Daisy stared at the butcher case at the grocery store in utter confusion. Dinner for Clint had to be wonderful, something that would distract him from the fiasco with Marjorie. He’d been so obviously upset by the reporter’s intrusion that the very least she could do was to try to make amends.
And everybody knew that cooking was the way to a man’s stomach—or something like that. But she had no idea what he’d like.
He tore into all of Martha’s cooking as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks, so it was impossible to tell what his favorite was.
“Hi, Daisy,” a lilting voice said.
Daisy was relieved to see Lilah beside her. “Thank goodness you’re here.”
“I have a house full of boys. I’m always here.”
Daisy smiled. “Yes, I guess you are. So maybe you can help me. What does Clint like to eat?”
Lilah looked positively stunned. “Are you asking because you’re cooking for him?”
Daisy turned her attention back to the meat counter, hoping Lilah wouldn’t notice her faint blush. “Yes. He’s been such a good sport about the festival that I asked him to dinner tomorrow night. Now that I’ve done it—and presented it as an offer he couldn’t refuse—it has to be good, or you’ll find my body at the bottom of the river, tied to his old computer.”
Lilah snickered. “I can believe it. Well, he likes meatloaf.”
“Meatloaf? I was thinking about steak au poivre, or—”
“No, meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, and apple pie. It’s his favorite.”
“Sounds like a traditional family dinner. Did he have it a lot growing up?” Daisy glanced at Lilah, who suddenly seemed very interested in the boneless chicken breasts.
“Hmm. I’m not sure. But I know he likes it now.”
Daisy wanted to ask more questions, but it was obvious that Lilah wasn’t going to share whatever she might know about Clint’s childhood.
Which brought up a question—where were his parents? As far as she knew, no one in Falling Star had ever met them. She would have to ask Clint where he grew up. Maybe she could finally learn a little more about this attractive—and secretive—man.
“How’s the festival coming along?” Lilah asked.
Daisy brightened. She loved discussing the festival. “So wonderfully it almost scares me. I have plenty of volunteers, and people are really starting to take an interest. I think we’ll be able to make more than enough money to paint the building.”
“Remember, I can always pitch in if you need help,” Lilah said.
Daisy appreciated the gesture, but Lilah had plenty to do already. “Thanks, but you have the foster care facility to take care of. I can handle this.”
“True, but let me know if you get backed into a corner. I understand how small problems quickly become big problems. So if you find you need help”—she gave Daisy a meaningful look—“or advice about anything, feel free to call.”
Daisy assured her she would, then tossed a two-pound package of ground sirloin into her basket and headed off to the produce department to find potatoes, green beans, and apples.
Her conversation with Lilah had left her with more unanswered questions. Why was everything in Clint’s life such a mystery? Why couldn’t Lilah drop a few hints about his childhood so that Daisy could understand him better? Lilah acted as if she knew something else about him, so what was so bad that no one would talk about it?
More importantly, what could she do to help Clint deal with his past?
“What do you think, Clint?” Nick asked, stepping back from the easel and looking nervously at him.
Clint crossed the room and studied the painting. For a first effort, it was very good. Nick was a natural at utilizing light and shadow to paint more than just a picture. He’d captured emotion on the canvas.
And it broke Clint’s heart. The seven-year-old had obviously suffered a great deal in his life. Like Clint’s own paintings, Nick depicted life as cruel and lonely. No pretty houses or smiling suns for this little boy.
“It’s very good, buddy,” Clint said, patting him on the back. “What’s it about?”
Nick shrugged his thin shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s what I felt like painting.”
That bothered Clint. “Were you painting the way you feel now?”
Shaking his head, Nick set his brush down. “No. How I used to feel before I came to stay with Rafe.”
That was a relief at least. Even though he was out of his element, Clint knew it was important to have this conversation with Nick. The boy had closed off his past, had never talked to anyone about it, not even the psychiatrist he visited regularly. Clint couldn’t let this chance slip by. Nick needed to get his emotions out in the open and deal with them. Clint, of all people, knew that keeping the bad stuff inside did no good.
