Chapter 5

“Between ‘quaint place’ for lunch and ‘supper’ at your aunt’s, I wasn’t sure what to wear.” Wearing an off-the-shoulder sweater over skinny pants, I climbed into his truck’s front seat. “Hope I’m dressy enough yet not over-dressed.”

“You look great. Actually”—he side-glanced—“terrific.”

“Thanks.” Squirming at the compliment, I buckled my seatbelt. “Where are we headed?”

“You’ll see in a minute.” He turned off the main road onto a climbing, two-lane highway through the mountains. “This route is part of the Scenic Loop Drive, one of the most scenic in Texas.”

Unfamiliar with the rugged landscape, I studied an imposing rock formation ahead. “What’s that?”

“Mount Livermore, more familiarly known as ‘Old Baldy.’ At over eight-thousand feet, it’s the tallest peak in the Lincoln Mountains—the second highest range in the state. Only the Guadalupe Mountains are taller.” Keeping his eyes on the road, he smiled over his shoulder. “In fact, this whole area is called a ‘sky island.’ ”

I rolled the words over my tongue. “Sounds like a paradox—an island in the sky, not water.”

“If you think of the desert as an ocean, the mountains rise above it like an island.”

I glimpsed the peaks poking through the clouds. “Yes, here, the name makes sense.”

He turned right onto a steep, caliche drive.

The sun flashed, its glaring brilliance like the reflection of a splintered mirror.

Just before I shut my eyes against the blaze of light, a man appeared in a vintage uniform—brown trousers, blue shirt, and white suspenders.

When I opened them, the image was gone. A mirage? Orderly rows of vines came into view. “That’s your vineyard?” Bobbing my head left and right, I strained to see past Luke.

“Yup.” As if suppressing a proud smile, his cheeks dimpled. “Chateau Mont Bleu. Thought you might like to see it.”

“Absolutely. I love vineyards. I went to a grape-stomp once as part of a harvest festival.” I chuckled at the memory. “We picked grapes, trampled them with our bare feet, and then made purple footprints on souvenir t-shirts.”

“So, you’re an expert vintner, huh?” Tongue-in-cheek, he turned toward me as he slowed the truck.

“Hardly. That’s the extent of my expertise—other than in wineries’ tasting rooms.”

“Let me know if you ever want to pick up a few hours—or weeks—of work.” He scratched his chin, his five o’clock shadow sounding like sandpaper. “It’s hard to find experienced help in these parts.”

“Thanks, but I’d be more a hindrance than help. What I know about winemaking I learned in a five-minute how-to.”

“If you picked it up that quickly, you’re a fast learner.” Cutting the engine, he gestured through the windshield. “Home sweet home. Want a tour before lunch?”

“Definitely.” A quick glance took in an adobe cabin, a lean-to that sheltered a vintage tractor, and a DIY structure with rough, untreated siding.

He pointed out the buildings as we strolled the grounds. “This hunting cabin and lean-to were here when I bought the property, though a bit worse for wear. After restoring the cabin, I lived in it while I converted the old root cellar into a wine cellar”—his cheek dimpled in a smile—“actually, a warehouse with living quarters in the back.” He thumped an unfinished, poured-cement wall. “Later this spring, I’d like to add an open-air tasting room.”

“Here?” Walking closer, I studied the modest building.

Pacing off from the structure’s side, he faced me and held his arms wide. “This’ll be the edge of the covered patio. I’ll put a load-bearing column in this corner to support the roof and place the bar in the opposite corner, against the wall.” A spring in his step, he sped across the space, demonstrating his plans.

“Sounds ambitious.” Visualizing his design, I followed after him.

“With a shoestring budget, I’m hoping sweat equity makes up for lack of capital.”

“I’m sure you’ll realize your dreams, sooner or later.”

He stopped in front of a pueblo-style house.

Viga beams projected through the adobe walls. Built-in steps led to a roof terrace, and rough-wood columns supported the overhang that acted as the front entrance’s portico.

“You said this cabin is original to the property?”

