Page 20 of The Soldier and the Cowboy

“Thirty eight’s not too old to start over, Cal,” she said after a moment of heavy silence.

“Neither is thirty, Bailey,” he added. “Maybe someday we’ll both learn a thing or two about trying again.”

“Maybe so,” she said, and they finished the ride in quiet.

Chapter 9

“On Sundays we rest,” Cal informed Bailey when she woke dressed to work.

“Oh,” she said, not knowing how else to respond.

“The nature of the ranch is that it doesn’t keep regular hours. I could pour my entire life into it, given the chance. It’s an easy trap for me to fall into. I’ve found I’m more productive if I purpose a day of rest, to reflect, to refuel,” he explained.

“Yes, sir,” she said. She sat at the table and resisted the urge to drum her fingers. “I don’t do well with inactivity.”

“I sensed that about you. I used to be the same, but life has a way of catching up with you, little bit. What would you like for breakfast? It’s Estralita’s day off, too.”

“Cereal is fine,” she insisted.

“I don’t do cereal, darlin’. It’s either eggs and toast or waffles and bacon,” he said.

“You…cook?” she said the word as if it were foreign. And it was, at least applied to him.

“Men can cook, Bailey. We can do anything women can do,” he said, and she laughed because he was clearly making fun of her by putting on an affronted tone.

“That’s not how I actually sound, is it?” she asked.

“You sound just fine,” he said.

“What can I do to help?” she asked.

“Don’t get in my way,” he said.

“No one sits still and does nothing as well as I do,” she said, perching on a high stool at the bar. A second later she had retrieved her notebook and began making notes. She wasn’t aware Cal had noticed until he laid his hand on the notebook in front of her.

“No work today.”

“You’re killing me, here,” she said.

“Why don’t you set the table?” he asked. She hopped eagerly off the stool and set the table the same as Estralita did when they were having company—formally, with a knife, fork, spoon, napkin and two glasses in perfect alignment, one for juice and one for water.

“You set a fancy table, Major Dunbar,” he commented.

“We lived in some remote places growing up. My mother insisted on adhering to civility. It was all she had because, as you can imagine, we were rather wild. ‘Heathens’ was her favorite word for us. We spent our days swinging from trees like the monkeys and snakes we tried to catch. But at supper we cleaned the dirt from under our nails and sat with our feet on the floor and our napkins in our laps like proper ladies.”

“Sounds like you had the best of both worlds,” he noted.

“Yes, sir,” she agreed, her tone heavy with fondness and nostalgia.

“It might not surprise you to know I grew up much the same. Cam and I were rough and ready boys, anxious to prove ourselves as heirs to the estate. But our mother insisted on proper manners indoors. No spitting, no cursing, no hats at the table, wear a proper shirt and pants, and always use please and thank you and ma’am and sir.”

“I like that,” Bailey said.

“I do, too,” Cal agreed, but his face looked a bit pinched. He thought he would have a crazy, busy houseful of children by now. The contrast of where he wanted to be and the still silence of his house was a painful reminder of how far off track his life had become.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Bailey asked before he could sink too far.

“I think that about does it,” he said.

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