“How do you feel now that you’re at Rafe’s?”
Nick grinned. “It’s great. Everyone is really nice, and there’s always lots to eat and fun things to do.” He looked at his sneakers and added, “Plus, they don’t get mad when you do something wrong. They still like you. But I can’t stay forever.”
Clint felt as though a hand had reached inside his chest and squeezed his heart. “Why not?”
Nick shrugged again. “Sometime the state will move me to another foster home. Besides, sooner or later, there’ll be too many people there. They won’t have enough food and stuff.”
Clint squatted so his face was level with Nick’s. “Rafe and Lilah will always have enough food—and love—for you, Nick. You won’t have to leave. They can talk to the state.”
Nick wasn’t convinced. “Someone could come for me,” he said softly, his voice quavering a little. “It happened to one of the other boys. His mom’s cancer went away, so she came and got him.”
Clint knew which boy Nick meant. “That was an entirely different situation, Nick. His mom was always going to take him back as soon as she got better. But you—”
“Someone could come back,” Nick insisted.
“Who would come for you?” Clint asked gently. The same people who’d left Nick alone, lost and hurt, on a rainy night? Over his dead body they would.
“I don’t know.” Nick’s shoulders drooped. “Somebody.”
Pain from his own childhood and anger over Nick’s tore through Clint. He reached out and hugged the boy. “Trust me. I won’t let anybody take you away unless you want to go with them.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” Clint had never meant anything more in his entire life. Then he turned his attention back to Nick’s painting. It was dark and sad and lonely. He glanced across the room to the landscape he was working on. It, too, was dark and sad and lonely.
“Hey, buddy, how about both of us try to paint something funny? We can see which of us does the best job, okay?”
The mood lifted, and Nick nodded. “Okay. I can paint funny things, too.”
Once Nick was happily painting again—this time using yellow and bright blue—Clint walked across the room and picked up a blank canvas. Something funny. Up until a few weeks ago, he would’ve had trouble thinking of something funny to paint. His life had been like his landscapes.
But a crazy redheaded accountant wouldn’t leave him in peace. The past few weeks had been nonstop craziness. His peaceful farm had been overtaken by visitors and his studio now drew more foot traffic than some amusement parks.
Yep, thanks to Daisy, he could think of funny things to paint—starting with a picture of a man shearing a sheep in front of a cotton-candy-eating crowd.
Daisy glanced around her small apartment and fretted. Did it look okay? Would Clint like it? His house was so beautiful that she worried he’d find it shabby. She fluffed a throw pillow, tried to sit, then stood and paced the living room. After a couple of minutes listening to the clock in the corner tick away the seconds, she sat abruptly on one of the dining room chairs.
What was wrong with her? She was a grown woman, the survivor of several—okay, a few—relationships. She wasn’t a teenager, so why was she acting like one? Clint was coming to dinner. So what? They’d eat, talk, get to know one another, and maybe do a little more…
Daisy stood and started pacing again. The crisp knock on her front door startled her so much that she let out a little yelp. She needed to calm down. At this rate, she’d self-destruct before they reached dessert.
Taking a deep breath, Daisy opened the front door, and then immediately forgot how to breathe at all. Clint looked so handsome that she couldn’t think of anything except how much she wanted to make love with him. Under a wool overcoat he wore a navy sport coat, a light-blue oxford-cloth shirt, a navy-and-gray-striped tie, and gray dress slacks. His thick hair was neatly brushed, and in his hands he held a bouquet of chrysanthemums, orange interspersed with the big, frilly white variety. He looked absolutely gorgeous—and seemed as nervous as she was.
“These are for you,” he said, handing her the flowers. “I didn’t know if you liked flowers, so if you don’t, or if you’re allergic to them, we can, um, throw them away.”
Daisy started to laugh but smothered it at the last minute. Clint was trying. He just wasn’t any better at this than she was.