“Yes, it was renovated in the early fifties but was originally built in the late eighteen-nineties. It’s small but comfortable. Want to see inside?”

“I’d love to.” I jumped at the opportunity to connect with history.

He punched the code in the keyless lock, opened the sturdy wooden door, and stepped aside. “After you.”

The viga beams spanned the length of the cabin, their dark wood contrasting against the whitewashed tongue and groove ceiling. A kiva fireplace was the room’s focal point, while skylights flooded the space with sunlight. The floors were gray slate, and the walls were white plaster with dark wood trim. A double bed, desk, table, antique cedar chest, refinished rocking chair, and two chairs furnished the main room, while a breakfast bar separated it from the kitchenette.

“Entering this cabin is like being transported back in time.” The longer I examined the main room, the more details I found to admire. I pushed open a heavy wooden door, and light streamed through the bath’s glass-tiled windows, while colorful, Mexican Talavera tile lined the shower’s walls, vanity, sink, and backsplash. Modern copper fixtures completed the updated yet rustic look and feel. “I love this cabin. It’s so inviting.”

“This is how it looked when I bought it.” He pointed to a framed photo near the fireplace, showing the same room, but with crumbling plaster walls, warped linoleum, and a broken door. “The restoration turned out all right…”

He sounded unconvinced as he regarded the room.

Doesn’t he realize what a fantastic job he did? I chuckled at the irony. “Talk about understatement. If your expansion plans work out even half as well, your winery’s bound to succeed.”

“Thanks. Appreciate your vote of confidence.” He gestured toward the door. “Now, how ’bout lunch?”

“Absolutely, I’m starved.” My stomach growled at the mention of food, and I started toward the truck. “Where are we going?”

“To my favorite restaurant, but no need to drive.” Wearing a mysterious grin, he waved me back. “We can walk.”

“Okay…”

“Are you up for a picnic?”

“In February?” Glancing at the remaining patches of snow, I squinted.

He ushered me toward a small, concrete patio between the vineyard and wine cellar.

A linen-covered table beneath a wooden arbor displayed vintage china, silverware, crystal wine glasses, a vase of pink roses, several covered platters, and an ice bucket holding a carton of orange juice and a bottle of champagne. Beside the table were two cushioned chairs and a gas heater.

“Lunch is served.” Wearing a grin, he pulled out my chair. “And you’re seated in front of the heater.”

“All the comforts of home.” How romantic.

“Would you like a mimosa?”

“This day just keeps getting better.”

He blended the sparkling wine and juice, handed me a glass, and lifted his in a toast. “To…what?” His eyes flashing in the sunlight, he tweaked a brow.

A smile tickled my lips. “How ’bout to fresh starts and new beginnings?”

“I’ll drink to that.” He clinked glasses. Then one by one, he lifted the covers from the chafing dishes. “This is sautéed mushrooms and asparagus, and that’s grilled chicken.” He pointed to the plastic-covered salad bowl. “Maybe you’d like to start with the fresh strawberry and spinach salad? Or would you rather begin with cheese and bread?”

“It’s a hard choice.” I blinked at the unexpected feast. “You made all this yourself?”

“Yup.” His cheekbones lifted in a grin. “Everything but the cheese, champagne, and OJ.”

“You’re a Renaissance man.” Impressed, I studied him. “What can’t you do?”

He bunched his lips as if uncomfortable, then offered me the cutting board with a wheel of brie and a round loaf of bread. “The brie’s so creamy, it melts into the bread.”

I tried cutting the crusty loaf with my knife.

“Don’t stand on ceremony. Pull it apart.” He gave me a lop-sided smile. “Bread tastes better pulled apart than sliced.”

I ripped off a piece, crispy on the outside and yielding on the inside. “This is a real treat.” After inhaling the bread’s yeasty fragrance, I added cheese, then bit into the buttery and crunchy textures. “Delicious.”

“That’s just the appetizer.” He laughed.

Is there nothing he can’t do? “You should open a restaurant.”

“Maybe someday.” He held up his hands as if fending off the idea. “But for now, I’d be happy just to get the winery going.”

