by Lori Wilde
Squaring her shoulders, Deannie mentally renewed her resolve. She had to win Brodie’s heart, and she had to do it quickly.
“You not supposed to eat it.” Buster’s little voice snapped Deannie back to the moment. Uh-oh, this didn’t sound good. What were those two up to?
“What are you kids doing?” she asked, standing on tiptoes to peer over the bar at the two imps at the table.
“She made a star,” Buster explained. “But then she ate it.”
“Angel!” Wiping her hands on her apron, Deannie darted around the corner to find Angel with a guilty expression and bits of blue clay sticking to her teeth.
“It didn’t taste good.” She made a face.
Deannie froze, her pulse racing. She had no idea what one should do in a situation like this. Call 9-1-1? Induce vomiting? Feed her bread?
She placed a palm under Angel’s mouth. “Spit it out.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I swa’owed it.”
Deannie groaned. She’d have to tell Brodie right away, but where was he? He could be anywhere on the ranch. Terrified, she wrung her hands and struggled to get control of her panic.
Think, Deannie, think.
The back door opened, and Brodie strolled inside.
“Thank God you’re here!” Deannie breathed and rushed over to clutch his arm. It felt so strong and reassuring in her grasp that she had to choke back a lump of relief.
“They were that bad, huh?” Brodie’s brown eyes crinkled at the edges, teasing her.
“No, Angel just ate some modeling clay; we’ve got to do something!” she said without taking a breath.
Brodie raised his palms. “Calm down, Deannie, you’re talking a mile a minute, and I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
Buster and Angel hovered nearby, eyes wide in terror. Lord, she’d frightened them too.
“Angel poisoned herself with clay, and it’s all my fault.”
“Do you mean this?” Brodie strode across the room to retrieve the box of clay from the table. He held it up for her to see. In bright red letters, the box read “Non-Toxic.”
“Oh.”
Feeling like a monumental fool, Deannie dropped her gaze and studied the floor intently.
“Don’t worry.” Brodie chuckled. “Angel will be just fine.”
“I’m sorry I panicked over nothing,” Deannie apologized. “Trouble is, I’m not used to kids.”
“Couldn’t tell it by me,” Brodie said, scooping Angel into his arms. “You’re wonderful with them. And I’d rather have you worried unnecessarily than being lackadaisical like Matilda.”
“I should have kept a closer eye on them,” Deannie fretted. “But it was time to start supper, and I had to keep them occupied somehow. I never dreamed they’d eat the clay.”
“I didn’t eat it,” Buster said, thrusting out his chest proudly.
“I sorry,” Angel wailed. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Deannie moved to where Brodie stood holding her and grasped Angel’s little foot in her hand. “It’s not your fault.”
Brodie gave Deannie the once-over. She could just imagine how she appeared. Flour on her face, hair in disarray, apron askew. Flustered, Deannie pushed her hair from her face and retied her bedraggled apron strings.
“Looks like they’ve run you through the wringer,” Brodie noted. “Tell you what, I’ll take these two terrors off your hands while you finish fixing supper.”
“Would you?”
She hadn’t intended on sounding so desperate. She’d wanted to prove to Brodie that she could handle the children, cook dinner, and clean the house, but she’d failed miserably.
Without any wifely skills under her belt, how did she hope to coax him into marriage? He might find her attractive, yes, but she knew he would look for a wife who could help him run Willow Creek. With her current track record, she was lucky he hadn’t asked her to pack her bags and get out like he had with Matilda.
“Unc’ Brodie,” Buster said, hopping from foot to foot. “I wanna piggyback ride.”
“Hold on, partner. Let me bend down, and you crawl on.”
“Yeah!” Buster said and placed a booted foot squarely in Brodie’s back.
Brodie struggled to a standing position, Buster’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck.
“You look like a packhorse.” Deannie giggled.
“I feel like one.”
“I don’t know how single parents survive,” she said. “Especially with more than one child.”
