Belatedly he remembered himself and his manners and rubbed a hand over his face to break the spell. "Amelia, this is Clara. Clara, this is Amelia."
"Hi." Amelia smiled and extended her free had.
Clara smiled back and took her hand, nodding at Timmy. "That's some sampling of your services. I can see why the nanny agency says you're the best. Gonna have to keep you around long as we can. Right, Brooks?"
"Yes, ma'am."
At the buzz of the timer, Clara turned to the stove. "You know how to bake apple pie, Amelia?"
Amelia pursed her lips and appeared to search her memory banks. Finally she frowned. "I don't think so."
"Not to worry, dear." Clara patted her arm. "I got this great recipe. Been passed down through generations. Might even be inclined to share it one day." She gazed pointedly at Brooks. "Under the right circumstances."
"You play dirty, Clara."
"Yep, and don't believe anyone who tells you otherwise." She winked at Amelia. "You like ribs?"
Amelia gave a helpless shrug. "I'm sorry, I don't remember."
"Well, you'll like these ribs. Cured and smoked. Meat falls right off the bone and melts in your mouth."
Amelia moistened her lips. "My stomach's growling, if that's any indication."
Clara gestured toward the table. "Sit. Make yourself at home. No formalities here. Brooks—"
"I'll check." He was already in motion. "Here, you want to try giving him the rest of this?" He held out the bottle of formula.
"Sure." When their fingers brushed, her gaze cut to his. But instead of the full dose of caution he had come to expect, there was something new in the mix. Something good.
She was warming to him.
Good. He smiled and stepped back, not wanting to push his luck. "Be right back."
"Where … where are you going?"
"Just around the corner." He inclined his head toward the window. "Mitch and Dean are smoking the ribs out back. I'll get a status report."
"Oh. Okay." She nodded and gave a shy smile.
Progress indeed.
Brooks grabbed his coat from the hook on his way out. On the porch, he zipped up and glanced back at the window.
She'd taken his usual place at the table, one knee bent, so Timmy could lie across her lap. When her lips moved, the soft lilt of her voice replayed in his head. She chose that moment to look up. Spotting him, she smiled and waved.
His stomach hitched in a knot.
She looked good, sitting there with his baby nephew. She looked damned good, as if she belonged. For one crazy instant, he imagined the possibility of having more than a working relationship with her. Then he remembered all the reasons he couldn't, and reality crashed down.
Ah, hell. He shook his head in disgust, gave a halfhearted wave and jammed his hands into his pockets. Stepping from the porch, he cursed himself for even thinking about it.
Timmy's nanny was hardly material for a discreet, no-strings affair, and despite what he'd said to Clara, there was no way he'd ever risk anything but.
Amelia might have been the perfect match for Timmy, but Brooks could never be the perfect match for anyone.
* * *
Amelia grazed Timmy's rosy cheek with the back of her index finger. The corner of his mouth lifted as he dozed, and a sense of rightness settled around her for the first time since she awoke in this strange, unfamiliar world.
She draped a cloth over her shoulder and gently lifted him. The motion brought him out of his light catnap, but he seemed content to hang out in her arms. Mewing and kneading her overalls like a kitten, his sweet, baby scent and sounds filled the empty spaces in her heart if not her mind.
Just then, the door opened, and three tall, dark-haired men entered the kitchen one after another, the tantalizing aroma of barbecue wafting from the covered pans they placed on the counter. They stood side by side in line for the sink, their broad shoulders forming a formidable wall of muscle and sinew. Where before she'd found the large, country kitchen airy and spacious, it now seemed crowded.
Instinctively she held the baby a little closer.
"Guys, this is Amelia." Brooks reached for a towel to dry his hands. "Amelia, meet Mitch and Dean." He nodded at each brother respectively before throwing the towel to Dean, who caught it midair.
"Hey." Dean wiped quickly, slung the towel over Mitch's shoulder and stuck out his hand. He had boyish good looks and a bashful grin that belied the devilish sparkle in his eyes. "Nice to meet you."
"You, too." She took his hand. "You're the one who gives riding lessons at a neighboring ranch?"
"That's right." Dean tugged on Timmy's foot and was rewarded with a smile. "Gets me outta summer chores." He winked at Brooks who shook his head but grinned back.
"Not entirely, cowpoke." Brooks carried a pan to the table and uncovered the smoked ribs. "But I suppose anyone who willingly bonds with greenhorns deserves a few perks."
Mitch chuckled and thumped his younger brother on the back. "'Course it's not just any greenhorn who's got our Dean going back there every year." He extended his hand to Amelia. "Welcome. You'll get to meet Dean's girlfriend in a few months when her family comes out for their annual dude ranch adventure."
"She's not my girlfriend."
"Yeah, right." Mitch's playful grin revealed the long slash of a dimple identical to his older brother's. "That's how come you're blushing ten shades of red, right?"
