The Rancher's Twins

by Carol Ross

  Forcing herself to make eye contact confirmed her assumption—he didn’t like what he saw. She wondered if he knew how much his steely gray gaze gave away.

  “Why is what?” she asked, forcing a friendly smile. Whatever his first impression had told him, it wasn’t good. Lydia needed to change his mind.

  His next words were hard-edged, like it tried his patience to clarify his question. “Why did you think you had the wrong ranch?”

  “Um, well...” Lydia tried to think of a way to condense her reasons. Because a pregnant woman opened the door and I thought you were a single dad, and you’re glaring at me, and I didn’t expect my new employer to be a grouch who disliked me on sight.

  Sofie blinked wide brown eyes. “That doesn’t matter, does it, Jon? She’s here now.”

  The little shake of his head was almost imperceptible. In a flat tone he conceded, “I suppose not.” He stuck out a hand. “Jonathon Blackwell. This is the JB Bar Ranch.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Blackwell.” Lydia offered her hand. He gave it a firm squeeze and then released it like they were playing a game of hot potato. His stern gaze skimmed over her and lingered on her boots before he glanced away.

  A black-and-white dog sidled up to her, tail wagging.

  “Hello, gorgeous.” Crouching, she held out a hand. The dog came closer and laid his muzzle on her thigh. Lydia relaxed a little and stroked his silky ears. At least the dog liked her. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”

  “This is Trout,” Sofie said, beaming.

  Blackwell loomed, his face a grim mask.

  “How was your drive?” Sofie asked.

  “Good. Stunningly beautiful. I’ve never seen this part of the country. Or much of rural America at all, unfortunately. Not since I was a kid, anyway.”

  “Oh, but I thought you had... Where are you from?”

  “Philadelphia, born and mostly raised.” If a girl can be raised by the age of fifteen, she added silently.

  Sofie’s face twisted thoughtfully. “So, you’ve never lived on a ranch?”

  Lydia laughed and gave the dog one more pat before standing. “Nope. City girl through and through.” Except for her two years in upstate New York with Nana. But that was a story and Tanner had told her to withhold details when she could. Sofie shot Blackwell another curious glance. He returned it with another head shake and a sigh. What was this guy’s problem?

  Sofie noticed her watching. Clearing her throat, she focused her bright smile back on Lydia. “Well, I can relate to that, that’s for sure. I’m from Seattle.”

  Trout let out an excited whimper and jogged through the doorway where Blackwell still stood guard. Behind him, the unmistakable sounds of a crowd entering the house followed; voices, laughter, squeals, the clank of what sounded like metal and then the stomping of feet.

  “Perfect timing,” Sofie said brightly. “The girls are back.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  BEFORE LYDIA’S BRAIN could even register the plural form of the word girl, a pair of them rushed into the room. Little ones. Decidedly un-teenager ones. Cries of “Sofie” and “Trout” and “Daddy” followed. Maybe these were the pregnant Sofie’s other children? But no, because they were clearly calling Blackwell “Daddy.”

  Within seconds he was confirming the association. “Girls, I’d like you to meet Ms. Lydia Newbury. Ms. Newbury, this is Abigail.” He placed one large palm on a mess of long brown curls before putting the other on the shoulder of a child with lighter brown tangles even messier than her sister’s. “And this is Genevieve.” There seemed to be a challenging glint in his eyes. “My five-year-old twin daughters.”

  Lydia’s brain was spinning a hundred miles an hour. There must have been a mix-up at the nanny agency. Instead of one fourteen-year-old, she’d gotten placed with two five-year-olds? As much as she wanted to apologize for the inconvenience, walk out to her car, climb in and drive away, fleeing was not an option. This was her flee, so to speak. Images of Clive and his cronies swam before her eyes. Five-year-old twins and their grumpy father versus taking her chances on the open road?

  She held out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Abigail and Genevieve.” One tiny, filthy hand and then another reached out and squeezed hers. Adorable, polite, nice-to-meet-yous accompanied each gesture. Lydia studied their dirt-smeared faces and felt a tug of affection working at the knot of terror and anxiety tangled inside her chest.