“Neither do I.” Brodie shook his head. “But I think sometimes a single-family household is better than a toxic home with two parents.”
His eyes met Deannie’s. His mouth drew down in a firm, hard line, and she wondered if he was thinking about Rafe. She knew what it was like to be disappointed with a father. She and Brodie had far more in common than Deannie cared to admit.
“I was about to go help Cooter feed the calves, you two want to come?” Brodie asked the kids.
“Yeah!” they hollered in unison.
Cooter? Cooter Gates?
Deannie’s blood turned to ice at the mention of the foreman’s name. When she’d started this charade, it had never occurred to her that Cooter Gates might still work at Willow Creek. Not after fifteen years. Not with the change in ownership.
What was she going to do? She’d only been seven years old when Cooter had last seen her, but how many red-haired Deannies had he met in the course of his lifetime? He was bound to put two and two together the minute he saw her and learned her name.
Fear swamped her. She’d couldn’t fail. Not now. Not yet. Not without a fight. She’d waited too long for the day when she would be old enough, brave enough, and accomplished enough to get her home back.
Cooter had the power to send her scheme crashing down around her ears. One word from him and she would never have the chance to convince Brodie to fall in love with her, and she would never reclaim the family homestead. She had to avoid Cooter, that’s all there was to it. But how?
“Deannie?”
She jerked her head up. Her pulse thudded furiously in the hollow of her neck.
“We’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Uh. Okay.”
The screen door snapped shut behind them, the children’s high-pitched giggles echoing in the distance.
Like a gambler holding a pair of deuces, whose bluff has been called, Deannie returned to the meat loaf with a heavy heart. Defeat was imminent unless she did something fast.
Throwing the meat loaf into the oven, she quickly peeled potatoes and set them on to boil. She opened a large can of green beans, dumped them into a pan, then slapped them on the stove to warm. Head down, hands clasped behind her back, she paced the tiled floor.
There’s got to be a solution.
But instead of imagining a way out of her dilemma, she kept seeing Brodie’s face. Cringing, she envisioned how he would look when Cooter recognized her and revealed who she really was. She saw Brodie’s mouth harden into the same unforgiving expression he’d turned on Kenny the evening he found her playing cards at the Lonesome Dove.
Deannie shuddered. Her chance to live at Willow Creek Ranch again could forever shatter by one sentence from the old foreman.
Perhaps if she hid her hair. Tied it up in a scarf. It would buy her some time until she could come up with a permanent answer.
Grasping at straws, Deannie left the food cooking and scurried upstairs to her bedroom. She braided her hair and coiled it around her head. Pinning it into place, she covered the whole thing with a blue bandanna.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror and laughed. Well, if Brodie Trueblood was looking for a rancher’s wife, he need search no farther. Staring back at her was the epitome of a country girl. Fresh-faced with no makeup, the apron stained with food, hair covered in a work scarf, sleeves rolled up for hard work, nobody would mistake her for a bar dolly now.
Please, let this w
ork, she sent a prayer to the heavens, then hurried back downstairs just in time to finish cooking supper.
This was her plan. She’d set the table, lay out the food, then disappear upstairs when the ranch hands came stomping through the door. If Cooter caught sight of her, maybe he wouldn’t think twice about her. She expected Brodie to check on her, but she had that covered. She’d tell him she had a headache.
Another fib.
Getting honorable now, Deannie? Her conscience gnawed. Dang. If Brodie had been like his father and brother, she would have no qualms about her scheme.
But he’s not like them, is he?
No. He wasn’t. Brodie was kind and generous, honest and true. But was she so wrong, hoping to marry him? After all, she was attracted to him and him to her, or so it seemed. What was so bad about marrying to get something? People did it all the time.
But not under false pretenses.
Deannie pressed her hands over her ears to drown out her nagging inner voice and didn’t hear the footsteps on the back porch until it was too late to flee.
Trembling, she pressed her palms together and watched the back door swing open.
“Deannie?” Brodie. His boot heels scraped against the cement steps.
