San Antonio Rose Read Online Free PDF

going, Martha?”
    A gaunt, gray-haired woman who’d never married and who had no children of her own, Martha Spencer ruled her culinary realm with a spatula, an iron skillet, and the firm beliefthat food was the panacea for all the problems in this world. Toward that end she’d been cooking for three days straight, preparing a proper send-off for Big Tom.
    Martha had never met Rafe, of course, but Rusty had obviously filled her in. Her hazel eyes telegraphed a visual missive that she was doing her part to protect Tony even as she added her vocal assurance. “So far, so good.”
    “I’m going to write down the calf count for Rusty,” Tony said excitedly. Like the majority of the children who grew up on a ranch, he equated chores and the care of the animals with fun. “That way we’ll know what we’re going to need in the way of supplies when branding starts next week.”
    “Great.” Jeannie smiled at his enthusiasm. Big Tom had started early with his grandson, training him to take over the Circle C someday, teaching him the importance of each and every job, instilling a love of the land in his heart and soul. That Tony was so ready and willing to work on the day of his funeral was perhaps the rancher’s greatest legacy.
    “You’re not going anywhere until you finish your lunch, young man,” Martha interjected in an imperious but loving tone.
    Tony wolfed down the rest of his taco and reached for his glass of milk. He drained it in one long swallow, then took an ineffectual swipe at the white mustache it left on his upper lip with the back of his hand. That done, he got up from the table and dashed forthe back door and the most direct route to the barn.
    “See ya later, Mom,” he called over his shoulder.
    Before Jeannie could even open her mouth to say good-bye, he’d closed the door behind him. Tony seemed to be going through a phase where he had to race at everything. Sometimes, especially toward the end of a long day, she felt like the tortoise trying to keep up with the hare.
    Shaking her head in silent amusement, she asked Martha, “Is there anything you need me to take to the dining room?”
    The older woman shook her head and began clearing the kitchen table. “Rusty carried the last of it out while I was making Tony’s taco.”
    “If you need any help, call me,” Jeannie offered before pushing through the swinging doors that led to the dining room.
    The table had been extended to its full length and set with duplicate lines of serving dishes for smooth traffic flow. A portable bar stood in one corner, and the French doors leading to the patio had been thrown open so that the guests could eat in umbrella-shaded comfort by the swimming pool.
    Martha had done herself proud in the food department, combining the finest Southwest specialties with the best of Hill Country cooking.
    The mirror over the sideboard reflected silver ramekins of heuvos rancheros rubbingelbows with chafing dishes full of their fluffy scrambled counterpart. Bite-sized pieces of chorizo shared platter space with crispy cuts of country ham. Clay steamers kept stacks of tortillas warm alongside baskets of beaten biscuits. Bowls of spicy gaucamole backed up to boats of cream gravy. Dessert plates mounded with honey-laced sopaipillas and butter-rich sugar cookies brought up the rear.
    But food was the last thing on Jeannie’s mind. Rafe’s surprise appearance at the funeral, his kiss and her response to it, the terrible threat he posed where Tony was concerned … Everything had happened so fast, she needed some time alone to think. So after weathering a few more well-meant condolences and encouraging people to eat heartily, she slipped upstairs to her bedroom.
    She closed the door, shutting out the hum of conversation downstairs. Then she closed her eyes, and for a moment she was eighteen again, lying in her canopy bed on a hot July night, tingling with anticipation as she waited for the
thunk
of a rock against the window