Carefully she touched the bump on her head. It was still tender, but the swelling had gone down, and she wasn't nearly as woozy after dozing on and off all morning and into the afternoon. That was something. She tried to keep faith the rest would soon follow. In the meantime, she did have a job to do…
It had surprised her at first to learn she was a nanny, but then, she couldn't deny her instant connection with her ward. It felt right that she was here to care for him. She certainly had a nanny's radar, judging from last night.
With firm resolve, she put a lid on her worries, tossed aside her towel along with her paranoia and changed into her new clothes and new attitude.
Drawing back the curtains, she feasted her sight on a panoramic view of vast, open land. Ahead and to her left, rolling hills appeared to stretch all the way to the sky. Cows speckled the snow-covered landscape like dark polka dots. To her right, steep foothills gave rise to majestic mountains, behind which the sun poised to sink. Its fiery glow painted the high wisps of clouds in brilliant pinks and outlined the profile of a man riding horseback, checking the cows in a nearby corral.
She recognized Brooks from his broad shoulders and tall, commanding presence. The blanket of freshly fallen snow contrasted with his golden, sun-bronzed face. Chaps covered long, jean-clad legs, and a black Stetson tipped low over his forehead. He rode the powerful animal with the easy assurance of a man thoroughly accustomed to it, and when he turned and headed toward a big, red barn, her breathing grew shallow at the mesmerizing silhouette—a man and his horse riding into the sunset.
In that moment, she understood the appeal of the mythical cowboy.
Rushed, she unlatched the window and cracked it open for some fresh air. A nippy breeze blew in, carrying the smell of winter wrestling its way to spring. She inhaled, filling her lungs with crisp air, when the tinkle of wind chimes mingled with a baby's cry.
Her diaphragm froze. Alarm jolted every vertebra in her spine. She whirled for the door, her instinct to go after the baby stronger than ever. But the instant she turned the knob, the cries stopped.
What happened?
She raced back to the window, straining to hear past the pounding in her ears. Something, anything…? Nothing. And then … yes … a high-pitched squeal. A happy sound.
An elderly woman came into view. In her arms, she held Timmy, playing peekaboo with his bright red hood. Hearty giggles punctuated his delight.
Oh, thank God. She covered her thudding heart and sank boneless onto the edge of the bed. Boy, she obviously took her job seriously, if her still-shaking limbs were any sign.
"Okay. Breathe," she coached herself. "In. Out. In. Out. You can do this." She'd done this breathing exercise before; there was familiarity in the routine.
Once she'd regulated her breathing, she forced herself to finish getting ready, drying her hair and brushing it out with slow, easy motions. Again, she grounded herself in tasks that seemed second-nature. By the time a rap sounded at the door, she felt much better. "Come in," she called.
The door swung open, and Brooks's tall frame filled the entrance. Slightly bow-legged, he wore his faded Wranglers longish, the denim stacked from his knees down, frayed cuffs dragging at his heels. His silver belt buckle was D-shaped, like a sideways horseshoe, a horizontal bar hinged to the vertical bar of the D. His Western-style shirt accentuated his broad, muscled shoulders, a flat belly and a trim waist. He'd left two pearl snaps undone, and a white T-shirt peeked from below the hollow of his throat. There were splotches of orange paint on his jeans. His short, dark hair was matted with sweat, and he carried the scent of the earth and freshly fallen snow, of leather and horses and an honest day's work.
Oh, yes. She understood the appeal very well now…
"You're up." He smiled. "And dressed."
She wore a pair of his sister's denim overalls and a cream-colored, ribbed turtleneck. "Clean, too."
"One up on me." His smile widened, and he hitched a thumb over his shoulder. "I was about to hit the shower. Thought I'd check on you first. Clothes fit okay?"
A smile tugged up the corners of her own lips as she recalled the tinge of color in his cheeks that morning when he'd set the package of new cotton underwear alongside the stack of clothing Jo had dropped off.
"Yes, thank you," she said. The secondhand garments were baggy but comfortable, and she wasn't going to complain.
