The Promise (Thunder Point #5)(28)

“You’re close to your family,” he said.

“I couldn’t wait to get off the farm. And now, when exhaustion or indecision or disappointment consumes me, I run to the farm.”

“Because it’s peaceful?” Scott asked.

That made her laugh. “You have no idea how many things can disrupt a farm or a ranch. Agricultural problems, pests, drought, floods, freezes. Issues with the stock— My brother manages the sheep on the other side of the property, and they’re kind of delicate. Breeding, sheering and lambing are major events. No, a farm isn’t necessarily peaceful—there’s always something. A lot like emergency medicine, it takes a steady hand. And to be a good farmer, you have to be at peace with nature, with the land, and you have to have profound faith. I don’t go back there for a peaceful rest,” she said with a laugh. “The second my dad sees me, he says, ‘Get her a basket. She must be here to pick pears, gather eggs or thin the garden.’ But then, I’ll eat like I haven’t eaten in months and months. Tapas and marmitako and chowder el punto—fresh and hearty. All washed down with a crisp, white Txacoli—a fruity white wine. White because the Basque have been fishermen for many generations and most traditional Basque food is from the sea. Or lamb—lots of lamb. For the red beans and braised meat, Rioja, the Spanish red. The Basque know how to handle a grape. My uncle Sal has a vineyard—he’s a genius with a grape! And then we always have a dense, thick bread to soak up the beefy sauce.” Her eyes closed as she nearly smelled the beans, potatoes, lamb stews, chowder. “I don’t think my mother has opened a can in her life.”

She slowly opened her eyes and found, once again, she had Scott’s full attention. She noticed, not for the first time, that he could listen with his eyes. There was nothing remarkable about the shape or color, but the way he looked at people caused everyone to trust him. She trusted him.

“I think I drooled right there,” he said.

She laughed. “If you turn out to be my friend, maybe I’ll take you to the farm someday.”

He took a bite of his burrito before responding. “I envy you, Peyton. Not many people enjoy that richness of tradition, the specialty of it, the uniqueness. I’m just white bread—a mixture of about ten different cultures that no one clung to and have become so watered down by now there’s probably not a single family recipe in the family. Tell me something—did your brothers and sisters marry in the Basque community?”

She shook her head. “Only two. George, a committed Basque sheep herder, found himself a Basque wife, but she’s not an old-world domestic. They have two children, and she’s a physical therapist who drives all the way to Oregon City four days a week where she’s the director of a therapy facility. She can throw together a hell of a lamb stew, though,” she said, laughing. “And Adele, baby sister, was determined not to marry in the culture, and then she accidentally fell for a restaurateur from San Francisco. Now, that’s where you want to eat if you like Basque cuisine. They’re the ones due to have their first child soon. I will be there for that!”

“I would love to meet your family someday,” he said, his voice soft.

“I don’t think I have time for a lot of kids, but I want what my parents have. I don’t recall one single time they weren’t on the same team. My father never vetoed a decision made by my mother or vice versa. If Papa disciplined one of us, my mother upheld it to the letter. They were always the first up in the morning, and I woke to the sounds of them talking about things, planning the schedule, maybe arguing a little, getting everything straight before the start of the day. Same at night, their low voices in their bedroom.” She laughed. “And he still embarrasses her by grabbing her and kissing her in front of everyone. They’re over sixty and completely devoted to each other. They’re very good friends. They’re partners. I want that. I doubt I’ll ever find it, but I want it.”

* * *

Peyton was unlike any woman Scott had ever known. Smart, funny, wise and, oh, so beautiful. Exotic and sexy and just plain hot. She was so different from his wife. Serena had been a small pale blonde, petite except for her feet and sometimes frail-looking, even when she put on weight. Peyton was tall and sturdy and strong. Rosy-cheeked, tan skin and of robust health. And he couldn’t recall ever knowing a woman whose hair he wanted to stroke, to lie in, to bury his face in. And yet, she was completely unavailable to him.

“You seem to be sensible and well grounded,” he said. “I’m surprised you don’t have a partner.”

“Well,” she said slowly, as if trying to decide whether or not to share. “I was in a relationship. I’m afraid it was a bitter breakup and one of the reasons I needed a change. I don’t think I want to go back to Portland, where we had so many friends. Even though that was convenient for visiting my parents.”

“I’m sorry, Peyton. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” she said with a shrug. “I should’ve known. I’m not usually naive. There were so many warning signs that we weren’t compatible, and I somehow managed to ignore them all. But let’s not go there. I take all the blame—I wasn’t paying attention. Or something.” She flushed a little, laughed in embarrassment and lifted her glass. “Gotta love a little beer. I didn’t mean to say even that much.”