by Meg Maxwell
“I don’t know,” he said, shifting so that her hand moved off his arm.
She bit her lip. “I just wonder if the more time that goes by, the stranger it’ll be that you’re not telling her.”
“I said I don’t know, Clementine,” he repeated maybe a little too gruffly.
The hand was back on his arm. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to push you into something.” She shook her head. “Now that Phoebe is here, my foster daughter, I guess I’m hoping you’ll start seeing her as just Phoebe, not as Clyde Parsons’s stepdaughter.”
How could he do that? She was Parsons’s stepdaughter and a constant reminder to him of a man he wanted to pretend didn’t exist.
“Well, how would telling her that not make it even more crystal clear to me that she is Parsons’s stepdaughter?” he asked. “Right now, I can almost forget because she has no idea.”
“I guess I was thinking that once it’s out in the open and not a secret being kept, it stops having magnitude for you. It stops being something you need to do something about. You’ll be able to look at her as just Phoebe, my foster daughter instead of someone so connected to Clyde Parsons.”
Oh heck, maybe she was right. He just didn’t want to deal with, not yet. “I—”
The sliding glass door opened and the kids rushed in, laughing and talking a mile a minute, and very effectively forcing a change of subject. They headed over to the pile of blocks, Phoebe helping stack them and the boys zooming into them, crashing onto the playmat. Logan glanced at his watch. It was close to six thirty.
“Well, I guess I’d better get these two ready for bed,” Logan said, standing up. Ending this conversation. Ending this day.
“Aww,” Harry complained.
“Can’t we stay up longer and play with Phoebe?” Henry asked.
“Sorry, guys,” Logan said, scooping up Harry and flying him horizontally, one of Harry’s favorite moves. He put the boy down and picked up Henry, tossing him up a few inches and catching him, then setting him down.
“I loved being here today,” Phoebe said, her hazel eyes so full of happiness he had to take a step back.
“I’m glad,” he said. He wanted to add you’re welcome anytime, but he didn’t want to say that before he meant it. And right now, he just wasn’t there yet.
“Logan, I know I’m just nine,” she said, “but maybe I could do some chores for you around the ranch or help babysit the twins? I could help take care of Crazy Joe. I just love him so much.”
What? No. No, no, no. Clementine had brought up the idea of Phoebe spending time on the ranch when they’d first discovered Phoebe existed, but he’d put the idea out of his head. Now here was Phoebe, asking straight out. “You mean like a job?” he said, needing to give himself time to process this.
She nodded. “Well, chores. I need to earn money for something important.”
She was looking down at the floor and it was clear she didn’t want to be asked for what. He glanced over at Clementine, whose expression seemed...anxious.
Dammit. He didn’t want Phoebe hanging around his ranch, reminding him he wasn’t a Grainger, that a man named Clyde Turnbull Parsons was his biological father, that he stuffed a PO box full of child support over the first eighteen years of Logan’s life, that he went to his rodeos and kept a scrapbook, that he’d taken on the responsibility of a girl with nowhere to go. She’d naturally start talking about her late stepfather and Logan would have to listen and politely respond and then what? He’d have to tell her he was Parsons’s son, making it very real, putting it out there, speaking it aloud. He’d learn all kinds of things about Parsons that he didn’t want to know. Like anything about the man who’d betrayed his mother and walked out on him before he was even born.
But worse, Phoebe would feel even more connected to Logan. He wouldn’t just be her rodeo hero. He’d be the son of the man who’d meant more to Phoebe than anyone, the one person in her young life who apparently hadn’t let her down. From the moment Phoebe knew, Logan would be Parsons’s son to her. He didn’t want to be that. Ever.
“I’ll work real hard,” Phoebe said, staring at Logan with such hope that his shoulders knotted. “I promise.”
Oh hell. He ran a hand through his hair.
