Loving A Lonesome Cowboy. Debbi Rawlins

what?”

      “I’ve already made something for our dinner, but thank you, anyway.”

      He still didn’t move so she turned around and headed for the kitchen. As she passed the hall, she called to Misty that dinner was on the table. Behind her, she heard Ethan mutter a curse.

      She bit back a smile and kept on going.

      When they got to the kitchen and all that was on the table were crackers and cheese, a nearly empty jar of peanut butter and a cut-up apple that was beginning to brown, her bravado faltered. Embarrassment swelled in her chest until it blocked her throat. What kind of mother did he think she was? He wouldn’t know that eating like this for an entire month would still be better than staying under Cal’s cruel and controlling thumb.

      Without a word, Ethan set the basket in the center of the table, sat down and started unloading the food. A ribbon of steam spiraled up from the slab of ribs he unwrapped, and the pan of baked beans was also still hot, judging by the way he handled it. Two large ripe tomatoes and a bag of baby carrots had been carefully kept away from the hot stuff.

      When he pulled out the lattice-topped pie, her stomach rumbled indelicately. Horrified, she turned away and got out another plate and silverware.

      “Wow!” Misty walked into the kitchen, her eyes wide and focused on the table. “I’m having seconds.”

      Sara smiled, but the ache in her chest grew. She should be the one providing this meal for her daughter. “Maybe you’d better have firsts first, huh? After you say hello to Mr. Slade.”

      Misty looked shyly at him. “Thanks, Mr. Ethan.”

      He winked at her, a rare smile curving his mouth, and a flutter replaced the ache in Sara’s chest. Then she watched in amazement as Misty, who was normally shy around men, took the chair closest to him.

      Putting Ethan’s plate and silverware in front of him, Sara nodded to her daughter. “Let’s see your hands.”

      Misty held up both palms.

      Sara vaguely acknowledged they were clean. Standing so close to Ethan, she’d gotten a strong whiff of a musky pine scent that made her understand her daughter’s attraction to the man. When his gaze warily lifted to her face, she knew she’d lingered too long.

      Unnecessarily, she reached over and fussed with the stack of napkins. “This looks great.” Her voice sounded high, unnatural. She cleared her throat. “Did you make it?”

      “Only the beans.”

      “Oh.” She sat down and lamely passed the plate of crackers to Misty, who looked at her as if she were insane. “The drinks,” Sara said abruptly and started to jump up.

      Ethan laid a hand on her arm. “Here.” With his other hand, he brought out a carton of orange juice.

      Sara stared numbly at it. He hadn’t released her arm yet, and his warmth was doing strange things to her thought process. “Glasses,” she said weakly.

      “I’ll get them.” His hand trailed away from her and her entire body tightened.

      Sara swallowed. How pathetic. A man treated her with decency and she turned into a disgusting puddle of need. She helped Misty fix her plate, noticing that Ethan had gone unerringly to the cabinet where the glasses were kept. He took three down and was about to turn toward the sink when he realized she’d already washed them all.

      Their eyes met and she quickly looked away.

      “That’s enough, Mom.”

      Sara stared down at Misty’s plate. She’d dished up enough food for three linebackers. Quickly, she put the filled plate in front of her own chair and fixed Misty a new one.

      Ethan sat down and glanced at the mound of food. She thought she saw a twinkle of amusement in his eye, but he said nothing, just silently poured three glasses of juice.

      “Thank you,” she said, and Misty immediately echoed her.

      They ate in silence for the next few minutes, Misty eating so fast that Sara had to put a restraining hand on her arm twice. Sara’s own appetite had dwindled as she worried about what Ethan must be thinking.

      She wanted to explain to him she really wasn’t a bad mother, that her daughter had a good appetite, that she really wasn’t starving…that she was far better off today, homeless and poor, than she was a month ago, living in the Conroy mansion.

      Sara reminded herself often enough. It was essential in order to fend off the self-doubt that had been so intricately molded and sculpted by years of criticism and belittlement.