Smiling at Hana, Miranda said, “Would you like to sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on these pumpkin tarts?”
“Yes, please.” The girl, who’d blossomed verbally in the past weeks, hopped down off a green stool Linc had bought her on one of their excursions into town. He joked that Hana and Scraps had turned into Randi’s twin shadows. It was true. Miranda had to take care where she stepped or risk landing on one or both.
As she slipped Hana’s tarts into the oven, Linc opened the back door and Miranda glanced up. Her ready smile died. “Linc, what happened…? Come sit. Ooh, there’s so much blood.” She ripped off a handful of paper towels.
He stumbled in and dropped into a kitchen chair. Blood dripped from his right temple, down his cheek, spilling onto his shirt and even the floor. Hana grabbed Scraps and shrank into a corner as Miranda again asked what had happened.
“We were pulling the last sled loaded with olive trees out to the north orchard when the cable attaching the sled to the tractor snapped. It coiled back like a sidewinder and popped me good,” he said, warily touching two fingers to his cut.
Miranda batted his hand away. “Stop! Your hands are covered with dirt.”
“It’s clean dirt,” he said. But nevertheless he let his hand fall to his lap.
Sinking to her knees, Miranda rummaged in a lower cupboard. “I know Jenny put one of the first-aid kits you bought in here. Ah, got it.” She backed out, red-cheeked but triumphant. She’d soon ripped open several sanitary gauze packets and used them to blot the blood. “It’s a jagged, ugly wound. You’re going to have a black eye and I’ll bet a king-size headache. You probably need stitches, Linc. It’s really deep.”
“How deep? This is the afternoon before a holiday. There won’t be a doctor in his office by the time we drive into town.”
“That’s why hospitals have emergency rooms.”
“No. No hospital. They let my sister die. Tape me up. I’ll heal.”
She dabbed some more, all the while speaking reassuringly to Hana, who’d started to cry. In Linc’s ear, Miranda murmured, “I can apply a butterfly strip, but it’ll still scar.”
“Do it,” he growled. Feeling her cool hands on his skin, Linc stared woozily at inviting breasts precisely aligned with his eyes. He fought an urge to bury his already aching head in their softness. Just then, Miranda warned him, “Get ready. This is gonna hurt.”
“Shit!” Hurt was an understatement if Linc ever heard one. Whatever she poured over his temple stung like hell. He grabbed her hips with both hands and hung on tight as wave after wave of pain all but tore off the top of his head.
As the spinning kitchen began to slow, her amused voice penetrated his mental fog. “Linc, are you still with me? If you don’t turn me loose, there’ll be two of us sporting bruises tomorrow.”
“Oh.” His hands sprang free. “Sorry.” He spoke automatically, but his fingers itched to latch on to her denim-covered hips again. Miranda and the room smelled of cinnamon and pumpkin spice. Homey scents. For the first time in his life, they gave Linc a sense of peace and serenity in spite of the haze of pain.
She gnawed her lower lip and gazed worriedly down at him. “That’s the best I can do with what’s in the kit. I’ve managed to slow the bleeding, I think. But it hasn’t stopped.”
“Believe it or not, it feels better. Thanks.”
“Give me your shirt and jacket. If I soak them in cold water right away, the blood should wash out. I was just fixin’ to toss in a colored load, anyway.”
Linc stripped off his jacket, then his shirt. He’d forgotten to undo the buttons on the sleeves, so he couldn’t pull off the shirt. Miranda bent to work the buttons free. Despite all the weeks they’d shared a house, this was the first time she remembered seeing Linc shirtless. He was tanned and well muscled, with nicely rippled abs. She realized it wasn’t just heat from the oven making the sweat pop out on her brow.
Her throat and mouth were dust-dry. She fumbled the job of getting him out of his shirt—probably because she’d fantasized so often about doing this very thing, only in the privacy of his bedroom. She, of course, still shared quarters with Jenny, Cassie and Hana.
His voice rumbled near her ear. “I’m not much help.”
What would he do, Miranda wondered, if she kissed one of the flat brown nipples peeking out from whorls of light-brown hair?