“Then it’s a really good thing I adore bouquets,” she said, leading him into the living room, “because it would be a shame to throw this one away.” She lightly touched the blooms. “They’re lovely. Where did you find them?”
He fiddled with the collar of his shirt. “In the greenhouse behind the barn. I guess I never got around to showing it to you. Martha grows herbs and vegetables in there.” He glanced away from her. “And I grow a few flowers.”
If he’d told her that he was able to perform magic, she couldn’t have been more surprised. Clint was definitely a man of surprises. She’d actually noticed the greenhouse, but Martha had said she used it to grow vegetables during the winter months. She hadn’t said a thing about Clint growing flowers.
Daisy tipped her head and drew in the rich, sharp scent of the mums. “I love them,” she told him, knowing there was a fairly good chance she was falling a little in love with him as well.
Rather than look away, Clint held her gaze. The air in the room seemed to crackle with awareness. “I’m glad,” he said, his deep voice husky.
Daisy wasn’t sure what she would have done if the timer on the oven hadn’t started to buzz. She tore her eyes away from Clint, bustled to the kitchen, and put the flowers in a vase. After washing her hands, she turned her attention back to dinner.
When she glanced toward the doorway, she found Clint standing there, watching her. “It’s meatloaf.” Rather than pretend to be psychic, she admitted, “Lilah told me it was a favorite of yours.”
“It sure is,” he confirmed. “How can I help?”
“You don’t have to help,” she told him. “Why don’t you wait in the living room? I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
“And risk having Martha mad at me? No way. I’m helping, as long as I can take off this tie.”
Daisy laughed. “Okay. Deal.” She drained the potatoes, then watched Clint take off his tie. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and smiled at her.
“Now I’m all yours. Use me any way you want,” he said.
Talk about a poor choice of words. All sorts of devilish ideas popped into her head, but she quickly stomped them down. “I’m not sure what you can do,” she said.
Clint nodded toward the pan of steaming potatoes. “Why don’t I mash those? Martha showed me how to make mashed potatoes years ago. Squashing things seems to be a skill of mine.”
Daisy laughed and agreed. “Sure. Go ahead.”
For the next few minutes, they worked in silence. Daisy was surprised how comfortable it was having Clint in her kitchen. It felt…right.
Once they’d set everything on the table, they both dug in. His mashed potatoes were heavenly.
“You’re right. These potatoes are wonderful.”
Clint nodded. “The trick is a lot of cholesterol. Cream, butter, more cream, more butter—Martha says fix them right or don’t fix them at all.”
“How long have Martha and Joe worked for you?” she asked, wanting to know everything about this man.
“Since I bought the ranch. Joe started to work for me as a hand, then after the accident, I hired Martha, too.”
Daisy was so sad for the couple. “Martha told me about the accident. She said a drunk driver hit them.”
A shadow crossed his face. “Yeah. Joe had only worked for me for a few weeks, and he and Martha were both in the hospital for months. Martha lost her job, so I hired her as soon as she could walk again. Glad I did. I would have starved to death by now.”
Daisy leaned forward. “You’re such a special man,” she said.
Clint met her gaze, then shook his head. “I’m not doing anything special, Daisy. Joe and Martha earn every cent I pay them. They keep the ranch running. I’m the lucky one.”
She was glad he felt that way. Since getting to know Martha and Joe, she realized that they were, indeed, almost like parents to Clint. Like his parents? Or like the parents he’d never had?
“How did you meet Tim?” she asked.
“Tim and I have known each other for a few years. He was having trouble getting a job. I hired him because he’s great at what he does.”
“You also learned sign language,” she pointed out.
“No, I already knew that.”
“Really? Why?”
“There was a kid in school who taught me some. I learned more on my own.”
Interesting. Daisy tipped her head to one side. “You didn’t grow up in Falling Star, I know. Where did you go to school?”
“No. I didn’t grow up here.” After a few seconds, he added, “I moved around a lot when I was a kid.”
