He grinned and bumped knuckles with her. “Deal.”
“I’ll bring the girls back to the ranch when we’re done. With this many kids it will probably run long. You’ll be here for three hours tomorrow for the actual performance. I think it’s okay to spell you today.”
He hugged her, not caring who saw, and several people did. “I appreciate it, Elsa.”
“You should,” she muttered and gave him a teasing elbow jab to the side as costumed girls dashed in and out of changing rooms. “Let’s go watch these first numbers and then you can be on your way.”
“Perfect.”
It should have been perfect. It should have been a chance for the girls to dress up, practice, and perform the well-rehearsed numbers with their friends. And it was, until Whitney walked in the door midafternoon, clearly hung over and wanting to help.
“Mom’s here, at last! Mom!” Cheyenne spotted Whitney as they were heading to the changing room one last time. “Where’ve you been?”
“I must have overslept,” she cooed to Cheyenne, but when she raised her eyes to Elsa’s, the confused mix of emotions sent up mental red flags. “But I’m here now, darlings.”
Dakota shrunk into Elsa’s side. “I want Elsa to help me,” she whispered, more into Elsa’s jeans than into the air.
“Elsa’s not your mommy,” Whitney reminded her. Steel knifed her tone. “And I promised you I’d be here.”
“But you weren’t,” Dakota pointed out matter-of-factly, as if that settled everything. She reached for Elsa’s hand. “How about you help Cheyenne and Elsa helps me?”
“That’s a great solution,” Elsa told her. She started to move into the dressing room with Dakota, but Whitney’s voice cut deep.
“I’m here to help my daughters get ready for their dance recital. Plural. So give me my kid and get out of the way.”
Put the girls first. Always.
Elsa weighed the options. She could insist on helping Dakota and make Whitney mad, or she could turn a reluctant Dakota over to her belligerent mother and disappoint the child. Dakota’s fear and reluctance were as real as Cheyenne’s overexuberance.
“Or we could do it together,” she suggested easily, keeping her voice soft. “I’d be okay with that, Whitney.”
“Well, I wouldn’t.” Whitney had folded her arms across her chest, spoiling for a fight Elsa wasn’t about to give her. “Give me my kid.”
Dakota’s dance instructor swooped in from out of nowhere, an answer to unspoken prayer. “I’m going to get Dakota ready with the rest of her group in the next room. I grabbed her costume, and we’re good to go! Come on, ’Kota.”
“Okay!” Dakota dashed off willingly with the vibrant, young teacher.
Elsa stepped aside. “I’ll be in the auditorium, watching, Chey. And then I’ll take you gals home after rehearsal.”
“I’ll take them.”
Oh, man.
There was no way she could allow Whitney to drive the girls anywhere, but arguing the point now would upset Cheyenne, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. She moved down the hall, around the corner, and texted Nick. “Whitney here, insisting on driving girls. Help needed.”
“On my way,” he texted back, and she took a seat in the back of the auditorium, half-fuming, half-praying.
The girls didn’t need a scene. Neither did she. Usually she could spot a way to diffuse situations, but as she waited for Nick to arrive, she realized she’d gotten too close to the girls—and their father—to see this clearly.
And that was a problem.
He must have been out on the ranch because he smelled of horse, hay, and lumber, but he got there in time to thwart the face-off, and that’s all that mattered to Elsa. Nick had custody of the girls, so there was no arguing with his choice to drive his daughters home. Once both girls had gone through their final numbers to their teachers’ satisfaction, he moved into the hallway leading to the only unlocked door, becoming an effective blockade.
Dakota got changed quickly, spotted her dad, and raced down the hall. Elsa slipped into the extra room, gathered Dakota’s costume from the last number, then watched as Whitney crammed the pretty, delicate costumes into the bag, ignoring the hangers suspended on the rolling rack nearby.
Cheyenne went pale, watching. “Shouldn’t we hang them up, like Angelina did?” Nervousness pinched the girl’s voice. That might mean a raise in her awareness of her mother’s behavior, or simple fear that Angelina would promptly murder her for being careless with the pricey outfits.
