Come Sundown Read online

  “I always liked that boy.” Cora set a plate of cookies on the table.

  “Good-looking as they come.” Miss Fancy took a cookie. “With just enough troublemaker in him to make him interesting.”

  “Chase, and his serious ways, was the better for it. And you were sweet on him,” Cora said to Bodine.

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  The grannies exchanged almost identical smirking looks.

  “I was twelve! And how do you know?”

  “Had the pining eyes.” Miss Fancy patted a hand over her heart. “Hell, I’d’ve been sweet on him myself if I’d been younger, or him older.”

  “What would Grandpa have had to say?” Bodine wondered.

  “That married and dead aren’t the same. We were married sixty-seven years before he passed, and the both of us were free to look all we wanted. Touching, now? That’s when married and dead are the same.”

  On a laugh, Bodine brought the tea to the table.

  “Tell that boy to come by and see us,” Cora demanded. “A good-looking man perks the day up.”

  “I will.” Bodine eyed the cookies.

  She’d eat healthy later.

  * * *

  By the time Bodine finished for the day, the snow was falling fast and thick. She found herself more than grateful for the cookies in the afternoon, as she’d missed any excuse for lunch and now ran very late for dinner.

  By the time she parked the truck back at the ranch, she was ready to eat whatever was at hand—after a glass of wine.

  She shed her outdoor gear in the mudroom, hitched up her briefcase, and found Chase in the kitchen pulling a beer from the refrigerator.

  “Beef stew on the stove,” he told her. “Mom said to keep it on warm till you got here.”

  Red meat, she thought. She was trying to cut back on red meat.

  Oh, well.

  “Where is everybody?”

  “Rory had a date. Mom said she was going to soak the rest of her life in the tub, and Dad’s probably in there with her.”

  Instantly Bodine tapped the heel of her hand on her temple. “Why do you put that in my head?”

  “The look in his eye put it in mine. I believe in sharing.” He waggled the bottle he held. “Want a beer?”

  “I’m having wine. A glass of red wine every day’s good for you. You can look it up,” she insisted when he smirked at her.

  Maybe she poured with a very generous hand, but it was still one glass.

  “So, Maddie’s pregnant.”

  “How the hell do you know?” Annoyed, she drank wine with one hand and scooped stew into a bowl with the other.

  “Maddie texted Thad how she told you, and just about everybody else within shouting distance, so he told me. And just about everybody else within shouting distance. I was waiting for it anyway.”

  “Waiting for it? Why?”

  “It’s a look in the eyes, Bodine. It’s in the eyes—and a couple comments here and there about fatherhood and such.”

  “If you suspected as much, why didn’t you pin him on it?” Annoyed, she gave Chase a hard poke in the side. “If I’d known a few weeks back, I could’ve hung on to one of the seasonal horsemen. And look who I’m talking to,” she said, grabbing a spoon from the drawer. “Never-Ask-a-Question Charles Samuel Longbow.”

  “The answer comes around anyway. I’m taking my beer in the other room, by the fire.”

  Sticking the spoon in the stew, Bodine followed him. Like her brother, she sat on the big couch, putting her feet up on the table.

  “I called every seasonal I knew could handle being in charge. I need more than a rider. The handful I tried all have winter work already.” She ate stew, mulled on it. “I’ve got a few weeks before Abe’s gone to the damn desert, but I don’t like putting somebody up front I don’t know, I haven’t had a good chance to train. I’ve got Ben and Carol, but as good as they are, they’re not managers.”

  “Use Cal.”

  “Cal?”

  “Yeah, he can switch back and forth easy enough. He’s as good as it gets with horses, and he’s a manager. You get too squeezed, Dad and I can fill some holes. Rory, too, or Mom. Hell, Nana can take trail rides. Rides pretty much every day anyway.”

  “I went by to see her and Grammy today. Rode Three Socks. When Nana found out, she wanted to ride him back to the BAC for me. Got a little put out when I wouldn’t let her because of the snow. She shouldn’t be taking trail rides in the winter.”

  In his deliberate way, Chase nodded, drank more beer. “She could do lessons.”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought of that. She’d like it. Well, if I can pull from the ranch on this, at least while Abe’s gone, it would save me from finding somebody else. You’re not completely useless, Chase.”

  “Me?” He swigged some beer. “I’ve got untapped uses.”

