Stand-In Rancher Daddy

by Renee Ryan

  The blanket was nearly complete. Its blue, purple and green geometric pattern was really quite lovely. The finished product would be auctioned off at the Founder’s Day celebration, the proceeds going toward a new church building.

  Molly forced herself to get back to work.

  The sound of female voices drifted through the room, peppered every so often with the laughter of three little girls enjoying a rousing game of jacks. Discussions flitted from topic to topic with the speed of hummingbird wings.

  Molly’s mother sat at the head of the quilting frame. Her friend Beatrice Rampart had commandeered the chair directly opposite her. Directly across from Molly, Edmund McKay’s sister-in-law, Betsy, sat between Mercy Green and Nancy Bennett. Betsy and Mercy were nearly the same age, somewhere in their early thirties. Both had pretty, ash-blond hair. But where Betsy’s eyes were blue, Mercy’s were a pale shade of amber.

  Betsy looked tired, a common ailment for a young mother her age. Her toddler son had been up all night teething. Exhaustion had caught up with the fussy child and he was now sleeping in the next room. Molly would endure fatigue if it meant nursing a teething child through the night.

  She blinked away tears.

  Of the seven women in the room, Molly knew Nancy Bennett the least. She was shy and quiet. She was also kind, and very pretty with long brown hair, hazel eyes and flawless skin. Nancy had come to the area in the same manner as Lula May, a mail-order bride.

  But unlike Lula May, Nancy had been in Little Horn barely a year. Her husband, Lucas, had been around as long as Molly could remember. He was attractive, charismatic and, by all accounts, an upstanding rancher. The two made a lovely couple.

  As if sensing Molly’s gaze on her, Nancy looked up. They shared a tentative smile before the other woman lowered her head to concentrate on her sewing once again. Before she’d broken eye contact, something a little sad had flickered in Nancy’s gaze. Or maybe it was simply loneliness Molly detected.

  Maybe the woman just needed a friend.

  Molly knew what it was like to be new in town. An itinerate preacher with no congregation of his own, George had kept them moving from community to community. It had been difficult making genuine connections with other women.

  Determined to reach out to Nancy more often, Molly followed the other woman’s lead and focused on the quilt. Her sewing skills were average at best, especially compared to her sister’s. Even at sixteen, Daisy had a steady hand, an artistic eye and a penchant for detail, all of which added up to her being a very skilled seamstress.

  “Helen, dear, you promised you would share your secret for fruity fritters,” Beatrice Rampart reminded Molly’s mother.

  “So I did. It’s a simple recipe,” she began. “Requiring nothing more complicated than milk, eggs, butter, sugar, salt and flour. And of course, fresh fruit.”

  “How much of each ingredient should we use?”

  At her friend’s inquiry Molly’s mother happily elaborated.

  Since Molly had made the recipe many times for George, she concentrated on her needlework. No matter how hard she focused, she found her mind wandering back to CJ. This morning had been difficult. He was already pulling away and that hurt.

  What would she do once he married?

  She couldn’t stay on, that was a given. Perhaps there was another family in need of her assistance. The blacksmith had recently lost his wife. Her death meant two young boys, ages nine and twelve, were now motherless. They’d grown a bit wild and simply needed a mother’s touch.

  There were the three Gillen boys who lived out by Kettle Creek with their chronically ill mother. Mary Gillen could use a helping hand. Why not Molly’s?

  “For a different flavor,” Helen Carson was saying, “you can add a dash of nutmeg or cinnamon to the dry ingredients.”

  Once the recipe was thoroughly discussed and all questions addressed, Lula May moved the conversation in another direction.

  “Now that our town has been officially incorporated for nearly two years I believe it’s long past time we had a permanent church building.”

  The rest of the sewing circle agreed.

  “This quilt is a nice start,” she continued. “But it won’t put a dent in the funds we’ll need to break ground.”