“That’s the housekeeper’s job,” scoffed Whitney. She glanced around and spotted Elsa, but the questioning look said she didn’t see Dakota. “Let’s go find your sister and I’ll take you guys home.”
“You mean back to the ranch, right?”
Elsa’s ears perked up. Cheyenne was questioning her mother, a healthy sign.
“I said home.” Whitney stared down at the girl, and Cheyenne backed down instantly.
“Okay.”
Peace at any cost. Elsa wondered how much of Cheyenne’s little-girl life had been governed by that mandate. Whitney straightened, grabbed the rolling duffel, plowed it into two folding chairs, swore, and powered her way out of the room.
The remaining kids stared at her, then Cheyenne, then back.
Cheyenne’s cheeks went red. Head down, she didn’t look left or right as she aimed for the only escape, the far door leading to the hallway. Elsa sized up the situation and forgot she was supposed to be disconnected. She intercepted Cheyenne midway, looped an arm around her shoulders, and kissed her forehead. “Great job today. Ready to head home?”
“Yes.”
“Me too, honey.”
Cheyenne pressed into her side slightly, just enough to show she appreciated the gesture, and when they moved into the hallway, they had one choice. Duck back into the room or move down the hall where Nick and Whitney were facing off. Let this be peaceful, Lord. Let common sense and love for these children prevail.
“What are you really doing here, Nick? Because I’m perfectly capable of taking the girls home.”
Holding Dakota snug under one arm, Nick stared at her a few seconds too long.
Whitney didn’t squirm. She reacted. “You don’t like what you see, cowboy? Well you did, back in the day.”
“Mom.” Cheyenne’s urgent whisper should have softened Whitney’s stance.
It didn’t. If anything, it gave her a power punch of self-defense. “Your father didn’t want much to do with the old man back then, did you, Nick? But now that Sam’s at death’s door, you want to suck up because of the will, no doubt, because that’s the Stafford way. Do whatever it takes for the almighty dollar, and if you trample a few lowlies on the way, that’s their problem. Not yours. That about sum it up?”
“Grandpa’s dying?” Fear spiked Cheyenne’s voice as she zeroed in on Whitney’s words. “Dad, is he? For real?”
“I love my grandpa so much!” Dakota took Nick’s face in her two little hands. “Is he gonna die, Daddy? Like my first Stripey cat?”
Nick bent low to meet Cheyenne’s worried gaze. “He’s sick. We know that. But he was breathing just fine when I left him, girls, and we’ve got great doctors helping him. The rest is up to God, like always.” He shot Whitney a dark look, took the roller bag handle, and moved to the big double doors leading outside. “Elsa.” He held the door wide, letting Elsa and Cheyenne through before he bumped his way through with the duffel.
“Daddy, my costumes are all wrinkled now.” Overwhelmed, Cheyenne looked up at him. Her chin quivered. She blinked hard, twice, pointing toward the rolling bag.
He frowned, not understanding.
“They’re supposed to be on hangers.” Silent tears streamed down Cheyenne’s cheeks. “Angelina worked hard to iron them and now they’re all messed up.”
Elsa reached for the bag’s handle to give him a moment with his daughter. So much sadness, so much drama, so much crazy adult confusion. Why couldn’t kids j
ust be kids anymore? Because that’s how it should be, as much as possible. Loved, sheltered, protected, and enjoyed.
If she ever had the chance to be a mother, she’d jump in joyfully, both feet, because there was little on the earth more amazing and wonderful than the gift of a child.
Her costumes…
Now Nick was starting to get it. Cheyenne was talking about costumes, but what she meant was life. For the first time since Whitney’s return, Cheyenne was recognizing her mother’s frailties. “Costumes can be fixed, Cheyenne. An iron. A needle and thread. Angelina always knows what to do.”
“Because we hire her to.”
Nick bent low, confused and concerned. “Because she loves you, Chey. She loves all of us. We’re family.”
Whitney stormed out of the school door just then. She didn’t look their way. She stomped down the stairs and to the adjacent parking lot as if they didn’t exist.