He tipped his head. "Feel up to joining us for supper? It's your call. I'll fix you another tray if you'd rather—"
"No, no. I've had enough room service. I'd like get out, see the baby."
Brooks turned his gaze to the widow. Had she not been deliberating the hue of his eyes again, she might have missed the way they softened. Her gaze followed his to the backyard where two men stood. One of them held Timmy.
She straightened. Where had the elderly woman gone?
A buzzing uneasiness mounted inside her, fueled by an inexplicable protectiveness that made her shudder from the sheer force of it.
"You're cold," Brooks said, as if drawn by the abrupt movement. "I'll close the window."
"No," she answered a bit too sharply. "Th-thank you."
"Sure?" At her jerky nod, he said, "Weather's crazy in March. Rain, shine, sleet, snow. Runs the gamut."
Vaguely she registered the snowflakes that started to fall, but she was more concerned with the men with the baby.
"Who are they?"
"That's Mitch with the chief."
"Chief?"
"Er, Timmy. They're talking to a neighbor who helped out during the height of calving. It's the best and worst time. Hours are long, and sleep's short. But it's the start of a new cycle, so it's exciting despite the hassles." His deep, husky voice was a salve on her frazzled nerves.
She was starting to get used to him. Maybe even like him a little. He did have kind eyes and a nice voice. But like a stray sniffing a stranger's had before approaching, she couldn't explain her wariness, only knew she wasn't ready to trust anyone too much. "Mitch…? Next in line after Jo?"
Brooks nodded. He'd told her the "pecking order" of Hart siblings. His two brothers Mitch and Dean brought up the rear at twenty-seven and twenty-five.
"How is he with Timmy?" She tried to sound casual.
As if sensing her concern, Brooks reassured, "Real good. Always had a gift with horses—tames even the wildest beasts. No real wonder he's a natural with babies, too."
Was that a pang of envy beneath his obvious admiration?
"My expertise is limited to ranching," he said in answer to her unasked question. "I'm kinda counting on you to … help me figure out this baby stuff." Shifting, he dropped his gaze momentarily, and she was struck by the flash of vulnerability in this towering hulk of a man who for all appearances wasn't intimidated by anyone or anything.
"I'll do everything I can," she said, hoping she'd have something of value to offer him, after all he'd done for her.
"I appreciate it. So, you hungry?" He rubbed his hands together and grinned, revealing the long slash of a dimple in his left cheek.
A shiver of awareness that had nothing to do with food danced up her spine. She swallowed. "I—I think my appetite might be coming back."
"Good, because Clara's the best cook in the county."
"Is that who was out there earlier with Timmy?"
"Yep, and let me tell you, that woman bakes a mean apple pie. She's got three in the oven as we speak."
"Three? Wow. We'll be eating pie all week."
Brooks laughed, a hearty, rumbling sound. "Don't bet on it. Three's nothing around here. They'll be gone inside thirty seconds, so if you want a piece, you'd best be at the table by the time they cool." He eyed the clock on the bedside table. "I'd say another fifteen minutes, tops."
"I'll be there."
"Timmy will be glad to see you. He's had his ups and downs, but meeting you was a definite up."
She raised an eyebrow. "He told you this, I suppose."
Brooks grinned. "Not in so
many words, but trust me, you made a great first impression. I thought he'd camp outside your door the way he fussed. He's had a rough start," he said by way of explanation. "Luke—his daddy, our oldest brother—just died. His mother bailed on them a few months before that, so the kid's pretty much an orphan."
"How awful. The poor baby. Thank goodness he has you." Before she knew it, her eyes teared up. "Oh. Oh, my." She blinked rapidly, startled by her emotions. "I didn't expect this." Embarrassed, she dabbed the corners of her eyes, but Brooks just smiled.
"Got a soft spot for babies, don't you?"
"I must." She gave a nervous smile. "Sorry—"
"Don't apologize. That's why we hired you." His gaze held hers a long moment, and she wondered what he saw when he looked at her, if he could make any more sense of the stranger who looked back at her in the mirror.