“Phoebe, this is a really busy time on Logan’s ranch,” Clementine said, and he appreciated that she was trying to save him, buy him time. “I don’t think he has the hours in the day to supervise a young ranch hand. But I’ll bet my sister Annabel’s husband, West, could use some help at his ranch. Wait till you meet their ponies—” The dejected look on Phoebe’s face interrupted Clementine and she bit her lip.
“Okay,” Phoebe said, staring at her sneakers.
He glanced at Clementine, who looked miserable. He glanced at Phoebe, who looked even more miserable. But neither looked as miserable as he felt. “Well, I’ll tell you what, Phoebe. Let me look at my schedule and talk to Clementine about it. Maybe we can figure something out.”
Note the word maybe. Please, both of you, take careful note of maybe.
The new look on Phoebe’s face could only be described as kid-unwrapping-big-Christmas-present. “Awesome!” Phoebe said, smiling at him. She rushed over to the blocks area, put them away in their bins in seconds flat, straightened out the mat, then hugged each twin. “See you two at the next rehearsal. And remember, it’s one-horse open sleigh.”
The boys hugged her back and suddenly, Phoebe and Clementine were heading to the door. He needed that door to close behind them, needed to be back to his life with the boys.
“Maybe you’ll talk to Clementine about it in the morning?” Phoebe asked. “I mean, if you have time.”
Maybe, maybe, maybe. Used to be such a nice noncommittal word.
He glanced at Clementine. “I’ll make time,” he said, surprising even himself. Had he meant to say that? He could have easily said he’d be busy leading the cattle out farther in the morning, then had ranch chores and another area of fence to mend and a ranchers association meeting later in the day. But Phoebe was getting under his skin, just like she’d gotten under Clementine’s.
As Clementine offered him a wobbly smile with a thank-you hovering in the air between them, he nodded, again wondering what had happened to his life.
* * *
At almost midnight, Clementine couldn’t sleep so threw the quilt off and padded downstairs to the second floor. She poked her head in Phoebe’s room, the slice of moonlight illuminating the area near Phoebe’s bed enough for Clementine to see the girl sleeping peacefully. The scrapbook of Logan’s rodeo events was under her arm.
Clementine’s heart pinged in her chest. Oh, Phoebe. When she’d tucked the girl in earlier, she hadn’t had the scrapbook, which meant Phoebe hadn’t been able to sleep either and had gotten up for it. Clementine wondered if Phoebe had been reading it or if it just worked like a treasured stuffed animal to make her feel safe as she tried to drift off.
Phoebe’s long sandy-brown hair was over her cheek and Clementine wanted to tiptoe in and brush it back, but she was afraid to wake Phoebe. And get caught. Phoebe might think she was “nice,” but she was still keeping a distance between them and Clementine knew she had to respect that.
Earlier this evening, at dinner with Gram in the family dining room on the other side of the kitchen, Clementine had asked Phoebe about school and her favorite subject and what her favorite things to do were. Phoebe answered her politely enough in one or two words, but all the girl wanted to talk about was her rodeo hero, Logan Grainger, and his ranch, excitedly telling Essie all about Crazy Joe and how she got to pet him and that maybe she’d get to do some chores around the ranch for some spending money. Essie Hurley had grown up on a ranch, so she and Phoebe had tons to talk about, and Gram had tried her darnedest to bring Clementine into the conversation, but once again, Phoebe kept her at arm’s leng
th.
It’ll take time, she said to herself, repeated her mantra.
As she watched Phoebe sleep, she wondered what she wanted to earn money for. Something important, the girl had said. Maybe Phoebe would tell Logan what it was.
If he agreed to let her do some chores at the ranch.
She popped her head out and went downstairs, careful not to wake her grandmother, whose room was on the first floor. Essie Hurley was a light sleeper. In the kitchen, Clementine considered working on perfecting her Creole sauce; she was so close to getting it just right, but the aroma would definitely wake up Gram and might drift upstairs too. Maybe a midnight snack, something to do, something to settle the slightly acidic feeling churning in her belly and up her throat. She settled for a peanut butter and honey sandwich on a biscuit.
