A Town Called Valentine(101)
“Of course not! He works as hard as anybody. He’s just . . . enjoying pissing me off lately.”
“Then he thinks you do way more than you need to. Why do you go above and beyond?”
“I just . . . do what’s necessary to keep the ranch running. And I want my mom and dad to enjoy getting older rather than worrying about the little stuff.”
“Ah,” she said, tilting her head. “So it’s about your parents. You’re the oldest child. Makes sense.”
He sighed. “I don’t like that there’s a part of my mom that feels bad for me because of what her first husband did. She’s always saying that because we were on our own for a while, I learned way too early to do things myself, to . . . I don’t know.”
“Protect her? Help her?”
He shrugged.
“Or maybe there’s something else going on,” she said quietly. “You’re adopted, after all, and you weren’t an infant when it happened. But what if your problems are connected to Doug? You’ve been a great right-hand man to him.”
He frowned at her. “He raised me to be what I am. I’d do anything for him.”
“With all the stuff you coordinate around the ranch, are you still trying to prove how much you love him, love the ranching lifestyle?”
Nate opened his mouth, but an answer didn’t come. After a moment, he murmured, “I didn’t like how stressed the family became when I went to college. I always thought Dad believed I was choosing another life instead of his.”
“Did you want to?”
“Never, not once,” he said, shaking his head. But hadn’t there been moments since when he regretted being pulled away from a conference call about the breeding program he’d invested in, or a new method of getting organic produce into the most markets, just to do chores that other people could do? But he loved the satisfaction of those chores, of making the ranch succeed.
“Maybe you’re still trying to prove your loyalty to the ranch by being everything you think you should be. Josh knows you well enough to see you’re feeling torn.”
Nate stared at her thoughtfully. Were his problems at the ranch all because he knew deep down that he was being drawn toward the business end of the ranch, and he was fighting it? “Okay, Doc,” he said instead. “I’m not used to being dissected.”
“It’s good for the soul,” she insisted. “And after all, aren’t you the one who thinks he’s always doing the dissecting?”
He reared back, pretending she’d slapped him. “Ouch.”
They smiled at each other.
As her salmon and his steak were served, Emily studied Nate’s face, which she was growing to know too well. He wasn’t only the easygoing cowboy he presented to the world. He’d had heartache as a little boy, and she knew it was probably worse than he was saying. But she’d given him something to think about, and she wouldn’t harm the evening by pushing anymore.
So while they ate, she told him about his grandmother’s reaction to Leather and Lace, and the newest garage-sale treasure, a scarred old blanket chest, she’d found for her bedroom. She’d come to realize she loved decorating something to suit her own simple tastes, not Greg’s more expensive ones.
When Nate asked about the painting she’d been doing in the restaurant, she mentioned she was almost done, and they both got quiet. She didn’t want to think about the painting because when she was finished, she’d be selling and leaving. That was the plan, and it was a good one. But there was an ache inside her that didn’t have a name, something she couldn’t look at too closely.
After dinner, when she gasped over the dessert tray, and Nate mentioned to the waitress that Emily baked, she found herself being escorted back into the kitchen to see the area where the pastry chef worked. She almost turned down the tour, but her refusal might make Nate wonder why, and she didn’t want to explain the crazy idea she and Monica had been batting around, the one that kept reappearing in her mind just before she went to sleep, disturbing her dreams.
The pastry area was a separate room off the hot kitchen, with its own walk-in refrigerator and freezer, and a stand mixer as tall as she was. Utensils hung from hooks within easy reach. Stainless-steel shelves were filled with sheet pans and trays, every size base for cakes. The upper shelves overflowed with ingredients like sugars from around the world, and various imported fine chocolates. She gaped at them, imagining what she could create, suddenly longing to do so. She stood outside a glass-walled cooler filled with the finished products for the evening’s guests, sumptuous cakes and pies and chocolate decadence. Another set of shelves on wheels contained unrefrigerated pastries, scones, and breads. Nate seemed to keep studying her, and she felt uneasy and vulnerable. She hated worrying if every decision she made was the right one.