Dean ducked his head.
Amelia smiled, relaxing a little at their good-natured ribbing. "Any chance of a nanny discount on riding lessons, Dean? I'm pretty sure I qualify as a greenhorn, too."
"Yep. For you, one hundred percent."
"Oh, I don't want to take advantage—"
"Standard nanny contract. Check your paperwork. And she's not my girlfriend," he insisted, setting silverware at everyone's place. Head bent in task, he watched Brooks from the corner of his eye.
"Need a shovel there, Dean?" Mitch chuckled.
Amid the jesting, Brooks raised an eyebrow and shot a measured glance at his youngest brother. Though his smile was good-natured, his voice carried a serious undercurrent. "Next time I read Timmy the story of Country Mouse and City Mouse, you might want to sit in for a refresher."
"All right, boys." Clara whipped off her apron and wiped her hands. "Let's table this subject. Amelia doesn't need to hear jaded cowboy philosophies over supper. Not to mention if the two of you had anything vaguely resembling love lives, you wouldn't feel the need to meddle in Dean's."
Three mouths dropped open, then snapped shut.
"I know, Dean." Amelia patted his hand, surprised by her heightened comfort level. "She's not your girlfriend."
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it." She scooted her chair back and stifled the urge to laugh. She was still an outsider and didn't want to overstep her bounds on their inside jokes. "The little one needs to freshen up."
"Uh-oh." Brooks eyed his nephew with apprehension.
"Rock, paper, scissors?" Mitch suggested.
"I, um, I'll help Clara fix up plates to take Pete." Dean tugged nervously at his collar. "Better pack extra, Clara. Pete's gotta be hungry as a bear, laid up in his cast. Here, let me get that for you."
With a resigned sigh, Brooks grimaced and held out his arms. "I'll take him."
"That's okay," Amelia reassured. "It's my job."
"Jo just changed his formula," he explained. "It might be a bigger job than usual."
"I'm sure I've seen worse."
"Maybe in a toxic waste dump." Mitch chuckled.
Clara whacked his elbow. "Mitchell Hart."
"Ma'am." He bowed his head, though one corner of his mouth curved.
"Please, go ahead and start." Amelia rose to her feet. "We'll catch up."
"I'll show you where everything is." Brooks gestured for Amelia to follow him. At the door, he paused. "Don't say we didn't warn you."
"Lead on. We're right behind you." Halfway down the hallway, she took one o
f Timmy's chubby hands and kissed his knuckles. "Look at that, sweetie. You've got a big, strong cowboy shaking in his boots."
The back of Brooks's neck turned red. He glanced over his shoulder, and for the briefest of seconds, she held her breath, regretting the impulsive quip. But he wore a humble grin, and to her surprise, something unmistakable flickered in those sapphire eyes—a glimmer of physical awareness.
Without conscious thought, an answering warmth spiraled through her. But just as swiftly, an alarm went off in the hidden corridors of her mind, as if someone had tripped the motion detector of a security system. Her muscles tensed.
Timmy started to squirm. She realized she was holding him too closely. Easing up, she gave herself a mental shake.
Snap out of it already.
"Here you go." Brooks stepped into the nursery, took a diaper from the changing station and popped the lid on a box of wipes. "All yours."
"Thanks." She whipped through the changing like a pro. Giving him a look that said no-big-deal, she sashayed past Brooks and into the hallway. In the adjacent bathroom, she turned on the facet, washed both hers and Timmy's hands and splashed water on their faces.
Timmy stuck his tongue out to catch the water, then lunged for the faucet. Amelia lowered him to sink level, so he could hold his hand under the stream for a few seconds.
"Okay, that's it." She turned off the water and dabbed a towel on Timmy's button nose. He cooed and reached for the soft cloth. She laughed and did it again, then glanced up to see Brooks lounged in the open doorway.
One ankle hooked over the other, he watched their exchange with curiosity. He had a lazy sensuality about him, a look that said "step into my parlor," instead of "ready or not, here I come," which did nothing to lessen her awareness of him but did make her feel more in control.
"Taking notes?" She folded the towel and hung it back on the rack.
"Sorry," he said but made no move to leave. "I don't mean to stare, but you have this way with him I can't help noticing. Like Mitch with horses. You seem to speak the same language."
"Ah, yes." She smiled mysteriously, as a wise woman who knew the secrets of the universe. "That would be the highly acclaimed language of baby talk. All nannies are proficient, I'm sure, but the skill isn't limited to the professionals. I have every confidence you, too, will learn in time." She sounded like an infomercial.
For once, Brooks didn't return her smile. He averted his gaze, his voice skeptical. "What if I'm illiterate in baby talk?"
"You're not."
"You don't know that."
"I do." When he frowned, clearly not convinced, she shifted Timmy to her hip and said, "I saw you last night."
That brought his head up, one brow raised in question.
