalked it up to the heat in the kitchen.

“Good mornin’, sleepyhead. You always sleep until the sun rises?” she asked cheerfully.

He yawned. “The sun won’t be up for a couple of hours. What are you doing? Trying to get a step ahead of me?”

“Wouldn’t have to work too hard at that. I get up at four thirty every morning. Breakfast is always at five because that’s what Aunt Maud liked. There’re biscuits and bacon on the stove. Sausage gravy in the pan on the back burner. You want eggs, you cook ’em.”

He poured a cup of coffee, sat down at the table, and pointed. “What’s that for?”

“It’s the ranch laptop. You can glance over it while you wake up. It’s got the financials, the bank balance, the savings accounts, CDs, and such in it. There’s another one for each cow or bull on the property. Hard copy is in the file cabinet in the office. Along with her stock portfolio. She didn’t take risks with those, so we’re in good shape. Password: Jesse. And I keep the files backed up, like I said, on a flash drive. I’m going out for my morning run now. You take your time. I’ll gas up the four-wheelers for the survey you wanted.”