Page 70 of His Tenth Dance

“And let’s say there’s nothing there,” he said. “No blue ribbon. No yellow ribbon. No red ribbon. No ribbons of any color at all.” He smiled, because Mission had no idea what color the good ribbons would be. “What will happen?”

“You want me to imagine the worst thing possible?” she asked.

“Sometimes I like thinking of what the worst thing could be,” he said. “Then I’m prepared if it happens, and I’m pleasantly surprised if it doesn’t.”

“Maybe then you’re just worried about something you shouldn’t be,” she said.

“Maybe,” he said, and he turned back to the microwave as it beeped. “Maybe you could tell me how I’m supposed to act if the no-ribbon thing happens.”

“If I have to tell you,” she said. “That defeats the whole reaction.”

“Does it?” he asked. “Maybe it won’t bother you, and so if I go overboard, it’ll just be ridiculous. But if I don’t give you enough support, then you think I’m a total tool. So will you be disappointed?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Maybe I need to know for me,” he said. “So, will you be disappointed?” He stirred her spaghetti, her noodles and sauce, and put the tray back into the microwave.

“Yes, I’ll be disappointed,” Kristie said, a definite bite in her voice. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“Of course I don’t want you to be disappointed,” he said, turning to face her.

“I don’t want you faking anything either,” she said.

“I won’tfakeanything,” Mission said. “Have I ever done that for you?”

“No,” she said grumpily. “And the overall winner gets apurpleribbon, Mish.” She turned her back on him again and walked away, something slow yet strained in her step. No matter what, Mission didn’t like it, but he didn’t know how to make it go away.

Mission suddenly smelled garlic and quickly pulled open the oven, a curse riding the back of his tongue. He wasn’t great with the broiler and had burned more things than he cared to admit. Thankfully, the back pieces had just started to sizzle and brown. He quickly flipped the baking sheet around to put the front pieces in the hot spot of the oven. He closed it and remembered to set a timer on the stove.

Then he opened the Salisbury steak meatballs and mashed potatoes, and got the tray ready to put in the microwave. After Kristie’s spaghetti came out, steaming and hot, he arranged itinto a perfect Italian pile on a plate, took out the garlic bread, wedged a piece on the side, and said, “Dinner’s ready, kitten.”

She came toward him then, and Mission put his own frozen meal into the microwave. He pulled out the last little bit of parmesan cheese he had and sprinkled it over the top of her spaghetti as she sat down at the bar.

“Thank you, Mish,” she said. “This looks great.” Their eyes met. “Should we pray?” she asked.

Mission had never prayed with Kristie before, but he quickly folded his arms and said, “Sure, would you like me to do it?”

“Yes, please.” She’d softened, and Mission truly hoped that he hadn’t upset her with his talk about what she would do if she didn’t win the baking competition—or even get a ribbon.

“Dear Lord, we’re really grateful for this summer day, especially for the rain, as it’s been real dry lately, and our fields and animals need the moisture. We’re grateful that we got Lady back in time, and that she seems to be doing well.”

He took a breath, his mind stretching in too many directions. “We’re grateful that we have warm shelters in the winter and cool ones in the summer, and we’re grateful for the bounty of food that we enjoy. Please bless what’s been prepared tonight, that it will serve us in a way that will allow us to serve Thee. Amen.”

Mission wanted to stuff his cowboy hat back on his head. Normally when he prayed over a meal, it was in a large group—at Hunter’s house or in the backyard at the farmhouse. He wasn’t sure why, but his face heated as embarrassment squirreled through him.

“That was nice,” Kristie said. “Thank you.”

“Was it?” Mission asked.

She twirled up a bite of noodles as he turned to get a piece of garlic toast from the tray. “Yeah,” she said. “Simple. I liked it.”

Simpleran through his mind. Yes, Mission was a simple man in so many ways.

He frowned as he bit into his bread and watched her take her first bite of noodles and sauce. Her eyes sparkled as brightly as ever—until she noticed him glowering at her.

She swallowed quickly and wiped her mouth with a paper towel. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “What did I say?”

“I am simple.” The words scraped his throat on the way out. “It’s probably best that you know that now. This is my life. This is all there is.”

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