  “I’d like for you guys to call me Lydia, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Abigail said.

  Genevieve commented, “I like that better. It’s faster to say. Like Gen instead of Genevieve, you can call me that if you want.” Expression earnest, she flipped a hand toward her sister. “And Abby you can call Abby. Hardly nobody calls us Genevieve or Abigail.”

  “Hardly anybody,” Abigail said, correcting her sister.

  “Yep,” Genevieve agreed with a quick bob of her head. “That’s what I meant, hardly anybody.” She hooked her thumbs in her belt loops and seemed to study Lydia’s outfit with much less disdain than her father. “Those boots are real pretty. They’re tall, huh? I don’t think you could run very fast in them. Or ride.”

  Blackwell let out a sound like a cross between a snort and a chuckle. “Boots like that aren’t good for much, sugar plum. They’re not even real leather.”

  Lydia felt her cheeks go hot. Why did it feel like he’d just insulted more than her boots?

  “You could wear them to church?” Abigail suggested helpfully. “Or to a party? Not a barn party, though, because the heel part would sink into the dirt.” She stomped one tiny cowboy-booted heel as if to show Lydia what she meant.

  “Do you like horses?” Genevieve asked.

  “Um, yes, I do,” Lydia said.

  “We love horses. Abby and I have our own horses. Mine is Garnet and hers is Topaz.”

  “Do you ride, Lydia?” Blackwell asked in a tone that let her know there was only one right answer and he suspected she wasn’t going to give it. What was wrong with this guy? Like his first question, she wasn’t quite sure how to answer it. Lydia loved horses. But she hadn’t been on one since she was fourteen, before Nana died and her dad sold the farm, and Lydia’s already uncertain world had completely fallen apart. A painful cramp of longing seized her at the onslaught of memories. She hoped horseback riding was like riding a bike.

  She opened her mouth to explain when Sofie stepped forward. “Well, if Lydia does ride, I’m sure she isn’t planning on riding in those pretty boots. Lydia, I can’t tell you how glad we are that you’re here.”

  She turned toward the twins with an encouraging smile. “Abby, Gen, why don’t you girls go wash up for dinner?”

  To Blackwell, she suggested, “Jon, why don’t you go out to Lydia’s car and get her bags?”

  “That would be great.” Digging into the purse hanging over her shoulder, Lydia withdrew the keys. “You’ll need these.”

  “Of course,” Blackwell said flatly. “You locked it.”

  She dropped the keys into his outstretched palm and watched him stalk toward the door.

  Sofie said, “No one locks their cars around here. You’ll get used to it. And speaking of dinner, yours is on the stove. Follow me into the kitchen and I’ll show you where a few things are before I go.”

  Lydia already liked this woman and the thought of her leaving now, specifically of being left here with Jonathon Blackwell and this precocious preschool duo that she did not sign up for, left her skin itchy and prickling, probably from the cold sweat breaking out all over her body.

  * * *

  HALF-DAZED AND FULL-ON IRRITATED, Jon headed out to the nanny’s vehicle. At least the well-used four-wheel-drive SUV was Montana practical. Although, he noted disapprovingly, it could use some new tires. Opening the back, he wondered how many trips it would take him to haul City Girl’s stuff
inside. Seemed like kind of a waste since she wouldn’t be here long. He was calling the agency first thing in the morning and getting a replacement.

  “Huh,” he grunted. All he saw was one small suitcase and a bag that looked about large enough for a laptop. He’d expected at least one steamer trunk filled entirely with impractical shoes.

  Back inside the house, he deposited the bags in the guest room, which reminded him to take a side trip to the laundry room and put the sheets in the dryer. Still fuming, he headed into the bathroom in his master suite. Normally, he’d just wash up in the half bath off the mudroom, but he needed a second. Several seconds. Days maybe.

  After scrubbing his hands, he splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection.

  “Lydia Newbury,” he said and then followed up with a whispered expletive. “It even sounds like a spoiled, city-girl name.”

