by Jane Porter
Brock felt a pang as he thought of Amy. His wife had only the pregnancy and then six months with the babies before she died. She never knew them, not the way he did. He wondered if she’d be disappointed in him, as a father. He wasn’t a perfect father, not by any means, but he loved his kids. He loved them so much he’d sent them across the country to ensure they had the best education. He hated it when they were gone. The house was too empty. He was too empty. Life wasn’t the same without them. But he had to put the kids’ needs first. The prep school would get them into the best universities in the country and that’s what Amy had always wanted for their children. A loving foundation, a great education, and rewarding careers. Brock was trying hard to honor Amy’s dreams, but it wasn’t easy.
He’d missed the kids when they were gone, and selfishly, he was glad they were back. But they weren’t back for good. He’d drag them back to New York, kicking and screaming if he had to. This was for them.
And Amy.
Amy hadn’t had a future. He needed to make sure her children did.
Once Molly was patched up and gone, Brock washed his hands at the sink and then dried them on a hand towel, glancing in Harley Diekerhoff’s direction.
Earlier she’d lifted off the burned pastry crust from the top of the pies, throwing it away, before scooping the warn apple pie filling from inside the pie shell, transferring the golden gleaming filling into a dozen ceramic ramekins.
Now she mixed brown sugar and cinnamon and some chopped nuts with a little flour and a lot of butter, creating a crumbly brown sugar mixture.
“Making a crumble,” he said, surprised, but pleased. He’d been disappointed that the pies burned. He loved apple pie. He’d wondered if one of the kids had told her it was his favorite dessert.
She nodded, and shot him a quick, shy smile. “What’s the old expression? When you burn the apple pie, get rid of the crust and make a crumble?”
He lifted a brow. “I’ve never heard that before.”
“That’s strange,” she said, lips twitching. “Maybe it’s not an expression you use in Montana.”
“Or maybe it’s an expression that you just made up.”
She laughed, once, and her green eyes gleamed as she suppressed the husky laugh. “Maybe I did,” she admitted, beginning to sprinkle the brown sugar mixture over the first of the ramekins. “It seemed fitting, though.”
He leaned against the counter and watched her work. It was strangely relaxing, watching her bake. She moved with confidence around the kitchen. She obviously liked cooking and baking, and was certainly comfortable feeding a big group. His ranch hands claimed they’d never eaten better in their lives, and it wasn’t just the quantity, but the quality. Harley Diekerhoff’s food actually tasted good, too.
She continued to heap topping on the ramekins and he stayed where he was, leaning against the counter, enjoying the smells of apple and cinnamon along with the roast in the oven, as well as the sight of an attractive woman moving around the kitchen.
Knowing that she’d be gone day after tomorrow made him feel less guilty for lingering.
He wasn’t attached to her. Wasn’t going to let his attraction interfere.
And yet she did look appealing in his kitchen, in her yellow apron with cherries and lace trim. She looked fresh and wholesome and beautiful as only a country girl could.
“You’re a farm girl,” he said, breaking the silence.
She paused, glanced at him. “I grew up on a dairy, and then married a dairyman.”
Surprised, he said nothing for a moment, too caught off guard to know what to say. He wasn’t good at conversation. It’d been too many years since he’d chatted for the hell of it. “You’re divorced,” he said flatly.
She sprinkled the last of the topping over the ramekins, making sure each was generously covered with brown sugar and butter before rinsing her hands. “Widowed.”
He felt another strange jolt.
“I’m sorry,” he said, wishing now he’d never said anything.
She dried her hands, looked at him, her features composed. “It’ll be three years in February.”
He shouldn’t ask anything, shouldn’t say anything, shouldn’t continue this conversation a moment longer, not when he could see the shadows in her beautiful green eyes. But he knew loss, and what it was to lose your soul mate, and he was still moved by what she’d told him this morning, about how she’d never been able to have children, and how it’d hurt her. “How long were you married?”
“Almost twelve years.”
He couldn’t hide his surprise. “You must have married in high school.”
“No, but I was young. I’d just turned twenty. Still had one more year of college, but Davi had graduated and we married the same weekend of his graduation ceremonies.”
“A June wedding?”
“A huge, June wedding.” She tried to smile. It wasn’t very steady. “I think I had something like seven bridesmaids and my maid of honor.”
“You met in college?”
“Yes.” She turned away and began placing the ramekins on a cookie sheet. “We were both ag business majors, both from dairy families, and we grew up just eleven miles from each other.”
“Your families must have been happy.” He was prying now, and he knew it.
She shot him a quick glance, before sliding the cookie sheet into the hot second oven. “They weren’t that happy. He was Portuguese, not Dutch. They predicted problems. They were right.”
Her voice was calm, her expression serene, and yet he sensed there was so much she wasn’t saying.
And yet he stopped himself from asking more. He’d already prodded Harley the way he’d prodded Molly’s wound. It was time leave her alone.
“Thank you for taking care of Molly today,” he said, gathering the medical supplies he’d used. “I appreciate it.”
“It was nothing.”
“Nothing? You lost two perfectly good pies.”
She laughed. “And ended up with almost a dozen ramekins. So I think we’re okay.”