  Several money-raising ideas were tossed out and discussed. During a lull, Daisy leaned forward and craned her neck around Molly to speak directly to Lula May. “What are your sons up to this morning?”

  On the surface, the question was considerate and really rather sweet. It was no mystery that Lula May adored her children and loved any chance to brag about them. And although Daisy was acquainted with all five Barlow siblings, Molly knew her sister was mostly interested in one: Calvin.

  “Daniel and Jacob are cleaning out the horse stalls and organizing the tack room.”

  Molly stifled a grin at Daisy’s crestfallen expression. Lula May’s response had included only two of her four boys. Calvin’s name had not been mentioned.

  Her cheeks slightly pinker than before, Daisy dropped her gaze to the quilt, then gave Lula May a sidelong glance. “And what are your other sons working on today?”

  Technically, Calvin and Samuel weren’t Lula May’s sons. When she’d married Frank he’d been a widower and raising his two young boys on his own. Lula May had made an instant connection with both. The three were fiercely protective of one another now. “Calvin and Sam are mending the fence line near the creek.”

  Molly’s brothers were doing the same with her father.

  “Oh, that’s nice.” Daisy finished off a seam and studied the effect. With her bottom lip caught between her teeth, she ventured another quick glance at Lula May. “Be sure to tell the boys I asked after them.”

  Mouth twitching, Lula May winked at Molly, then schooled her expression. “I most certainly will.”

  Covering a grin behind a delicate cough, Molly looked directly at her mother for the first time since arriving with the twins. She was in a conversation with Mercy Green, something to do with her famous ice cream recipe.

  Was Helen Carson aware that her youngest daughter had a growing fondness for Calvin Barlow? Would she approve?

  Molly was reminded of her affection for CJ five years ago. At the time, her mother hadn’t seemed concerned that Molly was playing chaperone for Penelope and Ned, or that her duties put her in constant contact with CJ. Not that there’d been anything to worry about. CJ had barely noticed Molly back then.

  She closed her eyes for a moment. Time seemed to bend and shift in her mind, dragging her back to those carefree days when her feelings for CJ had been new and fragile.

  Her tenderness toward him hadn’t diminished with time. On the contrary, her feelings were deeper now, based on the man he’d become and the father he was trying to be for his nieces. She opened her eyes and watched the twins playing with Pauline Barlow.

  The three had tired of jacks and were pawing through a bag of sample material, chattering about what pieces would go best in a new quilting block. Molly swallowed the emotion that had ascended into her throat. Her wayward thoughts, however, were not so easily dismissed.

  I wish Anna and Sarah were mine.

  The thought came so quickly, and with such impact, she had to set her needle aside to catch her breath. Breathe, Molly, just breathe.

  Caught up in reclaiming her composure, she didn’t notice that the conversation had shifted yet again. Mrs. Rampart’s voice came at her as if from a great distance. “Molly, dear, I understand a certain widowed father is still missing.”

  The words were carefully spoken and no names were mentioned, yet Molly experienced a powerful urge to glare at the woman.

  “This isn’t the time for that discussion, Mrs. Rampart. I’m sure you understand.” She hitched her chin toward the children to emphasize the need for caution.
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  The older woman shifted uneasily in her chair. “They can’t possibly know who I mean.”

  Of course they could. The twins were four and far smarter than the woman apparently realized. At least she’d been circumspect enough to avoid using Ned’s name. But still... Sarah and Anna were barely five feet from the quilting frame.

  Molly cleared her throat. “Lula May—” she turned a pleading look on her friend “—I’d love to know your secret for chicken and dumplings.”

  “It’s a friend’s recipe from back home and—”

  “Molly, dear.” Mrs. Rampart spoke right over Lula May. “Has there been any word, a letter perhaps?”

  All eyes settled on Molly, with varying degrees of interest and sympathy. She dragged in a tight breath. “I don’t see how that’s relevant to today’s sewing.”

  “Oh, but surely you wouldn’t mind keeping us informed of the situation. We do worry about the family.”