  “I don’t suppose those uses run to where we come up with about ten miles of red velvet, a dozen gold candle stands—five feet high—and a female harpist in a red velvet dress.”

  “For now, those remain untapped.”

  “Linda-Sue’s wedding. Her mother came with her today, and added or changed or complained about every damn thing. A waste of mimosas,” Bodine muttered.

  “You wanted to manage the place.”

  “Yeah, and I love it, even on days like this. Besides, the velvet and the harpist and the gold? They’re Jessica’s problem. The fact she didn’t tell Dolly Jackson to shut the hell up proves I was smart to hire her.”

  “Never figured she’d last this long.” Happy with his feet up, he studied the snow falling free outside the window. “And she hasn’t gotten through a Montana winter yet.”

  “She’ll last. Why wouldn’t she?”

  “City girl. East city.”

  “And the best events manager we’ve had since Martha retired five years ago. I don’t have to check and recheck everything she does.”

  “You do anyway.”

  “Not as much as I did.” She looked out the wide window as Chase did, watched the snow fall against the dark. “We’re in for about a foot. I better text Len, make sure we’re getting the roads plowed.”

  “Check and recheck.”

  “That’s my job.” Bodine shifted her gaze to the ceiling. “Do you really think they’re up there in the tub together?”

  “I’d bet money on it.”

  “I don’t think I can go up there yet. I think I’m going to need another glass of wine first.”

  “Get me another beer while you’re at it.” His gaze followed hers upward. “I’d just as soon give them another half hour before I head up myself.”

  * * *

  Bodine spent most of the next day checking the roads that wound through the resort, approving proposals, putting others on the back burner, and fast-tracking a request for new linens for cabins.

  She’d just settled in to review the winter promotions—brochures, mailers, website, Facebook, and Twitter—when Rory strolled in.

  He dropped into one of her chairs, sprawled out as if he planned to stay there awhile.

  “I’m just taking a last pass at the winter promotions,” Bodine began.

  “Good, because we’ve got a new one to plug in.”

  “A new what?”

  “Idea.” He glanced back with a smile when Jessica came in. “Here she is, my partner in crime. Mom’s tied up, but she’ll swing in if she gets loose.”

  “What’s this about? The brochures are scheduled for printing tomorrow, and the spread on the website’s due to go live next week.”

  “A few days later isn’t going to matter.”

  Knowing that was exactly the wrong way to approach Bodine, Jessica gave Rory’s arm a pat—and a pinch—before she sat. “I think we can build on the interest we’ve generated in the last two years on the Cowboy Cookery event and the Bodine Rodeo.”

  “The Bodine Rodeo’s our top-selling annual event,” Rory added. “But only about twenty-five percent who participate or buy tickets stay wit
h us, eat in our restaurants, drink at our bar, use our services.”

  “I’m aware, Rory. The bulk of the rodeoers have their own campers or RVs, or they bunk in motels. A lot of the ticket sales are for locals. The June Rope ’n Ride doesn’t generate the same ticket revenue, but pulls in more bookings. Some of it’s just the season.”

  “Exactly.” He pointed at her. “Winter season, what have you got? You got snow. And more snow. People coming here from out East or California, they want a cowboy experience, the trail rides, the chuck wagon, buffalo burgers, and they want it with a thick coat of luxury.”

  At home in a sales pitch, Rory crossed his fancy Frye boots at the ankles.

  “You got some who come wintertime, scoot around on snowmobiles or like to snug up in a cabin and have a massage, but three or four feet of snow puts them off, so we lose that potential revenue. Why not use the snow to add revenue?”

  Bodine had learned—though she could admit it had taken a while—not to look at Rory as her baby brother when it came to marketing.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Snow sculpture competition. A weekend event. Broad pictures? We’ll say four categories. Under twelve, twelve to sixteen, adult, and family. We award prizes, get the local media to cover it. And we offer a discount on cabins to participants for a two-day stay.”

  “You want people to build snowmen?”

  “Not snowmen,” Jessica put in. “Though that would be an option. Snow art, sculptures, like they do with sand sculpture competitions in Florida. You grid off a few acres, have a section for kids, supervised by staff. You serve hot chocolate and soup.”

  “Snow cones.”

  “Snow cones.” Rory shook his head at his sister. “I should’ve thought of that.”