Brock stared at her a moment, dazzled. Her laugh was low and husky and perfectly beautiful.
She was absolutely beautiful.
Maybe too beautiful.
“Well, thanks again,” he said flatly, walking out, thinking that perhaps it was a good thing that Harley was leaving the day after tomorrow.
Harley was not an easy woman to have in his house.
She made him feel things and wish for things, and he wasn’t comfortable feeling and wishing. He wasn’t a man who hoped for things, either. Life was hard, and the only way to survive it was to be harder. Which is why he was raising his children to be smart, tough, and honest.
He’d never coddled Mack and Molly. He’d never read them fairy tales or indulged them at Christmas with holiday fuss, impossible wish lists, or trips to see a department store Santa.
And so, yes, it was an inconvenience to change housekeepers yet again, but better to change now, before Harley Diekerhoff had them all hoping and wishing for things that couldn’t be.
CHAPTER FIVE
The ranch hands devoured their beef roast and gravy, roasted potatoes, and braised root vegetables, before practically licking the little apple crisp ramekins clean, too.
Harley took the empty dishes and platters from Paul and Lewis, who brought the dishes back most nights, since they were the youngest hands, and low on the seniority totem pole.
“Everybody doing okay over there?” Harley asked, glad to see the youngsters on the doorstep, their scruffy faces ruddy from the cold. Paul and Lewis were nineteen and twenty respectively, still boys, and yet she’d discovered in her eleven days here, that these Montana boys knew how to work, and here on the ranch they certainly worked hard.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lewis answered with a shy grin, pushing up the brim of his hat. “We were all just saying that you take care of us like nobody’s business.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she answered, meaning it. She’d g
rown fond of these shy, tough cowboys, and she’d miss them when she left Saturday. It was on the tip of her tongue to mention that she was going but then she thought better of it. It wasn’t her place to break the news. Better let Brock tell them when he was ready.
“We made you something as a thank-you,” Paul said, reaching behind him and lifting a large hand-tied wreath made from fragrant pine. The green wreath had been wrapped with some barbed wire and decorated with five hammered metal stars, burlap bows, and miniature pine cones.
“It’s not fancy,” Paul added, “not like one of those expensive ones you’d buy in Bozeman at a designer store, but we all contributed to it. See? We each made a star and signed our name to it.” He pointed to a copper brown metal star in the upper left. “That’s mine. Paul. And there’s Lewis’s, just below mine, and JB’s, and the rest.”
“Hope you like it,” Lewis said. “And we hope you know how much we like having you here. We were also saying, if Maxine can’t come back in January, maybe you could just... stay.”
Both boys nodded their heads.
Harley smiled around the lump forming in her throat. “That’s so lovely,” she said taking the wreath and studying it in the light. “It’s beautiful. Thank you. Thank all the guys, will you? I’m really touched, and pleased.”
Paul blushed and dipped his head. “Glad you like it.” He hesitated. “There is one other thing...” Paul hesitated again. “Everything okay with Mr. Sheenan’s kids?”
“Why do you ask?” Harley asked.
“Earlier today Lew and me caught the twins trying to cut down a tree with an ax they found in the barn. The little girl was holding the branches back so the boy could chop the trunk. We were worried something would happen, he was swinging right over her head, and told them we’d help them if they wanted to cut the tree down. They said they didn’t need help so we left. But later the tree was still there, and the ax was on the ground, and we saw blood in the snow. We got worried they’d cut off their fingers or something.”
Harley’s stomach rose. Her heart fell. So that’s how Molly got hurt. She got hit by the ax.
Brock would flip.
The kids would be in so much trouble.
She struggled to smile. “The twins are fine, but thank you so much for checking on them. If you’ll tell me where they left the ax, I can go pick it up.”
“No need, we already did it,” Paul said. “And we finished cutting the tree down, too. We’d rather do it than see them get hurt. They’re just little kids still.”
Harley shut the kitchen door, wondering if she should tell Brock about the ax episode or not. He should know, but it should also be the twins who told him.
She glanced down at the beautiful rustic wreath the ranch hands had made her. It was wonderful, thoughtful, and charming and it’d actually look perfect in the kitchen, hanging on the big river rock fireplace above the mantel.
She carried the wreath toward the mantel, and was standing on tiptoe, trying to decide where the wreath would look best, when Brock entered the kitchen.
He’d changed into black plaid flannel pajama pants and a gray knit long-sleeved shirt that clung to his muscular chest and torso, before tapering to a narrow waist. “Thought I heard some of the boys,” he said, glancing around.
She nodded, trying to ignore how his flannel pajamas hung from his lean hipbones, revealing several inches of bare skin and taut, toned abs between the pajama waistband and the hem of his shirt.
Her mouth dried. He had quite a hot body. Goodness knows what else all those layers of clothes hid...
She licked her upper lip, moistening it. “Lewis and Paul just left. They brought back the dishes, and this.” She lifted the wreath. “The boys made it for me.”
“They made you a wreath?”
She nodded, remembering how he wasn’t one who liked Christmas fuss. “It’s a thank-you for taking care of them.”
