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For years, I’d assumed that’s all I was — the offspring of two supernaturals with no powers of my own. But now… Well, yikes. What if Nash was right? And what exactly did that make me?
Chapter Seventeen
NASH
Technically, I’d already met Erin’s sisters — sort of — that first night in the bar. Dinner at their ranch started off just as awkwardly, and every word, gesture, and look was as loaded as before. To my surprise, though, things thawed quickly.
Pippa was the fun one, and her comments were all chipper, jokey, or playful. Abby was the broody one, and every look she shot me was a barb. Erin was somewhere in between.
Thank goodness for little Claire, the only person around the dinner table free of attitude or agenda.
“Who do you think was faster, Seabiscuit or Man o’ War?” she quizzed us.
A good thing I’d “met” both horses in her collection earlier that day.
“Definitely Seabiscuit,” Pippa replied.
“He was small, but fast,” Abby agreed.
Pippa snorted. “Like they say — it’s not the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog.”
“Mark Twain,” Erin murmured to Claire.
“Was he a horse too?”
I grinned and swirled the last strands of spaghetti around my fork. As, um — Unusual? Interesting? — as this family was, it was nice to share this time with them. It would be even nicer if Abby let some of the ice around her soul thaw.
My dragon snorted.There’s the pot calling the kettle black.
I frowned into my glass of water.
In any case, I hadn’t sat down to a family dinner in a long, long time, and it was nice. Logs crackled in the fireplace, and candles flickered softly on the table. Country music drifted in from the radio in the kitchen, and Roscoe’s tail steadily thumped the rug. His eyes were locked on Claire, his best hope for snacks.
“I think Seabiscuit and Man o’ War would tie,” Claire decided, then switched to draft horses. “Who can pull more — a Percheron or a Clydesdale?”
Horses and dogs were definitely high on that girl’s list — and probably the entire family’s. I’d spotted half a dozen horses on the way in — mostly rescues, according to Erin. Roscoe was the only dog allowed in the main house, but there were several more who’d greeted Erin — and growled at me — around the ranch.
Pippa, as usual, had the most to say about Claire’s latest question. As they chattered away, I looked around. Dinner was served on colorful glass plates handmade by Pippa — she was a glass artist, apparently — but the plates displayed in the cupboard to one side were all antiques. A worn braided rug cushioned my feet. A rocking chair stood in a corner near a window, with a shawl carefully folded over the back. The aunt’s?
Everything about this house and these people spoke of love, painstaking work, and hardiness. My eyes swept over it all, then met Erin’s as Claire chatted on.
“Mommy says Percherons are so big, they’re hard to ride bareback, but I think I could…”
Now, do you understand?Erin’s eyes asked.Do you understand how much this place means to us, and how much stands at risk?
I took a deep breath. Yes. Yes, I did.
A shotgun old enough to be my grandfather’s hung over the fireplace. Did they keep it loaded? Did they have what it took to use it?
Yes, I decided. Every one of these women was that tough, that protective.
“Are Percherons big enough for me, Roscoe, and Mommy to all ride bareback at the same time?” Claire went on.
For the first time that evening, Abby cracked a smile. “You and me, for sure. But Roscoe would probably prefer to keep his feet on the ground.”
It was a cute scene to imagine — mother and daughter riding bareback on a big, docile horse, with Roscoe running ahead. The lack of men in the image did strike me, though, and not for the first time. Other than Roscoe, I was the only male on the property. Was that by design or coincidence?
Even Claire noticed it. “You and Roscoe are the only boys on the ranch,” she giggled.