Her heart pounded in response. “Yes?” She twisted her fingers into a knot behind her back and held her breath.
“Hi.” He grinned, stepping into the room. “Something smells delicious.”
“Where are the kids?” she asked. “I’ll feed them in the kitchen.”
“Rory’s got them. They’re right behind me.” Brodie’s eyes narrowed as he came closer. “Are you all right? You look funny.”
“S-s-sure,” she stammered. Heck, she didn’t need Cooter to give her away; she was doing a damned fine job of it herself. “Why?”
“Your face is flushed. Like you have a fever.”
Before she could react, he reached over and laid his palm across her forehead. That simple act sent blood surging through her veins in quick, vicious spurts. She felt lightheaded. Reaching out, she grasped the back of a chair and curled her fingers around it for support.
“Just hot in the kitchen.”
“Is that why you tied your hair up?”
“Uh-huh.” Why didn’t he take his hand away!
“I guess that’s it. You don’t feel like you have a fever.” Almost reluctantly, he dropped his arm to his side, and Deannie breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m fine.”
“That’s good. I’d hate for you to get sick.” His tenderness was a stake through her chest.
From outside she heard the others treading up the porch steps.
“Here come the troops,” Brodie said. “You missed them at dinner yesterday, but now you’ll meet everybody.”
That’s exactly what she was afraid of.
“Now that you mention it,” Deannie said, fingering her brow, “I feel a sick headache coming on.”
“I’ll get you some aspirin,” he offered.
But it was too late. The ranch hands poured through the door, Angel and Buster riding the shoulders of two men.
Deannie saw Cooter Gates, and she inhaled sharply, waiting for his cry of recognition.
The foreman ambled in, his hands moving before him to feel the way. Blinking, Deannie shook her head. She had recalled him as an old man, but that had been from a child’s point of view. He was probably in his early sixties, she estimated, still slim, wearing the same western-style plaid shirts she remembered. His hair was grayer, and he sported a scraggly beard, but what captured her attention were his eyes.
Eyes that had once been blue and lively with a teasing light were now vacant and icy. Eyes ruined by too many days spent in the hot Texas sun without protective sunglasses. Eyes scarred white by cataracts.
One ranch hand offered his arm, and Cooter took it for support as he maneuvered into the dining room.
Realization struck Deannie hard. Sadness mingled with relief as she watched the older man settle into his chair.
Cooter was blind.
It saved her. Deannie took the old man’s blindness as a clear, unmistakable sign. The heavens were in agreement. She was the rightful owner of Willow Creek Ranch.
7
What was the matter with Deannie? She was acting mighty skittish this evening. Was she still upset over Angel eating the clay?
Brodie slid a glance her way, but she hadn’t spoken a word since supper. Those two preschoolers could definitely wear you out. Perhaps it was just a headache. But when he’d introduced her to Cooter, Deannie had gripped the table with both hands, and she’d held her breath for the longest time.
What was it Cooter had said? Something about having once known a little girl named Deannie. Why would that upset her?
Naw, he was reading more into things than was there.
Deannie washed dishes at the sink. She’d loaded the dishwasher, but with this crew, there were more dishes than there was room in the dishwasher. Metal utensils clanked against stainless steel. Her sleeves rolled up past her elbows, she seemed studiously intent on scrubbing the floral pattern off his mother’s plates.
Thankfully, she had changed from that skimpy little halter top and those thigh-high denim shorts into jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. The ranch hands were in the den watching television with Buster and Angel. Brodie finished clearing the table and brought the remaining dishes over to the sink.
His gaze trailed down Deannie’s back and lingered on that well-toned tushy encased in those tight blue jeans. Brodie had a sudden urge to peel that bandana from her head, tug the pins from her hair, and let it float free and silky through his fingers.
“If you’ll put Buster and Angel to bed, I’ll finish the dishes,” he offered.
Deannie turned to look at him. Her blue eyes, muted in the fluorescent lighting, appeared sad. “It’s a deal.”
