How could it be worth it?

She pushed herself through three hours in the booth, then deleted the last twenty minutes in edit.

Not her best work there, and the client always deserved her best.

By the time she’d finished, sent the file to the producer, she wanted a break like she wanted to breathe. A long shower did the trick, especially since she kept her mind as empty as possible.

A walk through the orchard over ground strewn with fallen blossoms polished it off.

In the kitchen, she followed Consuela’s recipe for marinade—one with some zip—covered chicken breasts with it, put it aside. She made tortillas Consuela’s way. They didn’t look as perfect as Consuela’s, but she hoped they’d pass the taste test.

She’d never asked if Dillon liked Mexican food, she realized as she chopped tomatoes for salsa. Well, she hoped he liked Mexican food, because that’s what he was getting.

Chicken fajitas, frijoles, rice, salsa and chips, and flan to finish it off.

Considering the weather—pretty damn perfect—she set the small table outside, added candles. Why not?

She left the door open to the air as she sliced onions, peppers, took the chicken out, sliced it into diagonal strips.

Consuela had been very specific there, and—thank God—had been generous enough to make the guacamole for her.

She wasn’t sure she was up for that.

By the time Dillon walked in, she had everything prepped for the cast-iron skillet (borrowed from Consuela).

And when he walked in with a handful of wildflowers, she realized the back of her brain, or some part of her, had worked on that internal problem.

He walked straight to her, wrapped around her, kissed her like a man who seriously meant it.

“You smell great.”

“Is it me, or the salsa?”

He leaned down to sniff her neck. “Pretty sure it’s you. From the field.” He offered the flowers.

Everything inside her went to mush. “You picked them?”

“I didn’t have time to buy any. One of the Angus cows decided it was a good day to calve. She needed a little help.”

“First, wildflowers from the field are the best of the best.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Second, you helped deliver a baby cow?”

“Yeah. Usually they do just fine on their own, but now and then they need a little help. Good-looking bull calf. We may keep him that way.”

She hunted up a vase. “What way?”

“A bull.”

“What else would . . . oh.” It genuinely made her shudder. “Ow! You do that?”

“You can’t have a herd with a bunch of bulls, trust me.”

“I bet the little baby cows trust you, too, right before you—” She mimed snapping scissors.

“If they were cows I wouldn’t have to—” He mimed back. “Is this salsa up for grabs?”

“It is. I hope you like Mexican food.”

With a tortilla chip, he scooped up salsa. “What’s not to like? Pow,” he said when he tasted. “I also like pow.”

“Then you’re in luck. I still don’t like beer, so I’m having margaritas, but . . .” She got a Negra Modelo out of the fridge, poured it into a pilsner, added a wedge of lime.

After he studied it, he studied her. “You’re the perfect woman.”

“That’ll get you all the fajitas you can eat.”

“I can mow down some fajitas.”

“Before I start on those, let’s sit outside, with your beer, my margarita, and this salsa.”

“Sounds good. Did Darlie and the baby get off all right?”

“Bright and early. She texted me awhile ago to let me know she’d stopped at a friend of her mom’s. They’ll stay there until morning rather than drive straight back to L.A.”

“Better. That’s a long drive with a toddler.”

“And speaking of babies. Eight pounds even?”

Grinning, he hefted his beer. “On the nose, and from all accounts, Hailey had an easier time of it than my Angus. Four hours and there’s Grace the amazing. The baby’s a beauty, Hailey looked like a Madonna, I swear. Leo looked like a wreck. A really happy wreck. They’re already home.”

“Birthing center, midwife, easy delivery.” Now Cate lifted her margarita. “Here’s to all that.”

“It’s hard to believe, even when things go that smooth, they send you on your way that quick. My ladies are going to see them for a bit tomorrow, and the two new grandmothers are right there to help out.”

“Here’s to babies, each and every one.” She tapped her glass to his. “I’d love to go see them, maybe in a couple days, once they’re more settled.”

“You can go with me.”

“Let me know when, Uncle Dil.”

He grinned again at that; she settled back.

“One day, I like to imagine we can sit out here like this—or sit anywhere for that matter—enjoying an adult beverage and some excellent salsa, and only talk about happy things.”

“But not tonight. Sparks.”

“Yeah, Sparks. Red told Grandpa and me what he thought, and what you seem to think.”

“The guy gets stabbed in prison and only needs a few stitches? That doesn’t work for me. It seems to me if somebody’s going to stab somebody, they’d do a better job of it.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but if you were nervous, or in a hurry—”

While butterflies fluttered behind him, Dillon tapped a finger on the table.

“First, you take the time to make the shank—and if you’re caught with it, that’s solitary. Second, you’re so nervous and rushed you just happen to jab it into the perfect place? The place that causes little damage. Bleeds good, but that’s about it.

“Bullshit.”

Bullshit, horseshit. Either way, Cate saw he and Red had the same confidence.

“Wouldn’t they fingerprint it?”

“Why do you figure he said he grabbed it, kept his hand on it? Smeared his hand and blood all over it? He’s not stupid, Cate. He’s no genius, but he’s not stupid. He’s calculating. I’ve thought about him a lot over the years.”

“Have you?”

He met her eyes. “It was a turn for me, that night, Caitlyn. What you’d call a seminal moment for me, I guess. Up till then . . . I knew the world wasn’t all rainbows, not with what happened to my father. But I’d never been close to violence, or fear. Watching you, watching my mom and Gram do what they did, your dad, Hugh. It all left a pretty big impression on me, so yeah, I’ve thought about Sparks over the years. And Denby, your mother. I feel like I know them on some level.”

“Maybe you’re right, you and Red. Maybe he’s behind all this somehow, and for some reason. If he is, wouldn’t my mother be his prime target?”

“She’d be harder to get to with a billion or so in security.” He shrugged, drank. “But yeah.”

“I don’t feel anything for her, or about her. I haven’t been able to work up a good rage in that area for a long time. But I wouldn’t want her murdered.”

“I’m a lot more concerned about you.”