Нора Робертс - Hideaway

And even though he’d only been six, they’d let him groom her and work with her on the lead line when she got old enough. He’d been the first to stretch his body over her back to get her used to weight. The first to ease a saddle on her, the first to ride her.

He’d helped train others since—and thought he was pretty good at it. But Comet was his.

And he’d been by her side when she’d had her first foal the previous spring.

He just liked being a rancher—an agricultural rancher, because they planted and grew and harvested and sold vegetables, had an orchard of fruit trees, even Gram’s vineyard, though she mostly made wine for herself and friends.

He didn’t mind all the chores (in fact, he liked chores a lot better than school). The planting and hoeing, feeding and watering stock, even making hay when the sun beat down, or helping run their stall at the farmer’s market.

He liked living up high on the cliff, seeing the ocean every day, or walking the fields—even better, riding over the fields, into the woods.

Winter Saturdays meant a lot of chores he handled by himself, or with his mom giving him a hand where she could. Inside the house, Gram and his mom would be baking—bread and pies and cakes for the cooperative. From Friday morning into Saturday the house smelled really, really good.

Sometimes Gram made candles, too, from soy and put smelly stuff in them. She was teaching him how, just like they were teaching him how to bake bread and all that.

He’d rather feed the pigs and chickens, watch them scramble around, haul the feed to the troughs for the beef cattle, milk the nanny goats. And muck out stalls.

He’d finished most of the morning routine before eleven—real ranchers, Dillon knew, started early—and hauled the last wheelbarrow from the stalls to the dung pile.

He heard the car coming up the ranch road, looked up at the sky to gauge the time. His good pals Leo and Dave were coming over to hang, but not until the afternoon.

So too early for them.

He rolled the empty wheelbarrow back to the barn, stowed it, and, slapping his work gloves on his pants to clean them, wandered over to see who was coming.

In the way of boys, he recognized the shining silver vehicle as a BMW—a fanCEE SUV. He just didn’t know anybody who drove one.

Seeing as he was the man of the house, he waited—legs spread, thumbs hooked in his front pockets.

And when he saw Hugh Sullivan get out, he walked the rest of the way over to say hello.

“Hi, Mr. Sullivan.”

“Dillon.”

In a way that made Dillon feel very much man of the house, Hugh offered his hand to shake before he just looked around.

“I didn’t really take all this in when we were here. So much worry, and it was dark. You have a very beautiful place.”

“Thanks.”

Hugh gestured at the work gloves now flopping in Dillon’s back pocket. “And I can see you work hard to tend it. I realize you must have a great deal more work to do, but I wonder if I could take a few minutes of your time, speak to you, your mother, your grandmother.”

“Sure. I’m mostly finished with the morning chores. Mom and Gram are inside baking. They bake most of Friday for the co-op, but there’s a special thing tomorrow, so they’re baking more today.”

Maybe he thought it was too bad Cate hadn’t come, but he didn’t say anything.

“Ah, the sheriff came over the other day to tell us they caught the guys who kidnapped Cate. That they were in prison and everything already. I’m glad,” he said as he walked Hugh to the door. “The man who killed my dad’s in prison.”

Hugh pulled up short, looked back down at the boy. “I’m so sorry about your dad, Dillon. I didn’t know.”

“I was really little, so I don’t remember him. But he was a hero.”

After swiping his boots hard on the mat, Dillon opened the door. He remembered his manners. “I can hang up your coat.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

As Dillon took it, Hugh drew in a deep breath. “It smells like heaven should.”

Dillon grinned. “It gets even better in the kitchen. Since you’re here, they’re going to ask if you want some pie or cookies or something. If you don’t say no, I get some, too.”

Charmed, Hugh put a hand on Dillon’s shoulder. “I won’t say no.”

He led him back, through the scents of fresh bread, rising dough, baked fruit, and sugar to where the women, in their big aprons, worked a kind of production line.

Pies, loaves of bread, four unfrosted cakes, cookies spread out on cooling racks on a long counter. He saw a number of white bakery boxes with the Horizon Ranch label hiding their treasures on the dining room table.

A big stand mixer whirled some sort of batter while Julia—her hair bundled up in a small cook’s cap—pulled another tray of cookies from the oven. At the island, Maggie cranked some sort of device to peel and core apples for the pie crusts already waiting.

Music pumped out of a boom box, shaking the redolent air with rock and roll.

Hugh thought the women were as graceful as ballerinas, as strong as lumberjacks, as focused as scientists.

“Mom! Mr. Sullivan’s here.”

“What? Have you finished with— Oh.” Spotting Hugh, Julia set down the tray, dusted her hands on her apron. After tapping her mother’s shoulder, she switched off the music.

“Sorry,” she began, “for the chaos.”

“It’s not. It’s amazing. I apologize for interrupting.”

“I could use a quick break.” Maggie rolled her shoulders. “Dillon, why don’t you take Hugh into the living room?”

“I wonder if I could just sit in here?” Hugh closed his eyes, drew an exaggerated breath. “And get drunk on the scents.”

“Sit right down wherever you like.” Julia switched off the mixer. “Dillon, don’t touch a thing. Go wash your hands.”

“I know the rules.” He rolled his eyes, walked out, because one of the rules meant he couldn’t wash hands after chores in the kitchen on a baking day.

“I’m going to speak my mind,” Maggie decided, “and tell you you look worn out, tired out. I’m not going to offer you coffee because sometimes what a body needs is a good herbal tea. I have just the thing.”

Grateful, he sat at the table crowded with their baking tools while Maggie put on a kettle. And smiled when Julia put an assortment of cookies on a plate.

“Thanks can’t possibly cover it.”

“Yes, they can,” Julia told him. “We’re all so relieved the people responsible are in prison. How’s Caitlyn?”

“She…” He’d planned to say she was doing well, but the worry, the stress simply spilled out. “She has nightmares, and she’s afraid to be alone. Aidan, my son, he’s going to take her to a therapist, a specialist, someone she can talk to.”

He paused when Dillon rushed back in. “He said he wanted to talk to all of us.”

“And I do. Maybe you can sit here with me, help me with these cookies.”

“Go ahead, Dillon.” As she spoke, Julia got a jug out of the fridge, poured a glass of goat’s milk for her son.

“My wife—Lily—she wanted me to add her thanks. She would have come with me, but she went with Aidan and Cate back to L.A. They’re going to stay in our guesthouse for now. Cate didn’t want to go back to their house.”

“Because her mother lived there.”

“Dillon,” Julia murmured.

“No, he’s right. That’s exactly right. My mother left for Ireland this morning. The house here … it feels too big for her without my father. Too full of memories of him that, right now, make her sad. Aidan’s going to take our Catey there, away from all this. We all think it’ll be good for her, and she wants to go.”

“You’ll miss them.”