  How could this have happened? The agency advertised that they carefully vetted each candidate and placed them in the best possible position. He’d specifically requested a nanny with ranching or farming experience, a rural background at the very least. This woman looked like she just stepped off the subway in her tight skirt and stupid high-heeled boots. Long, silky, chestnut-colored hair shined with expensive highlights, manicured nails clutched a designer bag that looked so soft it would probably melt in the rain.

  His marriage hadn’t lasted long, but it had been long enough to recognize a woman addicted to the finer things. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d blatantly given herself away. She didn’t want to be here on the JB Bar Ranch. From the window, he and Sofie had watched her, scowling and shaking her head. “I think I must have the wrong place,” she’d said, standing right on his doorstep, her expression so baffled and forlorn that once upon a time his younger, naive self might have gone weak with sympathy. That man had died right along with his marriage.

  Reality rarely lived up to expectations and he couldn’t help but wonder what she’d been imagining? A stately old colonial mansion? A “rustic” lodge-style monstrosity that wasn’t rustic at all but was designed to look as if it was, like the guest house at the Blackwell Ranch? Too bad it wasn’t open yet—he could move her over there until she could catch a plane back to Philadelphia. Whatever she’d had in mind, it clearly was not Jon’s modest-sized rambler.

  “How cute,” Ava had said the first day he’d brought her to the JB Bar. “A ranch-style home for a rancher. We can add on later, right?” Jon had thought she was joking. By the time he’d learned otherwise, she was pregnant. When it came to material things, Ava had no sense of humor, only a longing that he could not satisfy. Her cravings were the kind that ranching could never cure, not his style of ranching, anyway. He’d built his house and ranch from the ground up with cattle, practicality and comfort in mind. Pretty much in that order.

  A nanny like Lydia was out of the question. He’d had enough of coddling beautiful, materialistic, impossible-to-please women to last a lifetime. Besides, he thought as a wave of those bitter feelings washed over him, it didn’t work, anyway.

  It had taken weeks for this nanny to get here. How long would it take to get a replacement?

  * * *

  AFTER SOFIE LEFT, Lydia remained in the kitchen, admiring the granite countertops, brushed stainless-steel appliances and double sinks. Gorgeous hardwood floors gleamed beneath her feet. A large island made up the centerpiece of the room. Copper-bottomed pans hung from a rack suspended above. Five tall padded comfy-looking stools were tucked under the opposite edge.

  She stepped closer to the deluxe five-burner stove with double ovens and felt a spark of joy. A little swirl of hope circled inside of her. If Lydia had designed the kitchen herself, she wouldn’t change a thing. Cozy and gourmet utilitarian at the same time. Cooking was an area where she felt supremely confident.

  The girls skipped into the kitchen. Genevieve climbed up one of the tall stools at the kitchen’s island.

  “It’s dinnertime, why don’t you guys go ahead and sit at the table?”

  “We eat here,” Abby said, joining her sister in the next chair.

  Hmm. Lydia had fond memories of her and Nana sharing meals at the table. “Every day?”

  “When we eat here.”

  “What do you mean when you eat here?”

  “Since it’s calving time we usually eat in the bunkhouse with the cowboys.”

  “I see.” But she didn’t. Was she supposed to cook for a bunch of cowboys, too? Now that she thought about it, the position hadn’t come with much of a job description. That had been the least of her concerns. She and Blackwell needed to hash out a few details.

  “Tonight, we’re going to sit at the table, okay? That way we can see each other while we eat, and I can get to know you guys a little bit.”

  “Are you going to quit, too?” Abby asked.

  “Quit?”

  “All our babysitters quit,” she explained.

  “No, I most certainly am not.” For once in her life quitting was not an option.

  The girls exchanged glances. Leaning their heads together, they whispered excitedly. After a moment, something seemed to be decided because they sat up straight again, grinned at Lydia and shrugged in tandem. “Okay.” They hopped down and darted toward the dining room.

  “Hey, you guys want to help me set the table since you’re headed that way?”

