Leftover Love by Janet Dailey Page A

another five feet off the ground, or you would have broken your neck,” he declared and started the motor.
    “Thanks for making me reel better,” she countered dryly. As they drove away, her gaze was drawn to the solitary figure standing near the windmill. It tugged at her.
    By the end of her third week on the ranch, Layne was beginning to feel like an old hand. Despite the three big meals she ate each day, she was slimmer and every ounce of flesh was solid. She could sling eighty-pound bales of hay like a pro and stay in the saddle when a horse did a fancy rollback in pursuit of a cow instead of getting left in midair while the horse ran out from under her. Mastering the art of milking a cow was another milestone.
    The orange sun was lying flat on the flanks of the distant ridges as Layne carried the pail of milk across the yard to the house. She had managed to finish her evening chores and milk Flo and be done before the others.
    When she entered the house through the back porch, the smell of fried chicken awakened her appetite. She used the bootjack to remove her muddy boots and kicked them into a paper-strewn corner of the porch.
    “Smells great,” Layne declared as she entered the kitchen and crossed to the sink to strain the milk into a clean pitcher. “Need help with anything?”
    “I don’t think so.” Mattie turned the chicken and dodged the spitting grease. “Oh, damn, I didn’t fix any dessert. Well, the boys will just have to be satisfied with some fruit sauce again tonight. Look in the cupboard and see if I have a jar of peaches up there, Layne.”
    Layne checked the cupboard and said “There is, but I think we have a little bit of peach sauce in the refrigerator, as well as some small containers of apricots and pears.”
    “You can set them out, but I doubt if this picky bunch will eat leftovers.”
    “They’ll never know it,” Layne assured her. “I’ll chop up the fruit, add this small can of fruit cocktail that’s in the cupboard, and mix it all with some coconut and whipped cream.
Voilà
, you have ambrosia.”
    “Sounds good.”
    “It’s a trick I learned from my mother.”
    “Go ahead and fix it,” Mattie urged. “I might even have some of that.”
    None of the men exhibited Mattie’s enthusiasm for the dessert when Layne set it on the table that night. Stoney tentatively spooned some into a dish and questioned Mattie about the ingredients. He didn’t appear eager to try it until he found out what was in it.
    “Ambrosia, huh?” Stoney frowned at the uncommon name that didn’t give him much of a clue about the taste and slapped at Hoyt’s hand when he dipped his spoon into Stoney’s helping of the dessert to sample it before taking any for himself.
    “Hey! This is good,” Hoyt said with some surprise and filled his dish to the top before passing the bowl to Creed. “Did you make this, Mattie?”
    “Layne did.” Mattie was quick to give her the credit.
    “It’s my mother’s recipe,” Layne explained.
    “Well, if your mother knows any more dishes that taste as good as this, be sure to fix them,” Hoyt insisted, hardly letting his attention stray at all from the dessert.
    “I gotta admit, Mattie, this is almost better than your coconut cream pie,” Stoney warned.
    Creed was the only one who hadn’t said anything about Layne’s dessert. She watched him calmly eating it, apparently unimpressed by its taste. His silence was galling when she wanted to hear his opinion.
    Grudgingly she asked, “Do you like it, Creed?”
    “It’s good.” He nodded but the answer was so bland it was almost meaningless.
    “Good?” Hoyt reacted to the passive compliment. “Is that all you can say about it?”
    “He’d say the same thing whether you set a can of peaches in front of him or some French pastry,” Mattie declared. “Nothing gets singled out for special praise.”
    “Well, just ignore Creed,” Hoyt advised Layne as he reached for the bowl to have a second helping.