Then she happened to lift guilty eyes and saw that his were smoldering. His thickly lashed lids fell, but not fast enough to hide what was going through his mind. The same thought that was going through hers.
Her lips parted in invitation. A second later, Linc’s hands spanned her waist and he wedged her between his thighs.
Then two things halted what promised to be a really steamy kiss. Scraps broke free of Hana’s clutches. The terrier knocked over Hana’s stool with a loud crash that sent the child into full-blown hysterics. And the oven timer went off, announcing the tarts were done.
Linc and Miranda sprang apart as if shot out of a cannon. She grabbed pot holders with hands that shook.
He tried to quiet the dog as he swung the sobbing child onto his lap. Damn, his head was splitting now from all the noise. “Can’t you at least shut off that damned buzzer?” he snapped at Miranda.
She did, but not before unloading the oven.
Hana saw the treats and at once turned off the spigot of tears. She hopped off Linc’s knee and reached for the hot cookie sheet.
Miranda swung her up and out of danger scant seconds before the girl would’ve been burned. “Honey, we need to let those cool.” Dangling Hana awkwardly over one arm, Miranda waved a pot holder over the steaming cookie sheet. Only then did she think to shut off the timer. That was when she discovered Linc and Scraps had departed.
Greg stuck his head in the back door. “Where’s Linc?”
“I taped his cut and he left. He didn’t come back out to work?”
“Nope. Eric sent me to tell him we’ve fixed the winch. Did he go see a doc?”
“No. Let me check in his room. And hands off the tarts and pies while I’m gone.” She’d seen Greg drooling over the pumpkin confections.
Rushing down the hall, she paused to listen outside Linc’s door. When she heard nothing, she tapped and opened it a crack. He sat on the bed shaking analgesic tablets into an unsteady hand.
“The boys are worried about you. Frankly, so am I.”
He swallowed four of the pills without water and re-capped the bottle. “Tell them to take a break. I’ll be okay if I rest a minute.” He kicked off his boots and fell back on the pillows.
Miranda walked over and covered him with a robe that lay on a nearby chair. “Are you feeling dizzy?” She turned on the bedside lamp and made him look her in the eye.
“Don’t tell me you were a nurse in another life?”
“No, but when you’re on the road as much as we were, guys get hurt.”
“What guys?” Linc’s dark eyes locked with hers.
Saying the guys in my band rose to the tip of Miranda’s tongue. She made a great save, mumbling something about her dad and his farming crew right before she plunged Linc’s room into darkness again. Her response wasn’t really logical—why would her father travel with his farm workers?—but Linc was probably too disoriented to notice. Damn, it was hard to remember to hold her tongue, when by nature she’d always been an open person.
At the door, she hesitated and turned back. “It’s not good to sleep after a head injury, Linc. Rest for a while. I’ll look in on you at regular intervals. The boys will be glad for the time off. Did you remember tonight is Cassie and Wolfie’s party?”
“No. Tonight? Well, I bought them each a set of pencils and had their names engraved on them. It’s not much, but they’ve come so far I wanted to commemorate their progress. The pencils are on top of my dresser. If you have time, would you wrap them? Oh, maybe we don’t have any wrapping paper.”
“Are you kidding? With Christmas a little over a month away? I bought vari
ety packs of wrap and an assortment of bows. I’ve even begun my holiday shopping.”
Linc grimaced. “Christmas. I always had a secretary handle my gift list.”
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head, then sucked in a deep, gasping breath.
“Forget Christmas for now,” she told him. “Get better, and I promise I’ll help you choose what to get everyone. I won’t buy the gifts for you, though. Shopping is three-quarters of the fun at Christmas. The little kids are already so excited they’re bouncing off the walls.”
“Randi…” His pensive call stopped her again. “Wolfie, Hana and Cassie may not be with us at Christmas.”
Miranda’s heart sank. She’d grown very attached to them. And she knew the girls prayed nightly that they’d be allowed to stay at the ranch. “But…you just said they’ve come so far.”
“I know you think nothing’s going to change. It will, though. Eric’s already antsy to get back to the city. And I’ve never made a secret of the fact that the little kids don’t fit my agenda of providing a shelter for teens.” The frown knotting his brow clearly worsened his headache.
