The Husband School Read online

  He was left with the truth, though he felt awkward admitting it. He thought he’d show her that he was different now, a man in charge, someone who could help her without feeling the slightest attraction.

  “Meg,” he said, when she began to turn away from him again. “You said you only accepted one proposal.” Her chin lifted; her gaze went to his. “I’ve only made one.”

  * * *

  “WHAT’S HE DOING here?” Shelly, a scraper in her hand, perched on a wooden stool and attacked the peeling paint on the window trim inside cabin four. She’d watched Owen MacGregor, the grumpy guy who had gone through her things, follow Meg along the sidewalk. Neither of them looked too happy. “I thought he lived way out on a ranch somewhere.”

  “He does.” Les stopped scraping the other side of the picture window to stare at her. “I sure wish you’d let me do that.”

  “Why? I can’t sit around and do nothing.” She wanted to help because it seemed real important to Meg. And as far as Shelly was concerned, Meg Ripley had her undying devotion. She’d given her food and a place to live, plus she let her work at the café. What better place to keep track of who came through town? Her secret little fantasy was that someday Sonny would walk in, ringing the bell as he swung the door open. It would be just like in a movie. She’d introduce him to Meg. Maybe they’d have their wedding reception right here. Meg would be her maid of honor.

  But the groom had to walk through that door first, of course. Unless she could track him down through the library or...well...she’d come up with other ideas, too. She’d emailed the rodeo associations yesterday. And she almost had enough money to pay her phone bill. Boy, did she miss her cell phone.

  “So are you sure you never met anyone named Sonny when you were on the rodeo circuit?”

  “Is that his name? The guy who—you know.” He glanced at her stomach and blushed before turning back to his work.

  “Yes.”

  “I met a few guys called Sonny, I guess,” he admitted. “I told you, I didn’t know them. And that was a couple of years ago.”

  “So,” she tried again, “do you think he likes Meg?”

  “Who? Oh. Everybody likes Meg.” Les concentrated on his work, reaching higher to the ledge above the window. “I heard you met Gram yesterday at the quilt thing. She wants me to bring you over for dinner some night. Wants to show you her quilts, I think.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” He looked as if he’d expected her to refuse.

  “Sure.”

  “When?”

  “Whenever,” she said, scraping carefully so she wouldn’t scratch the wood. “It’s not like I have a lot going on.” She peered through the dusty glass again. “His truck is still here. The dog’s barking again, but I don’t see Meg.”

  “Quiet, Shell. He’s coming over here.”

  Sure enough, the unsmiling rancher stepped in through the open door.

  “Looks like you’re making progress,” he said to them. And then that dark gaze landed on Shelly and he asked, as if he actually cared, “How are you doing? Feeling better?”

  “Yes,” she managed to answer, and then Les showed him their assignment.

  “It’s not lead paint you’re scraping, is it?”

  “No, sir,” Les answered. “Meg checked. She still had some paint left from the last time she touched it up.”

  “Well,” he said, looking around the shabby room. Shelly noticed he held a tape measure in his right hand. “I need to take a few measurements. In case Meg wants to, uh, expand the bathroom.”

  “Cool.” Les reached for some sandpaper. “You need help?”

  “No, you go ahead with what you’re doing.”

  “Mike’s ripping up carpet,” Les said. “Then we’re going to the dump.”

  “The carpet really stinks in here.” Shelly made a face. “Like old feet. I’m glad I get to stay at Meg’s mother’s place. Everything’s pink, but at least it smells like roses.”

  “Loralee always did like the color pink,” Owen said. He looked a little lost, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Shelly almost felt sorry for him. What if he did like Meg? And she didn’t like him back? It would suck to be him if that was true.

  “Do you see a broom anywhere, Les? One of my foster moms, one of the nice ones, always used to say it’s good to clean up your mess as you work,” she said.

  “You had a lot of foster moms?” Les asked.

  “Yeah. Between times with my mother. She, uh, had problems.”

  “Is that why you ran away?”

  “Who said I ran away?”

  Les shrugged. “Well, you do seem kind of, I don’t know, lost?”

  “Oh.” She supposed it seemed that way. And felt that way, too, sometimes. But this wasn’t one of them.

  Owen set his tape measure down and searched until he found a dustpan and brush in the cabinet under the kitchen sink. He seemed happy to sweep up paint chips and talk a little football with Les. And Les was all puffed up because the rancher was talking man stuff with him.

  “Mr. MacGregor?” she said, cutting into the sports talk.

  “Call me Owen.”

  “You must go to a lot of rodeos,” she began. “Have you ever heard of a bull rider named Sonny?”

  “We’re almost done here,” Les interrupted. “We could start tearing out the carpet.”

  “Sorry, Shelly,” Owen told her. “I wish I could help you, but I haven’t.”

  “It’s okay. I found some rodeo forums, and my friends back home are looking on Facebook.”

  “Well, good luck,” he said, sounding as if he really meant it, which was nice.

  “Thanks.”

  Les cleared his throat. “What are you gonna do if you don’t find him? I mean, before the baby—”

  “I can’t think about that,” she told him. Her heart gave a sad little lurch. “Because I love him, you know?”