  They turned back toward her, matching gray-blue eyes wide and curious. For a few long seconds Lydia thought they were going to balk.

  Abby’s face erupted with a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll get the spoons,” Genevieve said.

  The three of them were seated and waiting when Blackwell strode into the kitchen. Stopping short, he looked from the kitchen to the dining room and back again. Lydia almost laughed at the baffled expression on his face.

  Abby saved Lydia from having to explain. “Daddy, look, we’re eating at the table.”

  “Isn’t this neat?” Gen added.

  “Uh... Yeah, very...” He walked over and stood before the table for a second, hands on hips. “Neat.” He folded his tall length into the vacant chair and Lydia couldn’t help thinking that he moved with the graceful ease of an athlete. Or a cowboy. Not that she’d ever known one of the latter. Dipping his head down, he studied the steaming bowl of stew as if trying to decide what it might contain.

  Unlike the new kitchen, the oak dining table looked very old. The girls had shown Lydia the drawer in the matching buffet where place mats were kept. They’d seemed excited when Lydia encouraged them to choose a set.

  Fiddling with the silverware laid out on his left side, Blackwell looked at Lydia. “We don’t usually eat here.”

  “The girls told me.” Lydia unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. “Dinnertime is a nice way to multitask, though, don’t you think? You get to eat and spend time together as a family. That’s what my grandmother always said.”

  Blackwell’s lips formed a grim line while the twins stared at her solemnly.

  “You’re lucky to have a grandma,” Abby said.

  “Yeah,” Gen agreed. “We have Zoe, but she doesn’t like us to call her Grandma. She doesn’t do any grandma stuff, either. One time she painted our fingernails.”

  Abby added, “We love Great-Grandma Dorothy. But she lives far away in Texas and we hardly ever see her.”

  “I was very lucky to have a grandma. She died, but I’m glad I had her as long as I did. I’m sorry you guys don’t have a grandma.” Lydia wanted to ask questions about this Zoe person, but Blackwell’s glower stopped her.

  She briefly considered calling for a blessing or some other type of predinner ritual, but decided there’d be time to introduce that later. “I think we should eat.”

  A few minutes later, Lydia decided Sofie might be a paragon of sweetness, but she was a terrible cook. The stew was bland a
nd the corn bread dry. But the Blackwells ate without complaint and there was no way she was going to voice her opinion on a gesture of such obvious goodwill. Nor was she going to comment on the fact that the twins ate like piglets. Not yet, anyway.

  “Did you grow up on a ranch, too?” Genevieve asked, scooping up a large chunk of corn bread and shoving it into her already full mouth.

  “Nope. I was raised in Philadelphia. That’s in Pennsylvania. Do you know where that is?”

  Gen shook her head.

  “I think Pennsylvania is a state,” Abby said, and then licked her fingers.

  “It is. I’ll show you on a map.”

  “Have you ever seen a calf being born?” Gen asked.

  “No, I have not.”

  Abby wrinkled her nose. “It’s kind of gross.”

  “No, it’s not!” Gen argued. “It’s the roof over our head and the boots on our feet, huh, Daddy?”

  Blackwell gave her a gentle smile. “Yes, it sure is.”

  Abby shot her sister an irritated scowl. “I know, Gen. I just meant if you’ve never seen one before.”

  “I’m gonna be a rancher, too.” Gen shoveled up another too-large bite of stew and then wiped at her face with the back of her hand. “Like Katie.”

  “I want to be a vet like Uncle Ethan.” Abby dipped a finger in her stew and wiped it on the place mat.

  Lydia wondered if the girls knew what napkins were for.

  They continued chatting through the rest of the meal. Lydia was grateful for the distraction as it saved her from having to talk to her new employer. At least, she noted happily, he wasn’t grouchy with his girls.

  Dinner complete, the girls hopped up from the table and scampered out of the dining room. Lydia watched them go and felt a mix of sympathy and affection wash over her. What had happened here? Where was their mother? She could feel Blackwell watching her. Turning her head, she saw puzzlement and...something not quite as grouchy splayed across his face.