“Understandable.” I nodded my encouragement. Then leaning toward the roses, I closed my eyes and inhaled their subtle scent. “Pink for Valentine’s Day?”

“Wish I’d thought of that.” A grin ghosted his face. “Actually, pink because we met on Wild Rose Pass.”

****

After lunch, he showed me the vineyard. “The vines are dormant now, so I need to start pruning them this week.”

“They’re so brown and reedy. They look dead.” I gently bent the tip of the nearest vine, and it snapped off in my hand. “Will they come back?”

He nodded. “Grapes only grow on year-old wood, so ninety percent of what you see needs to be lopped off.”

I gazed across the acres of vines and gave a low whistle. “You must have thousands to trim.”

“Which is why I need help.” He gave a dry laugh. “The best time to prune is now, while the vines are inactive. Ideally, a crew of workers would clip them in a week, but with just me pruning, the process takes longer, and if I don’t finish in time, I risk cutting into the vines’ growing season.” He grinned. “Pun intended.”

“You certainly have your work cut out for you.” I recalled the one time I’d harvested grapes. Clipping grapes was backbreaking work. “Can’t you hire a crew?”

“Sure, that is, if I could find experienced trimmers, and if I could afford to pay them.” The gleam in his eyes dimmed.

“If I were staying, I’d offer to help.” I bunched my lips. “But I’m leaving in a few days.”

“Yeah, I know.” He drew a deep breath before gesturing to the furthest edge of the vineyards. “Want to see Dry Gulch Creek?”

At my nod, we followed an intermittent stream’s gravel bed to where three huge cottonwoods towered above us, their branches bare in the wintry sun.

He leaned against the tallest. “According to the National Register of Big Trees, this is the largest Rio Grande cottonwood in the nation at seventy-nine feet tall and twenty-nine feet around its trunk.”

I gave a low whistle as I trailed my fingers over the tree’s deeply furrowed bark. “And I thought Marianna’s cottonwood was big.”

“Imagine the stories if this tree could talk.”

On cue, the wind soughed through the branches as if murmuring a subtle message.

More sensed than heard, a word seemed to waft on the breeze. Stay.

I perked my ears.

Stay.

“Are you up for a walk?”

Deep in concentration, I flinched. “Always.”

“This path loops around the vineyard in a three-mile circle.” He offered his hand as we climbed the steep incline.

I hesitated. Don’t start something you can’t finish. But despite my travel plans, I linked fingers. El Paso’s only three hours away…hardly a long-distance relationship.

Relationship? This is nothing but a chance encounter. Yet nothing happens by chance, so why did we meet? And why am I so attracted?

I side-glanced at his profile—a basalt jaw and cheekbones so angular they seemed chiseled. Watching his features instead of my step, I stumbled.

His hand around mine, he slipped his other arm behind my waist and caught me in a pose like a dip in a dance.

Suspended in his arms, I held my breath as I gazed into his expressive eyes.

He leaned forward slowly, pausing millimeters from my lips as if asking permission.

His breath tickled, and I arched my neck to meet him in a sweet, exploratory kiss.

Hormones revving from zero to sixty, I flung my arms around his neck, took the kiss, and ran with it.

Then Cody’s face flashed before me, and I froze. Whoa. What am I doing?

****

As she tensed, he regretted his lapse of judgment. But she did respond…Still tasting her lips, he held back his head to read her eyes. “Sorry.” He lifted her to her feet. “Didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“You literally swept me off my feet.” She laughed as if making a joke. Then she slapped at her thighs, brushing off imaginary dust.

Or is she brushing me off? Keeping his hands to himself, he gestured to the path ahead. “Still about a mile to finish the loop, then would you like to see the wine cellar?” He glanced at the time. “We have an hour ’til we leave for Aunt Rosie’s.”

“Already?” She checked her phone. “Seems like we just ate.”

It does. He picked up the pace and, twenty minutes later, led her into the wine cellar.

The temperature dropped abruptly.

He flipped on the lights as he shut the vault door, its sound echoing off the cement walls.

