Hannah watched, hands hanging by her sides, as Margaret went inside the lodge and shut the door behind her. The fryer hissed again.
Groaning, she walked to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat. “Why is it, every time
I argue with her, whether I’m right or not, I always end up feeling like a total loser?”
“Because you like having her around.”
Hannah crossed her arms and frowned at Red’s back. “Sometimes, maybe. Margaret’s a good person—I’ll give her that—but I’ve adjusted to her for your sake. I miss things the way they were before she moved in.”
Red grunted. “And how was that?”
“Peaceful.” Hannah slumped back in her chair. “Predictable. B—”
“Boring?” Red glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
“No. Better.” She picked up a cloth napkin Margaret had painstakingly folded into a swan. “Practical.” Her lips twisted. “Without a swan napkin in sight.”
Red set the bowl of batter and spoon aside, grabbed a slotted utensil and plate, and scooped the cooked hush puppies out of the hot oil one at a time. “She’s making improvements to bring in more business. Something we need real bad.”
“She’s erasing every recognizable corner of this ranch in an attempt to attract a crowd.” Hannah dropped the napkin onto the table. The beak drooped. “Paradise Peak Ranch has always been a secluded, no-frills retreat—and crowds, we could do without. A few loyal guests who return regularly would do fine. Do you know she’s thrown out all of the original bedding in the first-floor guest rooms and put up seashell wallpaper in one room?”
He shrugged. “Margaret said she’s using different themes for every room.”
“But seashells, Red. This is a mountain ranch. You see any beaches around here?”
“What do you want me to say?” Finished removing the hush puppies, Red set them aside and faced her. “She’s trying to help in the best way she knows how.”
“She’s re-creating her old life.” Hannah thumped the fancy plate in front of her. “Surrounding herself with expensive things. Plastering seashells all over the walls to remind her of the beach house she and her husband used to visit every summer. There are more pictures of Phillip on display in the lodge now than there are of you.”
Red’s mouth tightened. “He’s only been gone a year. She’s still grieving.”
“I understand that, but this is still your home, and you should be comfortable in it. You should be able to use paper plates whenever you want. Play music as loud as you want. This place should be full of your memories, too.”
“You’re a walking memory,” he said. “Not just for me, but for Margaret. You remind her of Niki, and you help Margaret remember what it feels like to be a mother again—that is, when you’re not shoving her away. Being a mother is one of Margaret’s best memories. You begrudge her that, too?”
Hannah’s throat tightened. Oh, she hadn’t meant to go off on a tangent. And when she did, she always said the most awful things. If Red had no qualms about Margaret bulldozing into his daily life, it was no business of hers. When would she learn to keep her mouth shut and leave well enough alone?
“No,” she whispered. “I don’t mean to push her away. I know she misses Phillip and Niki, and that she’s an equal partner in this business. And I do want her to feel at home with us. I just . . .” She rubbed her hands over her jeans. “The more changes she makes, the more it unsettles me. I liked things the way they were when it was only the two of us. Before long, nothing here will be the same.”
“It’s not meant to be the same,” Red said. “It’s meant to be something new. That’s the whole point of me inviting Margaret to live here, and why she and I keep searching for more help. We need fresh ideas and a new approach. If we don’t try something soon, none of us will be able to live here much longer.”
A step creaked on the wooden staircase leading up to the deck. Hannah swiveled in her chair and peered over her shoulder.
Travis, as tall, brawny, and broad-shouldered as she remembered, stood on the top step a few feet away, his big hand curled loosely around the rail and his dark eyes seeking hers, then lowering. He’d shaved. His handsome features were clearly defined in the sharp sunlight: dark eyebrows, long lashes, high cheekbones, strong jaw, and sensual lips.
Despite the chill in the air, he hadn’t worn a jacket. Instead, he wore a long-sleeved shirt and jeans (which had seen better days), and even though his muscular frame still seemed intimidating, in this light, in this setting, he looked less dangerous and more . . . inviting.
Hannah’s skin heated beneath her shirt and denim jacket. She gripped the edges of her chair and straightened.
Eyes moving to her grip on the chair, Travis eased back a step and smiled slightly. “I don’t mean to interrupt. I walked the grounds for a while but got here faster than I thought I would. Is it okay that I’m early?”
Hannah nodded and lifted a hand to smooth her ponytail, wishing, for the briefest of moments, that she’d taken Margaret’s advice and showered. Wished that she was fifteen years younger—twenty, bright-eyed, and trusting. That her flesh had never felt the bruising force of a male fist, and that she’d never learned to fear someone she’d loved.
But she had.
Hand dropping back to her lap, she touched her fingertips to the inside of her elbow where, below thin layers of denim and cotton, a ragged scar marred her skin. It was a tangible reminder of one of Bryan’s violent rages involving a knife similar in size to the kind Travis had carried this morning.
“No worries, Travis,” Red called out. “You’re more than welcome, whatever time you arrive.” He jerked his chin toward the table. “Take a load off.”