  “Beatrice.” Molly’s mother gave her friend a warning look. “I have a new recipe for fry bread. I added sugar to my last batch and my boys tell me it’s a wonderful addition.”

  It was a valiant effort to change the subject, but now that the topic of Ned had been broached others in the room had their own questions. “It must be hard for all of you,” Mercy said. “Not knowing when—or if—he’ll return.”

  “We manage.” Molly’s voice echoed through the room. “And that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.”

  “I’ve overstepped.” Mercy had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Forgive me.”

  “Of course.” She glanced at the girls, who were admiring a pretty pink polka-dot gingham. “No harm done.”

  Praise God.

  “I think it’s quite wonderful what you’re doing, Molly.” Betsy McKay smiled at her from across the quilting frame. “You are a fine example of Christian duty.”

  Christian duty? The term gave Molly too much credit and made the Thorns sound like a charity case. Neither was true.

  In an attempt to find a comfortable position, she rearranged her legs beneath the quilt. Her agitation remained, heightened by the silence that had fallen over the room.

  Giving Molly’s hand a squeeze, Lula May spoke into the conversational void. “Helen, I believe you were about to reveal your new fry bread recipe. How much sugar did you say we should add?”

  Molly couldn’t hear her mother’s response over the buzzing in her ears. She wasn’t caring for the twins out of duty. Penelope’s children were precious to her. Her motivation was love. Love for her dead friend. Love for Sarah and Anna.

  Though she knew it was best to let the matter drop, Molly refused to allow Betsy, or anyone else in the room, to misunderstand her motives. “I’m not serving out of Christian duty.”

  “No?” A glimmer of intrigue in her eyes, Mrs. Rampart leaned over the quilt. “Then why, dear?”

  Realizing all eyes were on her once again, Molly considered her answer carefully. She’d started this. Now she had to finish it.

  She glanced over at the girls again. Anna was still sorting through the samples with Pauline. Sarah, however, had risen and taken several steps toward the quilting frame. She was watching Molly with rounded eyes, lower lip caught between her teeth.

  Molly felt a twinge of guilt. She’d allowed her emotions to get away from her and had said too much, enough to gain Sarah’s attention. And her worry.

  She held the child’s gaze and spoke from her heart. “It is a joy and an honor to care for Sarah and Anna Thorn. I love them dearly.”

  At the sound of her name, Anna stopped what she was doing and angled her head in confusion.

  Sarah shuffled closer, stopping once she was standing between Molly and Lula May. “You really love me and my sister?”

  “With all that I am.” She pulled the girl tightly to her. “And I always will.”

  Sarah buried her face in Molly’s shoulder. “I love you, too.”

  The muffled words shot through Molly like a ray of sunshine splitting through a seam in a dark, menacing cloud. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her mother’s sympathetic smile, tempered with a speculative light. Only then did she remember her words from the previous evening.

  CJ has plans to marry soon.

  Anna pressed in on the other side of Molly. “Is it time to add our blocks to the quilt?”

  “Almost.” She ran her fingertips along one of the child’s braids. “Once we’re finished with this section we’ll add yours to the next.”

  “Can we stay here and watch until then?”

  “Of course.” Both children kept their eyes on Molly’s hands as she made stitches in the quilt, while pulling the fabric taut to keep it from puckering.

  It wasn’t long before the two grew bored and began fidgeting.

  “Girls, why don’t you lie down on the floor beneath the quilt and watch us work from there?” Molly suggested.

  “Okay.”

  Pauline crawled under the quilt, as well.

  Molly smiled, remembering the days when she would sit beneath the quilting frame and watch the individual needles poke through the fabric. It was always a wondrous moment when the stitches became fully formed shapes.

  Molly could hear Pauline quizzing the twins. “What does that one look like?”

  “A circle,” shouted Anna.

  Sarah was more fanciful than her sister. “I think it looks like Cookie’s round belly.”