She didn’t wave to the girls or wish them luck for the performances tomorrow. She left in a flurry of turns and tires, heading out of town, maybe to another bar. The thought of choosing alcohol over their two beautiful daughters made him want to punch something. But he couldn’t. Instead he wrapped his arm around Cheyenne’s shoulders, wishing he could protect her from everything, which was part of what got them into this mess in the first place.
Cheyenne’s face shadowed. She stared after her mother as Whitney tore out of the parking lot like some spoiled kid, and then she sighed.
You wanted Cheyenne to see her mother’s true colors, didn’t you? There you go.
He’d wanted Cheyenne to take a more realistic view of the situation, but he hadn’t realized it would be at the cost of Cheyenne’s heart…and that broke his.
“I’m starving, Daddy!” Dakota hollered as she worked the buckles of her shoulder belt. “Can we get chicken fingers for supper? Please?”
“Yes, sure, honey. We’ll swing by on the way home.”
Elsa’s car was parked two rows away. He opened the door for Cheyenne, made sure she got in, then held up two fingers. “Give me two minutes to walk Elsa to her car, okay? And then we’ll order chicken fingers.”
“Thanks, Dad!” Dakota gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up with both hands.
Cheyenne stared at the school as if wishing she’d never have to go there again, and she hadn’t been any too pleased with school in a long time.
Great.
“She’s had a dose of harsh reality. Her dream bubbles were just burst in front of all her dancing peers because Whitney made a scene in the dressing room, so use kid gloves tonight, okay?” Elsa’s grimace said whatever happened inside wasn’t pretty.
“Come up to the ranch. Please,” he added because the last thing he wanted was to end this day on a sour note. “It would be wrong for us to let Whitney’s behavior mess up the rest of the day. Come have supper with us. You and Cheyenne can check the dogs together, anything that makes her feel like part of her life is still going right. It was hard to give her the positives she needs without Whitney here. Now it looks like it might become a daily struggle. But maybe if Chey compares the positive influence of you and Ange and Isabo in her life, she’ll start to understand that people make their own choices. Good and bad.”
“She’s eight,” Elsa reminded him, but when he started to speak, she held up a hand. “But I agree, totally. She was struggling to succeed in her dream world before. At least this is reality, and if Cheyenne’s going to mature and be self-sufficient, she’s got to deal with reality.”
“I hate that,” Nick growled. But then he sighed. “But I hear you, and I should have stopped soft-pedaling things for the girls a couple of years ago. I messed up some too.” He stared back toward the truck for a moment. “I need to fix up some old regrets, and I seem to do that better with you around. How about it? Supper with me and my little cowgirls? And maybe later we can figure out if there’s something we can do to help Whitney.”
“You’ve got some nice horses on that ranch, Nick.”
He nodded, puzzled.
“And when they need water, you can lead them to it —”
“But I can’t make them drink.” He passed a thoughtful hand over the back of his sunburned neck and frowned, first because if he had half a brain, he’d have slathered some sunscreen on his neck, and second because she was right. He was already trying to solve Whitney’s problems for her, and his ex-wife knew exactly what she needed to do. Stop drinking. “Gotcha. Isabo’s got shepherd’s pie at home, and I’m getting the girls chicken tenders at the diner. Which would you prefer?”
“Both.” She smiled up at him and he wanted to hug her. Hold her. Tell her how much her gentle manner meant to him, what it had brought to him, but he had two girls who needed him right now, so he bumped knuckles with her instead.
She grinned as she waggled her fingers in the air afterward. “Bah la la la la.”
The film reference made him smile because it was one of the girls’ favorites. “Big Hero 6.”
“One of my faves,” she admitted. “Baymax wasn’t afraid to sacrifice for love, and that’s how every one of us should be. Always.”
He’d been mad for a long time because his father had never sacrificed for love, but when he turned up the Double S driveway twenty minutes later, he realized how wide off the mark his thinking had been. Sprawling before him was a work of great sacrifice, a legacy, a glory to behold, which could mean he was mistaken here too.