She was suddenly struck by a memory, of Charlaine Hurley, her dear mother, making her this exact midnight snack in those early days when she’d first brought Clementine to live with her. Charlaine had lovely auburn hair, much like Annabel’s, and beautiful green eyes like Georgia’s, and Clementine had been so afraid of what she felt inside that she clammed up around Charlaine. Her mother had been so kind and patient, filling eight-year-old Clementine’s silences with stories about Charlaine’s mother-in-law, Essie Hurley, who’d taught her how to make her famed biscuits but Charlaine knew hers didn’t live up to the master’s. Clementine remembered thinking her new foster mother’s biscuits were the best thing she’d ever tasted in her life. She remembered wanting to say that, how it was bursting out of her chest, but she couldn’t get her lips to form the words, to find her voice. So she’d started crying, and Charlaine had just held her, probably wondering what on earth she’d said that had made her cry.
Time, Clementine knew from experience. Just let it happen. Don’t push, don’t rush. And don’t be envious of that closeness she has with Logan, with Gram and your sisters already. Be grateful for it.
Why was everything easier said than done? She poured herself a little iced tea, then cleaned up and moved over to a chair by the window, staring outside at the stars dotting the dark sky. She caught on one and made a wish in just a word: please.
Finally, she went back upstairs and got into bed. Her phone on her bedside table was glowing, which meant she missed a text, call or email.
A text. From Logan.
Tomorrow after school would be okay for Phoebe to start “work.” Once a week, $10.
Her heart lifted and she texted back, She’ll be over the moon. Thank you.—C
There was a couple of minutes’ delay, then he texted. Good night.—L
Glad for Phoebe, Clementine flopped over onto her stomach, thinking she’d be able to fall right asleep, but then tossed and turned, tossed and turned, rearranging the pillows, her mind now on everything Logan had told her earlier about the awful woman who’d lied to him. She tried to imagine Logan, the man she knew, alone in a hotel room before a rodeo, trying to live down that silly moniker, dealing with the betrayal from a woman he’d cared about and getting that terrible phone call from the police about the loss of his brother and sister-in-law. No wonder he’d been so slow to do something about their obvious attraction earlier this year. He’d been burned, embarrassed, and then Clementine had entered his life as his sons’ new sitter, and it made sense that he’d been cautious about their obvious attraction. And then he’d finally, finally, finally kissed her after months, and wham, the letter had whacked him upside the head again.
He is doing what he thinks is right, even if it doesn’t feel right, she realized. That wasn’t easy. And it made her love him even more.
There was just no sense in trying to deny it anymore, to keep the word out of her head where Logan was concerned. She did love him, deeply, even if she knew heartache was what she’d get in return. She knew he had feelings for her, maybe even strong feelings, but who knew what those feelings were really about. Attraction, yes. Gratitude at how she’d cared for his twins back when she’d been their sitter. Appreciation that he could talk to her about the things that were tearing him up. All that combined to make strong feelings. Not love. If he’d been in love with her back in August when he’d gotten Parsons’s letter, wouldn’t love had won out? He wouldn’t have been able to distance himself, avoid her. Right?
His ability to trust had been blown to bits, she reminded herself. Of course he’d push her away.
But then again, if he’d loved her, maybe he would have drawn her closer, needed her.
Clementine flopped onto her stomach and punched her pillow to make it more comfortable but it felt like mush and concrete at the same time. Or was that just her head?
Stop going over it, she told herself. He’d been gobsmacked and shocked and had his world turned upside down and he couldn’t deal with anything else, couldn’t trust. That made sense, no matter what his feelings were or weren’t for her.
She didn’t know whether to hang on to hope or let go of it.
Hang on, she told herself. Just like you’re doing with Phoebe. Logan had gone from a shut door to inviting her in; that was something. There were still miles of distance between them too, but at least he’d opened the darned door. If he closes it again, then you’ll call yourself a fool, wise the heck up and focus on your foster daughter and your life and not your dumb heart.