  The women around the quilting frame laughed. Molly did, as well. For a dangerous moment she found herself fighting off a deep blast of yearning. Then came the guilt. She’d declared her love for the twins in a very public manner. A small matter with huge consequences. When her time with the Thorns was over someone was going to end up hurt.

  Molly prayed it wasn’t the twins.

  * * *

  At the end of the long day, CJ left the job of getting the horses bedded down for the night to his hands and went in search of Cookie. The older man needed to know about the cattle rustlers in the area.

  He found the grizzled cook in the bunkhouse, working in the makeshift kitchen, which was nothing more than a nook in the back corner that included a small fireplace, a potbelly stove and an assortment of pots and pans hanging from hooks on the wall.

  Stirring a large, black kettle full of what could only be beans, a Triple-T staple, Cookie whistled a slightly off-key version of “Clementine.”

  As he made his way past the bunks with blankets tucked tightly over pristine sheets, CJ took a look around. He appreciated the way Cookie kept the bunkhouse spotless, a remnant from his years as an officer in the army.

  Removing his hat, CJ ducked beneath a low beam and called out to the older man.

  Cookie glanced over his shoulder and frowned. “Boy, you look like you’ve lost your best friend.”

  “Maybe I have.” There’d been a time when he and Ned had been as close as any two brothers could be.

  Eyebrows cocked, Cookie stepped away from the potbelly stove. “You gonna explain that comment?”

  He told the cook about the missing cattle and his misgivings about Ned’s possible involvement.

  “You really think your brother has something do with this?”

  “He stole my horse,” CJ said bluntly. He attempted to swallow back the anger that surged. It came anyway, searching for release like fingers seeking a nagging itch. “Cattle rustling isn’t a logical next step, but if Ned fell in with a bad crowd it’s a strong possibility.”

  Cookie didn’t argue the point, nor did he offer any sympathy. At least the older man didn’t remind CJ that he’d warned him this day was coming. “You share your suspicions with anyone else?”

  “No. But Edmund McKay seemed to come to a similar conclusion. It’s only a matter of time before others in
the area will, as well.”

  Not for the first time, CJ wanted to go hunt down Ned and drag him home. But his brother had made his decision and CJ had too many other responsibilities pressing in on him, including raising Ned’s abandoned daughters.

  Suddenly weary, he said, “I need you to be on the lookout for anything suspicious in the next few days.”

  “Goes without saying.”

  “Still needed to be said.” CJ left for the main house, heavyhearted.

  With each step, he felt conflict growing inside him, torn as he was between hoping he was wrong to suspect his brother of thievery and convinced Ned was behind the missing cattle.

  In the months since Penelope’s death, Ned had made one bad decision after another, culminating in the abandonment of his own flesh and blood.

  CJ’s mind went back to the day of Penelope’s accident. After putting the girls down for their afternoon nap, she’d gone outside to help Ned fix a busted wagon wheel. She’d become distracted and had let the cinch slip. The wheel had fallen on her leg. She’d hidden the severity of her injury for nearly a month. The wound had become infected. She’d contracted gangrene and died weeks later.

  Weighed down with grief, CJ pumped water from the well and washed off the day’s trail dust. As he rubbed away the dirt, he couldn’t help thinking Ned’s downfall was partially his fault. CJ had been so consumed proving he wasn’t their father that he’d failed to help his brother in his hour of need.

  He would find a way to atone for his behavior, if not with Ned, then somewhere else. Filled with resolve, he rinsed out the now dirty rag and hung it over the edge of the well to dry.

  Feeling no better, CJ headed for the main house. His feet ground to a halt at the sound of a throaty female laugh mixed with little-girl giggles. A series of high-pitched barks followed.

  The sounds of happiness, CJ thought, of family. Of home. Momentary peace emerged. He let the sensation wash over him like a fresh spring rain. He would give the girls the life Ned couldn’t. He would give them stability and, God willing, a houseful of siblings.