Miranda didn’t want to add to his pain, so she withdrew, closing the door gently. The little kids belonged here. This was their home. She’d work on Linc. After all, Christmas was the season of miracles.
“Greg,” she called, “Linc’s resting. He said for you guys to knock off. Go wash up. After lunch we’ll help Jenny decorate the bunkhouse.”
“Hmm. Maybe we’ll finish the planting. We heard on Eric’s radio that we may get snow flurries tonight or tomorrow. I know Linc hoped we’d have all the trees in before the storm hits.”
“He said Eric’s getting itchy feet.”
“Yeah. Shawn thinks Eric’s nuts. The rest of us aren’t in any hurry to leave.”
“Including Jenny?”
The dark-haired boy shrugged. “She’ll follow Eric. They’re convinced we’re gonna see our names in neon lights next year.”
“I hadn’t heard anyone talking about becoming rock stars in quite a while.”
“That’s all Eric talks about when Linc’s not around. The man doesn’t like us to play rock tunes. Or even mention it. Linc flat out hates any music except classical.”
A chill struck Miranda. “Hate’s a strong word, Greg.”
“Then you haven’t heard his lectures whenever the subject of us performing comes up. Parker detests everything about the music industry.”
She turned. “Uh…I have to boil giblets and cube the bread for our turkey dressing.”
“Gotta tell you, Randi, those pies look bad.”
“They do?” She spun and frowned at her counter full of golden pies and tarts.
The boy laughed. “Bad means good, Randi. What universe have you been living in? I thought we all came off the same street.”
“Of course. Silly me. It’s the Southerner in me, Greg.” She exaggerated her drawl. “We say things plumb different down South.”
He retreated, still eyeing her dubiously. Enough so that Miranda vowed to keep a closer watch on her tongue. Even if she relented and revealed her age to Mrs. Bishop next week, she hoped she might keep the truth from the other kids a while longer. She didn’t know why, other than that they had such dim views of adults.
Four times during the afternoon and early evening, she tiptoed into Linc’s bedroom and shook him awake, asking him to count the fingers she held up in front of his bleary eyes.
“I brought you some soup,” she said the last time. “Homemade beef barley.”
He struggled to sit up. “Is this lunch?”
She glanced at the clock beside his bed, then back at him with a worried expression. “You slept through lunch and supper, Linc. The others have gone to the bunkhouse to start the party. Do you feel like walking over there?”
He raised himself onto one elbow and blinked at the steaming bowl Randi offered him. “I’ve never slept that many hours straight in my life.” He touched a hand to his bandaged head and winced.
“Still hurt?” she asked softly.
“Feels like hell. Like a jazz drummer going crazy in a too-small nightclub.”
Miranda cocked an ear. She, too, heard a low, steady thrum-thrum. Eric must have cranked up the sound on the radio he’d recently purchased. Unless she missed her guess, Greg was pounding on his drum pad. He was saving up to buy a full set of drums. She steadied Linc’s bowl and made a mental note to tell the kids to turn down the volume.
“I wrapped the pencils and put them back on your dresser. Maybe after you eat, you’ll feel like popping in to hand them out. Wolfie and Cassie are flying high. After I finished the pies, I baked and decorated a cake. I gather the cakes they got for their birthdays, when and if they got them, weren’t frosted, let alone decorated. It’s so easy to do with the canned stuff, and they were absolutely thrilled.”
Linc accepted the bowl and shut his eyes, drawing in the steam. “Can you stay a minute, or do you need to go?”
She sat next to him on the bed. She’d sat on beds with men before, but her heart had never tripped over itself as it was doing now. Miranda and members of the band often rehearsed in ten-by-twelve hotel rooms or on her bus. This was different. Linc Parker affected her in a very different way.
“Randi, earlier I could tell you’d wanted me to be something I can’t for Wolfie, Hana and Cassie. I can’t be their rock.”
“Like it or not, Linc, you already are.”
“I’ve tossed them a bone or two, as any humane person would do. They need more. They need someone who’ll stick by them through thick and thin.”
“They need food, shelter, clothing and a few hugs. Oh, and a clean place to lay their heads at night. You’ve given them all that, Linc.”