“How’s your headache?”
“It’s gone.”
“Maybe you’d like to come sit out on the porch with me when you get the kids down?”
“Maybe.”
Her expression remained noncommittal, her tone even and devoid of emotion. He couldn’t read her. What was she thinking?
“There’s banana ice cream in the freezer. We could enjoy a bowl and watch the fireflies flicker through the honeysuckle,” he tempted.
“Maybe.”
She took the children upstairs, and Brodie turned his attention to the dishes. It was nice having Deannie around the house, he admitted. All day he’d looked forward to coming home and getting to know her better.
He prayed Buster and Angel would be so tired they’d fall asleep as soon as their heads hit their pillows. He wanted Deannie with him on the front porch swing, looking up at the stars and telling him all about herself.
The television clicked off, and the ranch hands shuffled through the kitchen, Rory guiding Cooter around the furniture. They wished Brodie goodnight and soon disappeared out the back door.
Thankful silence ensued.
Brodie wiped down the countertop, then checked his watch. Feeling more nervous than Rafe at an old-fashioned tent revival prayer meeting, Brodie paced the kitchen. It wasn’t good to be so anxious. This inexplicable magnetism drawing Brodie to her could lead him into trouble if he wasn’t careful.
The stairs creaked, and his pulse skipped. Swallowing hard, Brodie retrieved the ice cream from the freezer in the corner and scooped some into two bowls. Without looking up, he heard her enter the kitchen on kitten-quiet feet.
“Kids down for the count?” He smiled.
Deannie nodded. “It only took four pages of Curious George.”
“They had fun today,” Brodie commented. “I haven’t seen them laugh this much since Emma left Kenny. It’s been tough on them.”
“Family problems usually are.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Something dark. Something hidden deep inside her. Was she speaking from personal experience?
“The children like you,”
Brodie said, handing Deannie a bowl of ice cream.
She’d taken her hair down, he noticed, his body instantly responding to the lovely sight. Turning, he stowed the ice cream carton back in the freezer. “When I took them outside to feed the calves, they chattered about you nonstop.”
“I like them, too.” A soft smile lifted her mouth. “It’s funny. I’ve never been around small children, and I thought I wouldn’t enjoy it much, but I do.”
“They can be a handful, no doubt about it.” Brodie placed his hand lightly on Deannie’s elbow. “But they are great.”
To his delight, she didn’t pull back. Instead, she allowed him to guide her down the hallway and out onto the front porch.
“We’ll leave the door open,” he said. “In case the kids wake up and call for us.”
“You act like their father.”
Brodie frowned. “That’s because their own father won’t assume his responsibilities.” Thinking of his brother sent a spark of anger flaring through him. “But let’s not ruin the moment by talking about Kenny. I just want to sit here with you and enjoy my ice cream.”
The porch swing chains creaked as they settled into it together. The dish of ice cream burned cold in his hands.
A slight breeze blew, tousling Deannie’s flame-red mane. Cicadas buzzed in the mimosa tree on the front lawn. Buster’s tricycle sat overturned on the sidewalk. The large climbing yellow rosebush his mother had planted fifteen years ago was in full bloom, crawling all over the white lattice trellis. The sweet aroma drifted over to them.
Brodie remembered when they had planted that bush. He and Mama together. His mother had been so proud to finally have a permanent place to call her own. And not just a humble home but a fine farmhouse. Overnight, she’d gone from a shanty to Willow Creek Ranch.
He knew his mother had always felt guilty about the way Rafe got the ranch, but she’d been so excited over their own good fortune, she had pushed thoughts of that other family aside. She’d stuck by her husband through the bad times, and Melinda Trueblood considered the ranch her reward for putting up with so much.
Looking out across the yard, Brodie wondered what had happened to Gil Hollis and his little daughter. She’d be grown by now, he realized. In her early twenties. Now with Rafe gone, maybe he could track her down, find some way to make amends for what had happened. He imagined she held no love for Truebloods.