Stacked, wooden barrels neatly lined the rectangular, temperature-controlled room, while several A-frame wine racks held green bottles tipped on their sides.

“This is quite a production.” She studied the casks and ran her fingers over the bottles before turning toward him. “Did you make all this wine from your own grapes?”

“Yup, last year, I hauled ten tons to a custom crush facility to vinify them into wine.” He grimaced. “It took four separate trips and cost more than it was worth, but that qualified me to apply for Federal and State licenses to operate as a winery. Voila! Chateau Mont Bleu was born.”

“Impressive.” Again, she eyed the barrels and bottles.

“Want to sample a young merlot?” A pipette in hand, he hovered over one of the casks.

“You mean from the barrel?” Her eyes opened wider. “I’d love to.”

“This is my first attempt at a merlot.” He took two oversized red wine glasses from a cabinet, removed the cask’s bung, plunged the glass cylinder into the barrel, and expressed a small sample into each glass. After replacing the bung, he handed her a glass. “To young wines and new beginnings.”

She clinked glasses, the sound resonating in the chamber, and she took a tentative sip, swishing it in her mouth before swallowing.

“What do you think?”

She swirled the pomegranate-red liquid in her glass, holding it up to the light. She inhaled its fragrance. Then she sipped slowly, rolling the wine over her tongue, as if letting its flavors linger.

Again, he found himself holding his breath, waiting for her approval. He raised his brow. “Verdict?”

“Reminds me of a young Chianti.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. “Light and refreshing.”

Dismissing his uneasiness about the wine’s quality, he stared at the moist, inviting lips he had just kissed, tempted to taste the wine from her perspective. Instead, he held up his glass in another toast. “To wine—grape juice with experience.”

Clinking glasses, she grinned, this time sipping rather than sampling.

“Did you know, wine contains nearly all the essential minerals, antioxidants, and B-vitamins?” He held back his head while he appraised her. “Coincidence?”

“Nope, nothing’s coincidental, but I’ll happily drink to wine’s health benefits.”

“In that case, let’s also drink to its trace minerals: calcium, chloride, chromium, copper, fluoride, iron, magnesium, manganese, molybdenum, phosphorus, potassium, selenium, sodium, sulfur, zinc, and—”

****

“Show off.” Enjoying his company, I grinned.

“Another toast?”

“Wine not?”

“Oh, you’re on.” As if tickled by my challenge, he raised his glass. “To wine…liquid therapy.”

I wracked my brain as we clinked and sipped. “In case of emergency”—I held up my glass—“call nine wine wine.”

Smothering a chuckle, he swallowed, then held up his glass. “To making pour decisions.”

“A groaner.”

He glanced at his watch. “We should leave for Rosie’s soon.” Then, a smile twitching at his lips, he raised his glass. “Time to wine down.”

“Let me drink about it and get back to you.” Clinking, I giggled and drained my glass.

A small disk flashed beneath the overhead track lighting as it rolled along the vault’s center aisle.

He retrieved the coin and placed it in my hand. “Where’d this come from?”

I traced my finger over the tapering neck of Liberty. “I don’t remember the last time I saw a Mercury dime.”

“Then keep it as a souvenir.”

“You’re sure? Because if I recall correctly, they’re collectors’ items.”

“A dime isn’t going to make or break me.” He shrugged.

“Thanks.” I dropped it in my pocket as a memento. “I’ll research it later.”

“Before we leave for Rosie’s, would you like a quick tour of the living space?”

“Lead on.” Palm up, I gestured toward the door.

The door opened into an efficiency apartment.

“Home, sweet home. The bath and office are in the back.” He pointed toward two open doors at the far end, then gestured to the mini fridge, bar sink, wall oven, and microwave. “This is the kitchen.”

He made that fabulous meal in this tiny kitchenette?

A white, faux-brick backsplash ran from the counter to the ceiling, and track lighting lit the silver-gray granite countertops from above.

“That’s the formal dining room.” Tongue-in-cheek, he nodded toward the breakfast bar, separating the kitchen area from the seating area. “And this is the master bedroom.” He deadpanned as he pointed to a loveseat facing two armchairs with a coffee table between them.

