He leaned back against the counter with his coffee while she greased a bowl, turned the dough into it. She covered it with the cloth he’d brought back, then—just as he’d been taught—put the bowl in the oven with the oven light on to rise in the warm.

He studied the work island. “You’re messy.”

“Yeah.” She went to the sink to wash dough off her hands. “And if I don’t clean it up to Consuela’s standards, I’ll hear her clucking her tongue when she comes in to clean tomorrow.”

He watched while she dealt with the excess flour first, dumped tools in the sink, put away canisters. Then got out a counter spray and wash rag.

She wore those leggings things, the ones that molded to—in her case—really nice, long legs. Over it a long blue sweater with the sleeves shoved up.

She’d let her hair grow long, had it pulled back into a tail.

Yeah, he thought again as she worked, she looked damn good.

“My mom’s working on an organic cleaner.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, like all-purpose to start, then laundry detergent and so on. You can’t tell Gram to slow down on the physical work on the ranch. I mean you literally can’t tell her, because she’ll kick your ass.”

On a laugh, Cate glanced back. “Experienced that, have you?”

“Oh yeah. So the connection between cleaners and ass-kicking is, if—no, when, because there’s no ‘if’ with my mother—when she has it down, she’ll turn it over to Gram. Like we expanded the goatherd, added a couple dairy cows a few years ago.”

Frowning, Cate rinsed out the cloth in the sink. “That sounds like more physical work.”

“It is, that’s a trade-off. It also means butter and cheese, which are mostly Gram’s areas.”

“I’ve got your butter and cheese along with your eggs, milk in my refrigerator. My grandparents stocked me up. I’ll be using your goat cheese on tonight’s salad.”

“I just delivered more up at the house.”

She hit the counter with the clean cloth. “Are deliveries part of the service?”

“For special customers.”

It fascinated her. The life the Coopers and Maggie lived had always fascinated her.

“Do you sell right off the ranch? Farm? Dairy?”

He smiled. “Sure. Something you need?”

“I will eventually. I’ll be using a lot of those eggs later when I make a soufflé. I’m a little terrified as I’ve never made one before, and they’ve got to be tricky. But my grandfather has a real soft spot for soufflés. I want to—it’s not pay them back. It’s . . .”

“I know what you mean.”

She rinsed out the cloth again, laid it out to dry before picking up her water bottle. Twisted the top off and on, off and on. “They’ve got their kid gloves on again, and I hate that. Frank Denby—he was one of the men who took me—somebody killed him. In prison. Stabbed him. And you already knew,” she realized, reading it on his face.

“Red spends a lot of time at the ranch.”

“They don’t think I know, so we’re not talking about it.”

He’d already stayed longer than he’d intended, had a list of chores to start and finish, but she stood there twisting that damn bottle cap.

“From what Red said, Denby wasn’t a popular guy in San Quentin. He had more than a few dustups that landed him in the infirmary, more bullshit that landed him in solitary. Hearing all this, well, it’s bound to take you back, upset you, but whoever shanked him most likely did it because he was, in general, an asshole and, according to Red, was suspected of being a snitch.”

She finally uncapped the bottle, drank. “I don’t know how I feel about him being dead. I can’t quite reach in and find what I feel about that. But I know I hate my grandparents giving off the worried-about-Caitlyn vibe.”

“So you’re showing them you’re fine by making Lily’s favorite pasta and Hugh’s soufflé.”

She tipped the bottle toward him. “Nailed it.”

“If you want my opinion, which I’m giving anyway, that’s productive and healthy.”

“Since I like that opinion, I’m taking it. And I’m coming by next week. I was going to come this week, but dead kidnapper threw me off. Is any day better than another? I can juggle my schedule.”

“Any day’s fine. I’ve gotta get back. Thanks for the coffee.” He added it to the dishes in her sink. “And you’ve got to scream.”

“Yes, I do. Which reminds me, thanks for the rescue. The fact it wasn’t needed doesn’t negate the action.”

“You’re strangely welcome.”

He crossed into the living room where his dogs piled together for a nap in front of the fire. He gave a short whistle that had them scrambling up and following him.

“Good luck with the soufflé.”

“Thanks. I’m going to need it.”

She moved around to watch through the wall of glass as he walked away through the whispers of fog, the thin curtain of rain.

She hadn’t intended to bring up Denby, had done her best to lock even the thought of him away. But she supposed the odd bond forged when they’d both been children made it easy to say things she said to no one else.

“We don’t even know each other. Not really.”

Bits and pieces, she thought, from Julia’s emails, from something her grandparents might mention.

Not altogether true, she realized, and took her water with her into the studio. Turned the RECORDING IN PROGRESS sign over, shut and locked the door.

She knew he loved the life he’d chosen because it simply showed. She knew he inspired loyalty—at least in dogs, as his clearly adored him. She knew he was the kind of man who’d rush through a door to help someone without thinking of his own safety.

All important aspects, even admirable aspects of the whole. Still a lot of blanks, she admitted. She’d have to decide how many blanks she wanted to fill in.

But right now, she had to scream.

With a successful family dinner and the beginning of a solid workweek behind her, Cate walked to the main house. She wanted to drive to the florist for some flowers, then to the ranch, finally.

She went in the house first, learned from the day maid Consuela supervised that her grandfather was in his office, door closed, and Lily had gone down to the home gym.

She went down the main stairs, turned away from the movie theater and toward the blast of grinding rock and roll. Inside the gym, Lily grunted her way through reps on the leg extension and curl machine.

Sweat gleamed on her face, on her really excellent calves as she pushed herself to match the beat of the music.

Always fashionable, she wore compression capris in a swirling pattern of blues and greens and a blue support tank that showed off damn good arms and shoulders.

It had Cate making a mental note to use the facilities more regularly herself.

With one last grunt, Lily closed her eyes. She swiped at her face with her wristband—green—then, pushing herself up, spotted Cate.

“Oh God, I want to kill myself with a hammer. You know what most women my age are doing right now? Turn off that damn music, will you, my sweets? I’ll tell you what they’re doing. They’re playing with grandkids or knitting or they’re curled up with a book or getting a facial. What they’re not doing is sweating blood on a damn torture device.”