One of his black brows lifted. “They know you’re leaving then?”
She carefully placed the wreath on the seat of the rocking chair. “No.”
“They just made you a wreath for the hell of it?”
“I think they like my cooking.”
He made a rough sound deep in his chest. “I think they like you.”
“I’m not encouraging them—”
“Didn’t say you were. I meant it as a compliment. They do like you, and I don’t blame them for being appreciative. Maxine kept their bellies full but she didn’t care too much about making them comfortable, or trying to make anyone happy. That wasn’t her job.” His lips curved ruefully. “Or so she’d say when the boys complained.”
“I can’t imagine those boys complaining about anything,” she said, filling the tea kettle with water and putting it on the stove.
“They certainly didn’t complain about her cooking ever again after she poured a cup of salt in their stew, and overcooked their biscuits by an hour or two, so that when the biscuits reached their table, they were hard as bricks.”
Harley laughed. “She didn’t!”
“She did. You don’t mess with Maxine.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “You eat what she cooks, you stay out of her way when she’s cleaning, and you wear your clothes however you find them... wet, dry, stinking of moth balls, or smellin’ of bleach.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“She definitely runs a tight ship. JB calls her Warden behind her back.”
Harley spluttered. “As in a prison warden?”
“That’s the one.”
“No wonder they’re hoping Maxine won’t return,” she said, glancing at the kettle, waiting for it to come to a boil.
“They said that?”
She shrugged. “More or less. But it was probably just a joke—”
“It probably wasn’t.” He sighed, and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I will have to do something eventually. Just not ready yet. She’s known the kids since they were toddlers, and she knows her way around the place.”
“So Maxine is like family to the twins.”
He grimaced. “I wouldn’t say that. She doesn’t remember their birthday or talk much to them, but she’s familiar and I trust her. She won’t spoil the kids, but she won’t hurt them, and she’s honest to a fault. So I’ve put off making changes.” Brock looked at her, shrugging wearily. “As you can tell, I’m not a fan of change.”
No, it didn’t sound like it, Harley thought.
For a moment there was just silence and then she drew a quick breath. “Speaking of the kids... have you checked on them?”
“No. Why?”
“They’ve been in their rooms for hours.”
“They’re supposed to be. I sent them to bed.”
“I know, but they didn’t have much lunch as they were too eager to get back outside to play—”
“If they’re hungry, that’s their problem, not mine.”
Harley bit the inside of her lip.
But he saw her face, could read her worry. “They’re in trouble. There have to be consequences for their actions,” he said.
“I know, and I agree that there must be consequences, but I don’t think it’d hurt to talk to them, hear what they have to say. They’ve been gone for months and they only just got home.”
“Then they should have made different decisions. They didn’t have to go to bed without dinner. They could have told me what they were doing when Molly got hurt, because I know they were up to something. Molly didn’t get hurt from a snowball fight. That was a cut next to her eye, a clean cut, with clean edges. Something made that cut and I want to know how it happened, and the kids know. But they’re not talking, so they’re in their room. End of story.”
She nodded, wondering if now was when she should tell him what Paul and Lewis had told her, about the ax and the tree, but she didn’t want to get the kids in more trouble.
“What’s wrong?” Brock asked. “You think I’m too hard on them?”
The kettle whistled, saving her from im
mediately answering.
She grabbed a pot holder and moved the shrieking kettle to a back burner. The kettle fell silent. “Would you like a cup?” she asked, motioning to the kettle.
He shook his head. “But I am interested in your opinion. You’ve been here a few days with them now. Do you think I’m too hard on them?”
She squeezed the pot holder. “I’m not the best person to ask.”
“Because you don’t know kids?”
“Because they’re your kids. I think you have to raise them according to your values.”
“My brothers say I’m too hard on the twins, but they’re bachelors. They don’t know what it’s like to have a child, to be the only one responsible for a child, never mind suddenly becoming the only person responsible for two infants still just breastfeeding when their mom is killed.”
Harley couldn’t imagine what it’d been like for him to bury his wife even as he had to become both mother and father to two babies. “Must have been awful,” she said quietly.
“It was hell.” His brow furrowed and he stared blindly across the kitchen, grief etched across his features. “Amy was such a good mom, too. She was such a natural... calm, and patient. Nothing flustered her.”
“Good thing, considering you had twins.”
“That was a surprise, but not a huge shock. Twins run in the Sheenan family, I have brothers who are twins—Troy and Trey—and my dad had brothers who were twins, but Amy and I were a little overwhelmed when Mack and Molly were born. They were small and needed round-the-clock feeding, and Molly had colic. She was so fussy.” He smiled ruefully. “She still is.”
“But Mack was easy?”
“Mack was born easy. He’d just sit there in his infant seat and chill while his sister wailed.” Brock shook his head. “Thank God Mack was so good-natured. I don’t think I could have handled two fussy babies on my own.”
“You’re a good dad,” Harley said quietly, meaning it.
“I make mistakes.”
“Everybody makes mistakes.”
“I guess we are managing, the three of us, but I thought the hard years would be the baby years. Instead, it’s getting tougher as they get older. They’ve got ideas and opinions and they’re starting to test me—”