  “We provide tools—shovels, spades, palette knives, that sort of thing,” Jessica continued, “but the competitors have to come up with their own ornamentation, if they want to. We hold a meet and greet Friday night, assign locations, kick it off nine sharp Saturday morning.”

  “You’re going to need activities for the younger kids,” Bodine considered. “Short attention spans, right? And they’d need to get out of the cold with something to do, foods, snacks. Adults, too, not planned activities, but a lot of them might want breaks.”

  “We set up a buffet in the Feed Bag. Maybe some heated tents for neck and shoulder massages. I can work out activities for kids.” Jessica frowned. “Stick with the winter theme. We could offer sleigh rides for an additional fee. We have a party, with entertainment, Saturday night, announce the winners, award the prizes.”

  “I like the concept, but you’re going to have to refine the details, the sales pitch, and the price points pretty quick. Get some photos. Snow Sculpture Extravaganza works better than competition.”

  “Damn it, it does,” Rory agreed. “I guess that’s why you’re the boss.”

  “And don’t you forget it.”

  “Let me start on those details.” Pocketing her phone, Jessica stood up. “Rory, how about we put our heads together in about an hour and nail it all down?”

  “I can do that.” He watched her go, turned back to smile at his sister. “She sure smells good.”

  “Seriously?”

  With his million-dollar smile beaming, Rory wiggled his eyebrows. “Seriously good.”

  “She’s too old for you—and too classy.”

  “Age is just a state of mind, and I got plenty of class when I need it. Not that I’m looking to go there,” he added. “Just saying what is.” He pushed to his feet. “You know, I can market the hell out of this.”

  He could, she thought. And he would. “See that it pays for itself,” she warned him.

  “Bean counter.”

  “Daydreamer. Get. I’ve got work.”

  More of it now, she thought, looking back at her computer screen and the current layout of the brochure.

  They’d need to change the layout with this addition to their promotions and events, and do all of that with enough lead time to draw solid bookings.

  She picked up the phone to contact the designer.

  Rory and Jessica—with an assist from Maureen—were as good as their word. By five o’clock, Bodine had a fleshed-out proposal on her desk and a mock-up of a design, the language, the price points.

  Tweaking it, approving it, getting the approved copy to the designer added another hour, but she counted it well worth the time.

  As she left for the day, she looked toward the Dining Hall, scanned the cars and trucks in the lot. Several Kias and a good number of SUVs, trucks, and cars from outside diners.

  Good enough.

  She wanted her own dinner, and some quiet time when she didn’t have to have the answers. Maybe an early night.

  After she pulled up at the ranch, she grabbed her briefcase and walked into the mudroom outlining an evening agenda in her mind:

  Glass of wine.

  Dinner.

  Long, hot shower.

  A couple hours inside a book.

  Sleep.

  Sounded just perfect.

  She caught the scent of—pretty damn sure—Clementine’s lasagna, and decided there was a God.

  As Bodine walked into the kitchen, Clementine—all six rawboned feet of clear-your-plate-and-don’t-give-me-no-sass-no-nonsense—let out one of her cackling laughs.

  “Boy, you haven’t changed one smidgen of one inch.”

  “Nothing in this world or the next could change my deep and abiding love for you.”

  Bodine knew that voice, the smooth, sly charm of it, and looked to where Callen Skinner leaned against the counter, drinking a beer while Clementine loaded up the dishwasher.

  CHAPTER THREE

  He’d changed a smidgen of an inch, Bodine thought.

  He’d been on the skinny side of lean when he’d left. He’d filled out some. Long legs and narrow hips gave him a rangy look, but he’d broadened out in the shoulders, fined down in the face.

  It had always been a good face, but now the angles were sharper, the jaw firmer. He wore his hair, which was the shade of a winter deer hide, longer than she remembered, so it curled a bit around his ears and over the collar of his shirt.

  She wondered if his hair still took on streaks from the sun when he left his hat off more than ten minutes. He turned his head, looked straight at her, and she saw his eyes were the same: that deceptively calm gray that could take on hints of blue or green.

  “Hey there, Bodine.”

  Clementine swung around, stuck her fists on her bony hips. “About damn time. You think I’m running a cafeteria? You’re lucky there’s a scrap left for you to eat.”

  “Blame Rory. He’s the one that dumped work on me at the end of the day. Hey there, Callen.”

  “You wash your hands,” Clementine ordered. “Then sit yourself down at the table.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”