He dipped the spoon in his soup before responding. “They need unconditional love. I don’t…can’t love them like that.”
Miranda placed a hand on his knee. “Why can’t you love them? Are you saying they’re not lovable kids?”
“No. God, no!” He almost dropped the hot soup, but caught the bowl in time. “I just…” He shrugged and wouldn’t lift his gaze. “Some guys aren’t cut out to be family men.”
“Are you afraid? Is that it? Because of what happened to Felicity?”
His gaze did lift then, and the truth of her words lay dull and heavy in his eyes. “I loved Felicity. She obviously couldn’t tell. I won’t risk someone else getting hurt because I lack…emotional connection.” He shoved the bowl into her hands, fell back and flung an arm across his face. “Forget it, Randi. The subject’s closed.”
She clung so tightly to the spoon and bowl, her fingers ached. So did her heart. For the children. For Linc. And for herself. A man who couldn’t find love in his heart for three homeless waifs probably had no room there for her, either. “You know what, Linc? You can wallow in the pain of losing Felicity for the rest of your life. And this ranch will end up being nothing but a shrine. A meaningless gesture to her name. If that’s all you’ve built here, I’m sorry for you.” She stood, and with trembling hands, set the half-finished soup on his nightstand. At the door, she ventured one quick glance over her shoulder. He hadn’t moved a muscle.
She hesitated, but only because she wondered whether she ought to take his gifts to Cassie and Wolfie. But it would be a futile act coming from anyone other than the man who’d cared enough to buy them the personalized gifts. A man who nonetheless claimed he couldn’t love these children. She stalked out and down the hall, not bothering to shut his door.
Maybe she’d have to rethink staying here. In fact, rather than stick around for the grilling she’d surely get from Mrs. Bishop, why not pack her bag and light out after tomorrow’s dinner? She had a bit of money tucked away, thanks to Linc’s wages. Turkey leftovers would get her through several days on the road.
Slinging a jacket around her shoulders, Miranda ran blindly toward the bunkhouse. She wished she could as easily bar Linc from her heart as he seemed able to ba
r her from his. Her and the kids.
A cold north wind had blown up. Greg’s predictions of snow on Thanksgiving might come to pass. The prospect left Miranda reconsidering her plan of moments earlier as she walked in on a party in full swing.
The noise level rocked the rafters. Eric’s radio/CD player blasted at top decibels—a rap tune by Nelly. She’d heard him sing on the American Music Awards. The song segued into another with a female vocalist.
As she’d suspected, Greg sat cross-legged on the floor, banging sticks on his drum pad. Eric reclined on one bed, strumming his electric guitar, which he now had attached to small but powerful speakers. Jenny, dressed in a long satin skirt and a black cotton sweater that Miranda had helped her find at Goodwill, belted out the words, along with the lead singer.
Miranda stood, still clutching her jacket. Jenny had a pure voice, and that shocked her. Listening to the group, she’d have to say they had talent. But that didn’t mean they’d make it in the business. So much more went into being a star than talent. There was the matter of financial backing. Of making good demos and getting them in front of the right people at the right time. But success certainly began with talent.
The CD ended. The kids noticed her as Shawn popped in another disc. Greg called a greeting and waved her over with a twirl of one drumstick.
“Hey, how’d we sound? Eric thinks we’re ready to take Hollywood by storm. ’Course, I’ve gotta get a real set of drums first.”
Shawn pulled the tab on a can of cola. “What kept you? I’ve had a hell of a time holding back from your cake.”
Jenny danced across the room doing a quick shuffle and a few finger snaps. “Give her a plate of chips and dip. We’ve got beer in the cooler,” she whispered near Miranda’s ear. “We won’t bring it out until the munchkins toddle off to bed and after Linc puts in his appearance. Where is he, do you suppose?”
“Beer?” Miranda gasped. “How? When? Linc will have a hemorrhage. Not one of you is old enough to buy or drink liquor.”
“Well, neither are you.”
Miranda cringed and almost came clean then and there. But Jenny winked. “Actually, Wolfie gave us the suds.”
A Cowboy at Heart Page 17