Her weary brain felt better and she pulled the quilt up and felt herself drifting off, Logan’s gorgeous face managing to lull her to sleep.
Chapter Eight
After Logan saw the twins off to school in the morning, he did the barn chores he usually delegated to his ranch hand, cleaning out the stalls, hoping to work out some of the tight muscles that had settled into his shoulders and back and arms and legs overnight. Phoebe hanging around his ranch. A walking, talking, breathing reminder that he had a biological father he wanted to forget.
Logan hosed down the last stall, then walked out into the December sunshine to the horses’ pasture and tossed a few apple slices to the horses and ponies. He watched them graze for a while, but he kept thinking of Phoebe, imagining her sitting next to Parsons at a rodeo, excitedly eating her popcorn and clapping for him. He hated the thought of Clyde Parsons in the stands, watching him, thinking they were related, that there was anything to their connection other than DNA.
As if DNA didn’t matter at all. It did and didn’t. DNA wasn’t everything, but it wasn’t “nothing,” either.
A father showed up. A father cared. A father took responsibility. A father raised you. That was what a father was. Parsons was just a man who’d walked away and was never seen again.
But not unheard from again. Unfortunately? Logan had spent many nights tossing and turning over that one. Was ignorance bliss? If you had no cause to wonder about something, than yeah, ignorance sure as hell was blissful.
He had to get out of his head, focus on the physical labor and not think so much. He’d take Sundappled up to the area of fence that needed repairing, then ride along and check the rest of the fencing, maybe take off hard for a bit, give Sundappled a workout.
But first, he needed coffee. Strong coffee to clear his mind.
He went back inside the house to put a pot on, then remembered he’d used the last of the coffee at dawn when he’d gotten up. He needed a big mug of strong coffee. Which meant a trip into town. He opened the refrigerator and took a quick inventory of what else he needed from the grocery store. The twins ate like birds and lately, so did Logan, but he saw he was low on cheese for their beloved grilled cheese sandwiches and the Western omelets he liked to make himself in the early mornings. The bread was nearly gone too. He’d drive into town to the grocery store, then stop at the coffee shop for their biggest size cup of dark brew.
The ride did him good. He blasted The Rolling Stones, thinking of nothing but Mick Jagger’s voice and the song lyrics, and there was nothing like grabbing a cart and h
eading into the grocery store to numb him. Grocery shopping was a chore, but a necessary one. He consulted his mental list, remembering he needed cold cereal, and swung his cart back to aisle one, his gaze on the sugary, crunchy kiddie cereal he personally loved, but reaching for the healthier oat one for the boys’ sake.
“Logan Grainger! How nice to see you.”
Logan whirled around at the familiar voice. Delia Cooper, who’d been his mother’s friend. His mother had been gone for almost ten years, but the Coopers had come by often in the first weeks after Logan had come home to raise the twins. He and the boys were all that was left of the once much bigger Grainger family. She held out her arms for a hug and Logan stepped in, the woman wrapping her arms tightly around him.
“How are those adorable nephews of yours?” she asked.
“They’re doing great. They’ll be in the Christmas show this year.”
Delia smiled. He liked that she hadn’t changed in all the years he’d known her; she had the same short blond hairstyle and wore a red sweater with a big embroidered reindeer on it. “Well, I won’t miss that.”
The Graingers and the Coopers had lived next door to each other on small neighboring ranches. The Coopers’ children were older, but they’d played with Logan and his brother sometimes. His mother had been a private woman, more introverted than his more social father. But many times Logan would find Ellie Grainger sitting or walking with Delia.
Would his mother have confided in Delia? No way. Delia Cooper was too chatty and the truth way too personal. Back when he’d first received Parsons’s bombshell of a letter and he hadn’t been sure if what Parsons revealed was true or not, Logan had tried to think of anyone who’d been close to his mother in those days. But there was no one, really. Delia was a neighbor and a friend, but would his mother have told anyone if she wasn’t planning on ever telling Logan himself?