He shifted then, lifting one large hand to his shoulder as if to work out a knot. "I've got calls in to the airlines about your luggage. Can't imagine what happened to your purse or handbag or whatever women always have with them."
"Maybe I left it somewhere?"
"If it's with your ride, they'll figure it out soon enough. Might want to check with the bus company, too."
"I'll do that," she said. "If you could point me in the direction of the phone book later…?"
He nodded. "By the way, we call the noon meal 'dinner' around here, the evening 'supper.' Didn't know if you knew."
"No, I … I didn't."
He face slipped into a frown then as if something just occurred to him. "I hope this wasn't some kind of foul play, clobbering you on the head and taking off with your money."
Her eyes widened. She'd never considered that. "You think…?"
"Nah." He shook his head. "Now that I think about it, what are the chances of someone whacking you on the forehead?"
"I … I don't know."
"Slim to none. Usually you get clubbed on the side or the top or even the back. Front? That's likely accidental."
She narrowed her gaze, studying him. For a nonmedical type, he sure knew a lot about head injuries. "Maybe the bus driver—or my ride—slammed on the brakes. I banged my head, and in my daze, I forgot my purse."
"Now that is a highly probable scenario. We've got a constant problem with hitting deer out here." He rocked back on his heels, visibly impressed. "You're good with puzzles."
"So are you. From what you know about head injuries, you could have been a doctor yourself. Or a cop maybe."
At the offhand remark, a shadow chased over his face like a storm cloud drifting overhead. A muscle in his jaw pulsed, then relaxed.
Had she said something wrong or was it her imagination? "I'm going to take that shower now." He inclined his head toward the door. "Unless you need anything here?"
"I'm fine. Thanks." She rubbed her temple and watched his retreat. Not a bad retreat, she mused, surprising herself. It wasn't until the door started to close that she thought of something. "Wait. Sorry. There is one thing I meant to ask before. Do you, by chance, have my résumé?"
He drew his brows together. "Of course."
"I mean, handy. I … I'm curious about myself." She shrugged, hoping he wouldn't find her request too strange.
"Oh, right." He snapped his fingers as if he should have thought of it. "Hag on." He strode from the room, then returned carrying a manila folder. "Here's everything I've got. You're welcome to look through it." He extended his hand, ropes of muscle like whipcords in his arms.
"Thanks." Gingerly she forced herself to reach out and take the offering, to hold steady and not shrink back. "I—I appreciate it."
"No problem." If he'd noticed her resistance, he didn't show it. "See you in a bit."
"See you." She forced a smile. The second the door closed, she emptied the contents of the folder onto the bed, fanning the papers so she could scan them in one sweeping glance.
Résumé, letters of recommendation, an application for employment through the Triple H Cattle Company. She read every word—twice. Every last shred of evidence indicated she was absolutely incredible at what she did—even if she couldn't remember any of it.
She replaced the papers in the folder and sighed in frustration. She hated living in a vacuum, hated all these questions with answers just out of her reach. Her thoughts turned to the hospital, and she worried her lip.
Dr. Jo had assured her the tests would be strictly outpatient, that she'd likely be in and out in a few hours, but Amelia's chest still tightened painfully at the thought.
When the urge to hyperventilate struck, she closed her eyes and forced several deep, calming breaths. Above all, she could not risk letting her new employer think she was a nutcase while she awaited the return of her elusive memory.
What if he sent her packing? Where would she go? She obviously didn't have a home of her own. She hadn't listed any relatives on her application, giving the main number at the agency as her emergency contact. No family to speak of. And no money, as far as she knew.
She hated to admit she needed to go to the hospital, needed to get those X rays. Why, she wondered, did the idea of something that could possibly help her scare her to death?
* * *
"Death by apple pie." Brooks closed his eyes and inhaled the mouthwatering aroma. "Clara, if you weren't already married…"
"Get outta here." The sixty-five-year-old wife of their longtime foreman swatted his hand with a twisted towel. Her short, white curls always had a windblown look, and her face had softened more from the great outdoors than age. "Brooks Hart, there ain't a woman in three counties wouldn't take you up on an offer of marriage."
"But none that can bake an apple pie as fine as yours."