  She didn’t miss the flash of pity that crossed Les’s face or Mr. MacGregor’s muffled curse. They just didn’t understand, that’s all.

  * * *

  “‘DANCING AT THE Dahl,’” Lucia read from the poster on the café wall Monday. “Our mayor certainly believes in social activities these days.”

  “It’s actually another dating class. To be combined with practice dating and conversation.” Meg set a bowl of homemade chicken soup in front of Lucia’s youngest child. “How are you feeling, Tony? A little better?”

  “Yep. Thanks.” Tony rarely had much to say. He let his two older brothers do the talking for him. Lucia said he used all of his energy to keep up with them and had nothing left over for communicating.

  “Can you have crackers?”

  “Uh-huh.” He nodded, dipping his spoon into the soup. “Yum.”

  “Be careful. It it’s too hot I’ll put another ice cube in it.”

  “’Kay.”

  Lucia slid into the booth across from her son. “I don’t think these men are into dancing that much.”

  “They’re going to have to try. According to Jerry, Tracy, the producer, can’t wait for the Halloween party. She expects dancing and general cowboy merriment.”

  “Merriment,” Lucia repeated. “A little old-fashioned, isn’t it?”

  “Her word, not mine.”

  “Are the cowboys supposed to wear red bandannas around their necks and shout ‘hee-haw’ as they kick up their spurs?”

  “Absolutely.” Meg couldn’t help laughing at Lucia’s expression of horror.

  Her friend sipped her coffee and considered it. “I’ll ask Mama to watch the boys.”

  “You’ll have to come up with a costume, too,” Meg reminded her. “And don’t forget the raffle.”

  “I don’t especially want to decorate a bear,” s
he said. “Getting three boys ready for Halloween is enough work.” She glanced out the window. “Your boyfriend’s back.”

  “Which one?” she joked.

  “The one with the big shiny new truck filled with great big boxes.”

  Meg forgot about replenishing her customers’ coffee and peered out the window. “That’s Owen’s.”

  “He’s delivering stuff for the cabins? What’d you buy?”

  “Not much. Yet. He’s not supposed to be here,” Meg said, watching Owen untie the ropes that kept the large boxes from falling. “I’d better go check.”

  “Yes,” Lucia said, grinning at her. “I think you’d better get right out there and ask that man what he’s doing.”

  Meg hesitated. She’d told him she didn’t need his help. “I have no clue. Jerry must have asked him to get something, because I certainly didn’t.”

  “There’s only one way to find out. And don’t forget your jacket.”

  Meg grabbed it on the way out. She didn’t want him here, especially after yesterday. Okay, so she was a little overly sensitive about the number of proposals she’d received, but she didn’t like Owen bringing it up as if she was some sort of heartless flirt. When she reached the truck, it took her only a few seconds to realize what was in the boxes. “You bought toilets?”

  “I did,” he said, not looking at her as he coiled the ropes, then tucked them in the truck bed.

  “Three of them?”

  “Yes.” He lifted the tailgate down. “Did you need more than that?”

  “No, but—”

  “Would you rather have had flowers?” Now his gaze held hers.

  “Flowers? For what?”

  “To go with my apology. I debated between practical and romantic,” he explained.

  “Your apology,” she echoed. “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Oh. For yesterday. I guess we’re both sensitive on that subject.”

  “Yes,” she conceded. “I guess we are.”

  “So,” he said, gesturing toward the boxes, “I went with something practical.”

  “Toilets? That’s pretty practical.”

  Owen took a folded square of paper out of his shirt pocket. “Let me show you something.” He unfolded the paper and showed her a diagram of a cabin interior. “All three have the exact same floor plan. There’s the closet—” he pointed to a rectangle on the page “—between the bedroom area and the bathroom. It can be used for a decent-size shower stall. Now that we’ve taken the old metal stalls out, the walls can be taken down and extended. The closet door can be removed, the outside easily framed and paneled. It will look newer than the rest of the room, but still—”

  “It’s perfect,” she said. “Jerry and Mike are coming over tonight to measure and figure out what can be done. They’re going to love this.”

  “Look, I’m not here to make trouble for you. I’m assuming we can be friends.”

  “Let the past stay in the past,” she stated.

  “Exactly.”

  Well, it was worth a try. And would make her life easier. Meg had a crazy urge to fling her arms around him, but she could blame that on the frigid wind. “You’d better come inside for something warm. It’s freezing out here.”

  “I will, in a sec.” He pointed to a spot on the paper diagram. “You have room over here, where the kitchen cabinets are, for a closet between the television shelf and the kitchen counter. Mike is going to install a shelf along the wall—one of those prefab counters—and you’ll have room to put a small refrigerator underneath it. In each unit.”

  “Mike figured this out?” She hadn’t expected the newspaperman was an architect, too.

  “Yeah. He’s a talented guy. Says he’s a frustrated remodeler now that he’s finished up his own house. He also suggested bifold doors for the closets so they won’t take up much room. So what do you think?”