Was his father right to sacrifice so much of his time with his kids to build it?
No. He knew that as the girls trundled their dance bags toward the house.
But looking out over the wide, rolling fields of Stafford land, a new reality dawned. He’d been struggling for three years to raise two little girls and work on the ranch with a full-time house manager and a solid ranch staff.
His father had raised three boys, two of his own and the third one adopted, and built an empire because he saw the future of modified beef production before most people knew it would be humanly possible, and he implemented it. Was it perfect?
No.
Was it awful?
He stared across the patchwork-quilt crop fields and knew it wasn’t. So why did he feel like he’d gotten the short end of the stick all his life?
Because your mother walked out and never came back.
Did it all come down to that root cause? A motherless child always searching to fill a void?
“You’re thinkin’ hard, son.”
He was. Maybe questions that had no answers. Or maybe answers he didn’t want to hear.
He turned as his father walked his way. “And you’re looking stronger today.”
“Up and down.” Sam shrugged, leaned his arms against the fence rail, and surveyed the broad-reaching ranch. “Can’t deny I’m hopin’ this transplant business will do the trick, if it’s available. But if not?” He aimed a look at Nick. “I’m leaving my boys a piece of me that will live on forever because land never dies.”
Nick’s chest went tight. So did his throat. Was it because of Sam’s words or Whitney’s caustic proclamation? Maybe both. “I’d be okay with you staying around awhile more, Dad. If you could arrange it.”
An almost smile softened Sam’s face. “I’ve been in conference with the Big Man Upstairs. He says I’d best leave it to him at this point, since I wasn’t good at doing that before. So I am.”
“Then I’ll let him know I’m not ready to say good-bye,” Nick noted softly. “No sense building all this and leaving us shorthanded. I’m pretty sure God will understand that.”
“From your lips to his ears,” Sam agreed, but he kept his voice gentle too, a rarity with the Stafford men.
The dinner gong sounded from the front porch. Both men turned. Sam met Nick’s gaze as Elsa’s car came up the driveway, squawking a protest as it rolled to a stop. “That woman’s a rare find. Not that I’m telling you what to do, but I’m just saying. A mighty rare find.” He waved to Elsa as he crossed to the front por
ch where Hobbs was setting up a game of checkers on the rustic table. “Get that game outta my sight, Hobbs. We aren’t old yet, nor dead. You and me are going to find some way to be helpful around here because I’ve got no intention of being put to pasture before God and I say…But first, food.”
Hobbs gave him a crooked grin and followed him inside as Nick crossed the stone yard to meet Elsa. He held out a box of maple bars and watched her eyes brighten in appreciation, and when they did, he leaned down and swept a gentle kiss to her mouth, so sweet and light.
He’d messed up before. He’d married Whitney more to show his father another way, that Nick could and would do his own thing and be successful, much like his father had done after losing Colt’s mom.
Two men, pretty much alike and both fairly stupid.
But kissing Elsa felt smart, and right, and good, and perfect.
He’d prayed on a lot of things these past few years, not the least of which was his daughter’s life earlier that spring. And God had shown him so much.
Cupping Elsa’s chin gently, he gave her one last breath-stealing kiss, then paused. “I could get used to this, Elsa.” He let his gaze linger with hers, then stroked one finger along the curve of her pretty cheek. So soft. “I could get real used to this, and that’s all I’m sayin’.”
She sighed.
The sigh about did him in because the veiled sadness behind the sigh made him want to make everything better in Elsa’s world. But what had she just told him about Whitney? That you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it take that life-sustaining drink.
He wanted Elsa’s trust and, yes, her love. He could admit that now, absolutely. But he needed her trust because love without trust was, well, not love. And he wanted both with this woman.
—
She could get used to this too, Elsa decided when Nick finally broke the kiss.
She could get used to the heartfelt attentions of a strong, good man, the scents of ranch and farm pulling up sweet memories of a younger Elsa, the sounds of children running and laughing, arguing and singing.
It wouldn’t take much, and maybe it was too late already, because something about the Double S made her feel right, and Elsa hadn’t felt right in a long time.
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