Free Tell Me When It Hurts by Christine Whitehead Page A

she’d had more to say.
    * * *
    Two hours later, Connor returned with Hadley, who had stopped panting. She took over her end of the couch and promptly fell asleep.
    “ Thanks so much. I really appreciate what you did. Can I make you some coffee?” Archer offered.
    “ It’s okay. No problem. Animals and kids get to me. Take care.” He tipped his hat, gave a thin smile, and left.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 8
     
    Early that evening, Connor McCall showed up at the cabin door with Alice and a sack of groceries. He knocked, then called out, “It’s me.”
    Archer limped over and opened the door to find him there grinning.
    “ Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Connor McCall, your new neighbor, come to cook you dinner in light of your unfortunate plight.”
    Archer smiled, hesitated for an instant, then unlatched the screen door. She held out her hand. “Archer Loh, uncouth mountain woman.”
    Connor shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
    In twenty-five minutes, sautéed lamb chops, a tomato salad, and pasta were on the table. As he sat down, Connor looked meaningfully at the chops. “These aren’t part of my herd, by the way.”
    Archer reddened. “I’m sorry, I just . . . ”
    “ Forget it. I was teasing you, not fishing for another apology.”
    Archer smiled and cut her chop.
    “ Actually, Jordan Hayes, my best friend and vet, tried to convince me to raise cattle like everyone else out there—skip the wool thing. He thought we’d die on the vine the first winter.” Connor paused, took a sip of wine, and hoped he was putting her at ease. “‘Boston Bean and his little lambs,’ he called us.” Laughing, he shook his head, and was rewarded with a faint smile.
    “ You said you were a businessman before Wyoming. Did you know a lot about ranching before moving out there?” Archer asked between bites of lamb chop.
    Connor shook his head again. “Hardly. I grew up in south Boston. I did work summers picking berries at a farm, but there wasn’t a sheep in sight. After I lost my corporate job, I decided to try something completely different. Between the Internet and the library, you can learn almost anything, given patience and time. Well, I had lots of time and a decent amount of patience. By the time I bought my ranch, I was darned knowledgeable about the industry—book-wise, anyway. You name it, I studied it: soil types, sheep breeds, fleece microns, the marketplace. Decided to try this French breed. Turned out the books were right, too. Rambouillet sheep are tough, and they adjusted beautifully to everything about Wyoming.”
    “ Still, it sounds like a lot more work than the lamb chop game.”
    “ Well, it is, in a way. I mean, isn’t it always harder to keep something alive than kill it? Totally different investment in the outcome. But if there is one thing I know, it’s me. When push came to shove, I just couldn’t see myself spending twelve hours a day raising some animals just to kill them off.” He paused reflectively, then said, “Hey, I love a steak or a chop as much as the next guy, but, hypocritical as it is, I like it all cellophaned over at the grocery store. I’d rather work with my animals and get to know them than kill them off each season.” Looking a little embarrassed, he twirled some pasta onto his fork. He saw her looking at him and said with a shrug, “It’s one of my Colleenisms.”
    Archer raised an inquiring eyebrow.
    “‘ Colleenism,’ after my mother. She was a great dreamer. Always hoping for drama and romance in our little south Boston hovel. She read a lot of Thomas Hardy, that sort of thing. She had these notions that fate would always make things come out the way they were meant to, that man and animal are partners in life, valiantly facing nature together—totally unrealistic stuff like that. My crazy notion, courtesy of Mom, is that my little crew and I are working as a team with these dopey