Summertime on the Ranch by Carolyn Brown (leveled readers txt) 📗

because you came to get me, but it wasn’t me who’s…” She paused and glared at her grandmother.

“I know what I said, and it’s exactly what I meant. You should have stood up for him when Lacy came bursting in accusing him of something that he says couldn’t be true. Bloody hell, Becca. That woman’s like a doorknob on a public loo. Everyone has given it a turn with her, and if he said he hasn’t been with her in more than six months, then why didn’t you believe him?”

Greta parked in the drive, got out of the car and marched up to the porch. She didn’t even turn around to see if Becca was all right. Becca sat there a couple of minutes, then she slung the door open, got out, slammed it shut, and stomped to the porch, carrying guilt on her shoulders like a heavy blanket in the middle of a July heat wave. She went straight to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and met Greta in the hallway when she came out.

“You can be mad at me, but that don’t make me wrong.” Greta picked up the kittens and carried them to her bedroom.

“No, but I don’t have to like it.” Becca muttered as she closed her bedroom door. She dropped her dress and underwear on the floor, kicked off her sandals, realized that her feet were dirty and padded back to the bathroom.

She stood under the warm shower for several minutes, letting the spray beat down on her back. Her grandmother was right. Becca should have popped up on her feet, glared down at Lacy, and then showed her to the door. “Hindsight, and all that shit,” she said as she stepped out and picked up a towel.

When she got back to her bedroom, she pulled on a pair of underpants and her lucky sleep shirt, fell into bed, and practically passed out. When she opened her eyes, the sun coming through her window was attempting to burn holes in them. With a moan, she buried her face in the pillow. Her head felt like rock music was blasting away with the bass turned all the way up. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a hangover and vowed never to touch watermelon wine again if this was the price she had to pay for it.

She crawled out of bed, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and stumbled into the kitchen with her hand over her forehead.

Greta poured her a cup of hot tea and set it before her. “Drink this while I make you a good Irish breakfast to cure that wine hangover.”

“I couldn’t eat a bite of food,” Becca groaned. “I don’t get drunk. I don’t have hangovers. And on wine, Grammie? Have I lost my Irish wings?”

“No, darlin’, not until you have a morning like this after good Irish whiskey. Austin has figured out a few secrets, like how to make her top-shelf wine more potent. Did y’all drink a whole bottle?” Greta asked.

Becca held up two fingers.

“Bloody hell, Becca. No wonder you were fluthered! Me and the girls share a bottle and all four of us get downright giggly.” Greta set about making breakfast for two. “’Tis a good Irish breakfast you need, and another cup of tea, and then you’ll be ready to go to work.”

“Grammie!” Becca groaned. “Not a full Irish breakfast. I’m just two steps away from heading for the bathroom right now.”

“When you eat every bite of what I’m making, you will be cured. The black pudding, beans, and fried tomatoes are already done. Do you know how much trouble it is to get good black pudding in this part of the world? I have to go all the way to Saint Jo to get it, so you won’t be wastin’ a bite of it. Do you hear me?” Greta shook an egg turner at Becca.

“Yes, ma’am,” Becca groaned.

“I just need to finish up the bacon, sausage, and eggs. Then I’ll pop the toast in the machine, and you can begin to eat,” Greta said. “Besides, I’ve been starving for a breakfast like this. I love it even when I don’t have a watermelon wine hangover.”

Becca sipped her tea and hoped that she would be able to get a few bites down. Black pudding wasn’t something she enjoyed even when she was sober, but if Grammie said it would cure her aching head, she would force it down.

“Have you thought about what an opportunity you missed last night?” Greta asked as she put half a dozen pieces of bacon into the skillet.

“I can’t think at all,” Becca answered. “My head hurts too bad.”

“Then drink some more tea,” Greta told her.

“Why would Lacy do that?” Becca whispered.

“Because Dalton is showing signs of being ready to settle down, and she wants him.” Greta turned the bacon and cracked two eggs into another skillet. “He’d be a good catch, and besides all that, she’s probably got a bet going about how long it will take her to get him in front of the preacher. She’ll make some money and have a good husband too.”

“That’s just wrong!” Becca narrowed her eyes and set her jaw.

“Sin is sin. One ain’t no more wrong than the other. You not letting him explain or believe him was just as wrong as what she is doing.” Greta finished making two plates and carried them to the table. “Eat and then you’ll feel all better.”

“Do you think she’s really pregnant?” Becca cut up her eggs, dipped a corner of a piece of toast in the yellow, and put it in her mouth.

“Maybe she is, but if she is, then it’s not Dalton’s. Think about it: why would he get careless after all these years. He said he hasn’t been with her in six months, and I believe him,” Greta cut off a piece of the black pudding. “Cowboys have a code. If she is pregnant and the baby is his, he will marry her, but