Before she could say anything, he looked at her. “Enough about me. What about your life?” He was deliberately changing the subject, just as Lilah had at the grocery store when Daisy had started asking about Clint’s past. What was it that made everyone close down when she asked a few questions?
“Everyone knows about me,” she said. “My whole family is involved in politics. In fact, the Banks family has been a fixture in state politics for generations. We’re a loud, headstrong lot, so it would be hard not to know the Banks saga.”
“Did you ever consider not going into politics?”
Daisy pretended to be shocked. “A Banks not in politics? Can’t happen.”
“Sorry. My mistake,” he said with mock humility. “What was I thinking?”
She smiled at him, knowing that for him, those gruff words were his version of raucous hilarity. “That’s okay. I’ll forgive you this once.”
They finished eating, then cleaned up. Clint insisted on helping, and since Daisy’s apartment didn’t have a dishwasher, she let him wash and she dried. After they finished the last dish, they headed into the living room.
“Dinner was great,” Clint said. His height and his broad shoulders made the compact room seem even smaller. Daisy wanted to ask him to have a seat; she wanted to ask him to stay longer, but she couldn’t seem to get her brain to cooperate. All she could think about was pressing her mouth against his and putting her arms around him. So, being a headstrong Banks, she walked over to him, stood on tiptoe, and did just that.
Clint had been thinking about making love with Daisy since he’d arrived at her apartment. Actually, he’d been thinking about it before then. In fact, since meeting her, he’d spent pretty much all of his time thinking about ravishing her.
He leaned down and returned her kiss, then shifted them slightly until they sat on the sofa. Once settled, he started to draw Daisy closer, but as usual, she beat him to it. She scooted until she was sitting on his lap, facing him. Somehow, she managed to do this without breaking the kiss.
Daisy Banks was one talented lady. Clint wrapped his arms around her and deepened the kiss. Daisy murmured a little sound that he took for approval since she pressed herself closer to him. She wove her fingers through his hair, holding him to her as though she’d never let him go. He had no idea how long they kissed, but finally, he couldn’t take any more. He let her go and leaned his forehead against hers.
“I’m sorry. This is getting out of hand.” His breathing was ragged, as was hers. She nodded.
“Yes, it is.” She slid off his lap and took his hand. “Come on. Let’s move to the bedroom.”
It was the last thing Clint had expected her to say. “Are you sure?”
Daisy’s smile convinced him she was completely sure. It was all the invitation he needed.
He stood and took her hand, following her through the narrow hallway to her frilly, feminine bedroom.
Daisy couldn’t help smiling the next morning while she padded out to the kitchen to start the coffee brewing. Clint was in the shower—her shower in her apartment—and it felt wonderful. Last night—and this morning—had been amazing. She had never felt so alive, so cherished, in her life. It was all thanks to Clint.
She made her way to the front door and gathered the Sunday paper off the stoop. On Sundays, she had the Amarillo paper delivered so she could keep up on statewide news. One glance at the front page, and she froze.
Splashed across the top was a teaser for the lead story in the Life section. It showed a picture of Clint standing next to one of his paintings with the caption, “Local Rancher Unveils Hidden Talent.”
Daisy’s stomach dropped. Oh, no. The reporters had promised Clint it would be a small story. She flipped to the Life section, already knowing what she would find. The article took up a full page and included numerous photos of Clint, his house, his ranch—even his sheep. The photographer had taken shots of everything, including his paintings.
Feeling ill, Daisy sank onto the sofa and read the article. In addition to information about Clint and his paintings, it contained quotes from people in town saying what a recluse he was, and how most people didn’t know him at all. Then there was the statement from her saying how much the town appreciated Clint’s help. Next was Marjorie saying that Clint had never had much time for anyone before Daisy had encouraged him to participate in the festival. They’d even posted a picture of the foster care facility being built on his land.
It was a wonderful article, very complimentary, very thorough. Most people would be thrilled with it. Clint came across as a rare, extraordinary man. But it was the type of story a man who valued privacy—a man like Clint—would hate. She shoved the paper under the sofa. She’d show him the article sooner or later, but not now.