Sarah's Legacy. Brenda Mott

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СКАЧАТЬ roll from the plate. “I love homemade rolls,” he said, looking at her.

      She looked right back and smiled. “I do, too, though I usually try to stick with something healthier.”

      “A little indulgence now and then never hurt anyone,” he said.

      She wasn’t so sure about that.

      Bailey reminded herself that fantasizing about Trent Murdock was not in her best interest. But her mind kept wandering back to Trent—shirtless. Come to think of it, there was absolutely nothing wrong with how he looked in his shirt, either. The faded denim fit snugly across his biceps, and the partially rolled sleeves revealed his tanned forearms.

      Bailey focused her attention on her cinnamon roll.

      Trent’s moan a second later had her toes curling. She jerked her focus back to him. He’d closed his eyes, savoring Camille’s homemade roll with obvious pleasure.

      “Man, this is great.” He opened his eyes, and she could’ve sworn she saw a twinkle in them. He tilted the cinnamon roll slightly to glance at the bottom but made no comment about her having cut anything away. “Do you bake very often?”

      “No, actually, I don’t.” Bailey felt her face warm. “I really don’t have much time for things like that.”

      Trent grunted. “Too busy making sure farmers’ loans get turned down, or are you just all tied up thinking of new ways to make the folks in town crazy?”

      Though Trent’s tone was teasing, the words stung. Bailey set her cinnamon roll on her plate. “Is that really the way everyone sees me—as the mean old banker? Is that what you think of me?” If so, why had he even bothered to be nice?

      Trent surprised her by reaching across the table to enfold her hand in his. “Hey, I was just razzing you.”

      A shiver started at the base of her spine and crept up to her neck. His touch was gentle and reassuring. It felt far too good. Far better than her fantasies. As though thinking the same thing, Trent glanced down at their hands, then quickly removed his.

      Bailey cleared her throat. “Hey, it’s no big deal. There are aspects to my job that aren’t always pleasant.” She picked up her roll once more. “For the record, I don’t enjoy seeing anyone turned down for a loan.”

      “Like I said, I was just razzing you.” Trent took a swallow of milk, leaving behind a trace of mustache that made her recall a recent commercial that sometimes featured sexy men.

      Got milk indeed.

      Mmm-mmm.

      Bailey pictured him shirtless again and mentally kicked herself.

      “But people in town do talk about me,” she said, her words more statement than question.

      “Sure they do,” he admitted without hesitation. “You’ve created quite a stir, coming in here with ways of doing things that aren’t typically small-town. That day care, for instance. And you’re holding a job position that traditionally has been male since Ferguson opened its very first bank. The old-timers, who’ve done the same things the same way their entire lives, are shook up.”

      Bailey picked up her glass of milk. “I can assure you that accepting the position of bank president at Colorado Western National had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to create a stir in this town. If something happens to the economy, given the crises the majority of family-owned and-operated farms and ranches face these days, then the bank could go under and take the town with it. I’m trying to help by making money available to new businesses. This will benefit the town by keeping more young people here, rather than forcing them to find work elsewhere. That’s why I was brought to Ferguson.”

      Trent lifted a shoulder. “I suppose. Folks just need a while to get used to it, to realize that things change.”

      He grew silent, and Bailey wondered if he was thinking about the changes that had occurred in his life the past year. She wanted to offer him a shoulder to lean on. But Jenny had said he didn’t like to talk about his daughter’s death, and Bailey had her own reservations in this regard.

      Trent saved her from her troubled thoughts with a crooked grin. “Hey, I wouldn’t let it bother me if I were you. Besides, a woman who bakes homemade cinnamon rolls can’t be all bad, even if she does own a rogue dog.”

      “He’s not a rogue,” Bailey said. “He just needs a little love, that’s all.” She finished the last bite of her roll. “What kind of dog do you figure he is?”

      A shadow passed over Trent’s features and was gone so quickly Bailey wondered if she’d imagined it. “I’d say he’s a blue heeler-mix,” he said. “Maybe part Border collie. They’re both herding breeds, which would explain why he chased my horses.”

      “You said you first saw him some time ago,” Bailey remarked. “Do you suppose he ran away from somebody during the Fourth of July weekend? I’ve heard that a lot of dogs get scared of the fireworks and take off.”

      “I guess he could’ve, but I don’t recognize him as belonging to anyone around here.”

      “Do they have a fireworks display in Ferguson?” Bailey asked. “He might have gotten away from someone who was just passing through and stopped to see the show.”

      Trent finished his milk and set down the glass. “I didn’t pay any attention, Bailey. I’m not much on holidays.”

      “Boy, I am. I go all out for every one of them, especially Christmas.”

      Trent’s expression went completely dark, then his face paled beneath his tan. Bailey could have kicked herself.

      Christmas. Trees. Duh.

      But before she could say a word, he pushed away from the table and put his dishes in the sink—a little too hard. “I’d best get back to work.” He strode from the kitchen and left her sitting there, feeling like a complete idiot.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      TRENT DROVE the posthole digger into the ground, furious with himself for letting his emotions show. Bailey’s comment had been totally innocent. She couldn’t have known. Still, the words burned inside him.

      He hadn’t celebrated a single holiday since Sarah died. Unless one counted his hanging an ornament on her grave on Christmas, as he had on her birthday and other special occasions…as he’d done the other day on the anniversary of her death.

      He gripped the double handles of the tool and let the blades bite furiously into the earth, venting his pain. A part of him wanted to block the memory of his daughter’s voice from his mind, and another part wanted never to forget it.

      I wish every day could be Christmas, Daddy….

      The back of his throat swelled, and he swallowed hard and blinked. He hadn’t ever viewed a Christmas tree—or a holiday—in the same way after planting the blue spruce on Sarah’s grave. He’d decorated it by himself. Amy hadn’t wanted any part of that.

      Pushing the thought from his mind, he continued to dig. He had all but two of the holes finished by the time the screen door creaked open a couple of hours later. СКАЧАТЬ