I glanced about the space. “Where…?”

“It’s a convertible sofa. Nothing fancy, but it’s home.”

“What more do you need?”

****

Knocking as he opened Rosie’s front door, Luke called. “Anyone home?”

A chorus of greetings welcomed us.

The tantalizing aroma of homemade tamales filled my nostrils as I followed him inside.

Two dozen or more people lounged on sofas, easy chairs, and folding chairs, apparently added for the gathering.

After growing up with no family but my grandmother, I smiled at the friendly faces, eager to meet my cousins.

“Come in. Come in.” Rosie bustled toward us, hugging me. “I’m so glad you could come. Make yourselves at home.” Rushing off, she called over her shoulder. “Lucas, introduce Maeve to the family. I have to check on the barbacoa.”

More people passed through the living room on their way to a buffet table laden with tortilla chips, salsa, salsa verde, and pico de gallo.

A mustachioed man standing by a frozen margarita machine held up a full pitcher of lime-green slush. “Luke, would you and your friend like a margarita?”

Luke’s raised brow an unvoiced question, he turned toward me.

I grinned. “Why not?”

Leading me by the hand, he squeezed between the clusters of people toward the bartender. “This is Ricky, Rosie’s husband, and this is Maeve, your second cousin once removed.”

“Welcome.” A salt-rimmed glass in each hand, Ricky gave me a partial hug before handing over our drinks. As another couple queued behind us, he patted Luke’s shoulder. “Make sure you introduce Maeve around.” Then turning to the next duo, he dispensed two more frozen margaritas.

I chuckled, impressed by the man’s friendly efficiency.

“Want some chips and salsa?” Luke gestured toward the other end of the buffet table with his chin.

“Sure.” I stepped toward the fresh bowls of pico, salsa, and thick tortilla chips. “Are these homemade?”

“Aunt Rosie makes everything from scratch.”

“Must be where you inherited your kitchen skills.” Bumped from behind, I slopped my drink.

“Sorry!” A chubby tween pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“No harm done.” I pulled a packet of tissues from my pocket, and the dime slipped out with it, rolling beneath the buffet table. Groaning, I wiped my sticky glass.

“I’ll get it.” The youngster crawled under the table to retrieve the coin and handed it back. “Here you go.”

Reflecting the overhead lights, the dime flashed in my hand.

“You know what they say.” The woman behind me spoke in a sing-song voice. “Dimes appear when angels are near.”

“Could I see that coin again?” The boy pushed up his glasses.

“Sure.”

“This is a 1919-D Mercury dime.” His eyes opening wide, he pulled out his phone and scrolled to an app. “Whoa!”

“What?” Unsure what to think, I shared a blank look with Luke.

“You hit the jackpot. This dime could be worth up to twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Right…” Unconvinced, I squinted.

“See for yourself.” He held out his phone as he returned the coin.

Sharing the screen with Luke, I read the app’s statistics and gulped. What couldn’t I do with that money? Thinking of the possibilities, I closed my fingers around the dime. If my car’s totaled, this and insurance might cover a new one. Then taking a deep breath, I handed Luke the coin. “You found this dime. It’s yours.”

He shook his head as he gently pushed away my hand. “Like I said, a dime isn’t going to make or break me.”

“Maybe not ten cents.” Meeting his gaze, I grimaced. “But twenty-five thousand dollars would finance your patio bar.” I returned the boy’s phone. “Thanks for the tip.” Then I pulled Luke from the food line, retreated to the far corner of the room, and again tried to press the dime into his hand. “Take it.”

“No, I gave it to you.” His hand a fist, he refused to accept it. “It’s yours.”

“Lovers’ spat already?”

I flinched at the saccharine tones.

Her eyes steely, Bea smiled like a spinster at a wedding. “Shouldn’t the honeymoon last more than a day or two?” Her eyes narrowing to slits, she turned to Luke. “After sneaking out of her hotel room yesterd—”

“You and I need to talk.” Grabbing Bea by her wrist, Luke hustled her out the door.