"I'll make you a deal. You find yourself a filly, and I'll give her my secret recipe."
"How about you give it to me?"
"No deal."
"Come on, Clara. It's not fair to keep holding out on me like this. You know I'm a confirmed bachelor."
"And it's a sorry state, I tell you. A man can't go through life alone. Ask Pete. He tried and see what he was missing out on?" She indicated with a flourish of her hand.
"No argument here." Brooks grinned and pecked Clara on the cheek. "But you're already taken, darlin'."
Clara made a noise that told him he wasn't fooling her, but she beamed all the same at the endearment.
One fine morning when Brooks was fourteen, a year after his mother took off for parts unknown, the old man finally went and drowned himself in his bottle. Luke was oldest at seventeen, not old enough to serve as legal guardian, so Pete and Clara stepped in to keep five kids from being split into foster homes. Best thing that ever happened to them.
"It's breaking Pete's heart to miss calving this year," Clara said. "I tell him a man's gotta retire sometime, but if he hadn't broke his leg, I know he'd be out there 'round the clock. Don't nobody call him an old stove-up cowboy."
"Hmm. Now who does that sound like? Let me think." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"All right, smarty-pats." Clara put a hand on her hip. "You made your point." Though she was past due for her own retirement, she claimed cooking as a hobby, "not work," and took exception to every cook he tried to hire, finding some perceived fault that made them unacceptable.
But he'd drawn the line when she offered to watch Timmy full-time. With no children of her own, she didn't have any more experience with babies than he did. And though he could use a hand every now and then, he didn't want Clara spending her golden years changing diapers, if he had any say in it.
Truthfully he could tell she'd been relieved when Jo recommended—and he'd concurred—they should hire a nanny.
Brooks pulled out a chair from the long oak table and straddled it backward, watching Timmy in his walker. "Easy on the bouncing, chief." He reached out a hand. "All that action after a feeding makes me nervous. Call me skeptical, but I know your tummy."
Timmy gave an enthusiastic squeal and maneuvered away, heading for the doorw
ay. Brooks glanced up to see Amelia standing there. Arms folded, she had a crease between her eyebrows as if unsure she'd made it to the right place.
Timmy, on the other hand, had no such reservations. Half bouncing, half dragging, he steered a path to his new best friend, arms outstretched.
"What are you, the Pied Piper?" Brooks asked in wonder.
Clara stood at the stove, clucking at Timmy's response.
Amelia shook her head as if she, too, couldn't believe such a warm reception. But in mere seconds, her expression shifted from wary curiosity to pure delight. A broad grin broke across her face as she squatted, extending her hands toward Timmy.
Brooks stopped breathing. He'd thought she was pretty before, but her smile lit up her entire face, erasing worry lines and bringing a glow to her cheeks. She was more than pretty when she wore that smile. She was an angel.
"Is it okay?" She glanced up at him, the look in her eyes—open, honest and pure—unlike any he'd seen.
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and it took him a second to realize she was asking permission to hold Timmy. "Please." At this point, Brooks was afraid of what would happen if she didn't. Timmy had some powerful pipes, as she was going to find out if she didn't pick him up soon.
Thankfully she did. "Hi, sweetie." She lifted him into her arms, crooning in a voice filled with magic and life. "How are you? Are you being a good boy for Uncle Brooks? Yeah?"
Like an orphaned calf grafting on a surrogate mother, Timmy dropped his head on Amelia's shoulder and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
"Aw…" Her arms curved around him, one had rubbing the back of his blue corduroy overalls as she rocked from side to side. "What flavor is that thumb? Strawberry? Or maybe chocolate?" She brushed her cheek against the thatch of hair at the crown of his head. "I'll bet it's yummy."
If not for Jo, Brooks wouldn't have known jack squat about the way it was supposed to be between women and their babies, and though this woman wasn't a mother herself, every instinct he possessed told him she had what it took.
For a heart-stopping moment, he damn near asked her to marry him right there on the spot. And from the look Clara shot him, she had half a mind to ask on his behalf.
THE NANNY'S SECRET Page 3