  “I think I’d better sell a lot of soup today.” She shook her head. “It’s great,” she grudgingly conceded. “All of it. Thank you.”

  He tipped his hat and grinned. “Just doing my part for the future of Willing, ma’am.”

  And that was the problem, she thought, returning to the warmth of the café after Owen told her that he didn’t need any help, that he’d be along soon and yes, he liked chicken soup, especially the homemade kind with extra noodles. Owen MacGregor was bored and lonely. He’d told her so himself.

  She preferred the young, passionate version of Owen, not this “let’s be friends” business. When she fell in love next time—if ever—she wanted a man who would kiss her as if he never wanted to let her go, who would be by her side no matter what happened in their lives, a man who would support her.

  He’d apologized and even stepped up to help her business, but she shouldn’t take a gift of plumbing too seriously.

  * * *

  WHAT THE HECK was he doing here? Owen followed his dog into the house but didn’t bother to turn on the lights. The place was cold, empty and smelled like yesterday’s bacon. Not the least bit appealing, and not at all where he wanted to be.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true, either.

  He’d never planned to be anywhere else.

  Which was what he’d explained to eighteen-year-old Meggie Ripley that long-ago August.

  “I’m going to run the ranch with Dad,” he’d said, omitting the fact that his father had looked pale and worn out all spring and summer and that he, Owen, was scared his dad worked too hard. “He needs the help,” was what he told Meg.

  “But what about school?” she’d asked.

  “I just want to be here, you know?” He’d kissed her, wrapping his arms around her to hold her close. They were in the front seat of his old truck, parked on a small ridge above the river.

  “I know,” she’d said. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “We can raise our family here,” he’d said, full of confidence and pride. Full of all the optimism that first love brings with it.

  “I’d like that,” Meg had whispered, her big brown eyes staring into his before he’d kissed her again.

  “We’ll get married,” he promised, sure it would be that simple.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I’M IN A real bind,” Jerry confessed over a late breakfast Tuesday morning. He had waited for the rush to be over before he threw himself on Meg’s mercy.

  “Okay. How can I help?” Meg asked. “I definitely owe you big-time for Sunday.”

  “Yes, well, I had ulterior motives.”

  “I know. Tracy and her Montana atmosphere.” She topped off his coffee and turned her attention back to her laptop screen. “What does she want this time?”

  Meg hadn’t experienced the whims of those in the entertainment business, but Jerry had. So he had no choice but to beg for help. “Remember how I told Tracy about the Halloween party? She and the crew plan to come. She thinks it will be a good way to get a sense of the town.” He had his doubts about the wisdom of that, considering Aurora’s cranky disposition. He’d also had experience with the raucous holiday celebrations of the past years. They were not for the faint of heart, but then again, Tracy could handle anything. Heck, she and Aurora might even become best friends.

  “Good idea.” Meg, huddled over the counter dividing the kitchen from the rest of the room, continued to type on her laptop. “Do you think white tile is too hard to keep clean or is it better to make the bathroom look larger?”

  George, seated next to Jerry, lifted his head from the newspaper. “Too hard to keep clean. Trust me.”

  Jerry ignored him. “She’s expecting dancing.”

  “Yes. You told me.”

  “I did?”

  “In detail.” Meg sighed and shut the lid. “I think you and Aurora had an argument over the band.”

&nbs
p; “Then you know what the problem is.”

  “The band?” She looked surprised. “They’ve been booked for months. It’s just the local—”

  “Not the band,” he interrupted. “And all I asked was for some more modern country songs, you know, like what’s on the radio. But no, we’re getting classic country, Willie Nelson and Hank Williams.”

  “Nothing wrong with Hank,” George muttered. “Or Willie, either, for that matter. He’s almost eighty and he’s still working, goin’ around in that bus giving concerts.”

  “So what’s the problem? Clothes?” she guessed. “It should be okay. Everyone will most likely wear the usual boots and jeans. And then some people will be wearing costumes, so you really don’t even have to worry about—”

  “Janet Ferguson broke her ankle last night,” he said, ignoring the breakfast that sat half eaten in front of him. Who could look at cold fried eggs right now? “She was just walking down the steps—I guess she has stone steps to her garden—to see if she had any pumpkins left or something ridiculous like that, and bam! Cracked it like a chicken leg.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “John took her to the hospital for X-rays last night. She has to wear one of those boot things for weeks. Six weeks.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll call her in a couple of days and send over a couple of meals.”

  “Meals? You think I’m talking about meals?” He stood, stopping short of pacing up and down the room.

  Shelly came over with a breakfast check and a credit card in her hand. “Machine’s down again, Meg. You want me to keep trying or take a check?”

  “Give it a few more minutes.”

  “Will do.” The girl moved away, back to the register, and fiddled with the credit-card machine.

  “You might want to cut down on the caffeine, Jer,” Meg said. “You’re a little wound up this morning.”

  Jerry felt himself twitching with impatience, and he didn’t need Meg pointing out that he might be drinking too much coffee. “It’s not the caffeine,” he said, trying to sound calm and in control of his life. “I need your help finding another dance teacher.”