She nodded. "I watched you rock him, even after he'd fallen back asleep. I don't know if it's a soft spot for children in general or this one in particular, but it's there, and I saw it. You'll make a good father, Brooks."
At her words, an unfathomable emotion darkened his eyes. He looked at Timmy for a long moment, as if he wanted to say more, then braced his hands on either side of the door frame.
The gesture suddenly made Amelia aware of the confining space in the bathroom … and the fact Brooks blocked the only exit.
Like the Coyote in the Road Runner cartoons, she didn't start to fall until she realized there was no ground beneath her feet.
All at once, the bathroom walls seemed to contract with Brooks's presence. Her vision tunneled. Her throat closed. Panic clawed its way to the surface. Air. She needed air.
"Please," she choked out, holding Timmy a little closer. "I—I'd like to leave." Her voice rag hollow in her ears, as if she were underwater.
Brooks straightened, looming even larger at his full height, confusion etched on his face. "Something I said?"
"No, no." She swallowed, fighting the urge to shrink back, to retreat into herself. Use your words. Stay calm. Stand up for yourself "Please, can you let us out of the bathroom?"
"Oh. Right. Sorry." With a sheepish expression, he backed into the hallway, giving her a wide berth. "Didn't mean to hold you prisoner like that."
In the open space, a rush of cool air funneled around her. Her head cleared, and she regained her equilibrium.
"It's okay." She pulled in another deep, cleansing breath and summoned a smile. "I'm fine now." Which didn't change the fact she hadn't been fine a second ago. Prisoner. That summed up how she'd felt. Like a captive with no clear escape route. "I … I might have a touch of claustrophobia." Again, she felt embarrassed, but Brooks took it in stride.
"I'm the same in the city," he said. "All those people everywhere, sticking to you like burs. Spend enough time in wide, open spaces, you get used to your own personal supply of air."
"I never thought of it like that."
"I'm glad it was only claustrophobia. You had me going for a second there. I thought you'd changed your mind about staying on as Timmy's nanny."
"No," she whispered, though she did wonder if it was only claustrophobia. "I'm not going anywhere." That much she knew. She was bound to this baby in a way that defied explanation. He was her anchor in a world that had turned upside-down and inside-out. He gave her purpose. He gave her life meaning. He gave her a great, big smile, and her insides turned to tapioca. "Aw." She kissed his forehead. "If you aren't just the cutest baby…"
"He likes you," Brooks said.
"I like him, too." She stroked his hair. "I can see the strong family resemblance. He's a minireplica of his uncles. Your square jaw, Mitch's lopsided smile, Dean's twinkling eyes. Except for this blond hair…"
"A trick of Mother Nature. All five of us started off as towheads, then Jo turned red, the rest of us dark brown. Everyone but Luke. He was the only one who stayed blond."
"Hmm. I wonder what'll happen to Timmy."
"No telling. Just have to stick around and find out."
"I'd like that," she said softly.
"Me, too," he mumbled.
Her gaze collided with his, and she found herself reluctant to look away, even when she knew she should.
He had the most incredible eyes—deep blue irises fringed with thick, black eyelashes. Bold. Hypnotic.
Sexy.
A slow, languorous heat pooled in her stomach. She stepped back automatically, shaking her head to clear it. "We should, um, probably get back."
"Yeah. Right." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't trust those two alone with Clara's pies."
She nodded and led the way back to the kitchen, wondering if she could trust herself alone with him.
* * *
"Thanks." Amelia passed the mashed potatoes across the table to Brooks, took the tongs from him and put a half-rack of ribs on her plate. Timmy sat between them, his high chair at the head of the table. He'd already eaten, but the challenge of chasing and catching Cheerios kept him busy.
Looking around, Amelia noticed Brooks and his brothers had tucked their napkins into the necks of their shirts and were using their fingers.
When in Rome…
She folded down her turtleneck, tucked in a napkin and rolled up her sleeves. After cutting off a section, she put down her knife and picked up the rib. Thick, warm sauce oozed over her fingertips. Delicately she leaned forward and bit into the meat.
A burst of flavor exploded in her mouth, awakening her taste buds, and a tiny sigh escaped her lips.
"Good?" Clara asked.
"Great," she said. "Everything you promised and more."
At the moans of agreement from around the table, Clara smiled in satisfaction.
The smoked, tangy flavor of barbecue was addictive, and they sported evidence of their testimonials on their hands, faces and wadded up napkins. The more Amelia ate, the more she wanted to keep eating.
Clara waited until they made a dent in the main course, then brought out the pies. No sooner did they hit the table than they disappeared, as Brooks had predicted. Saving room for dessert obviously didn't pose a pro
blem if you treated it as a side dish.
Amelia took her first bite and thought she'd died and gone to heaven. Though she couldn't be certain, she didn't think she'd experienced earthy indulgence like this before. She surreptitiously licked her fingers, then glanced up to see Brooks grin and lick a dab of sauce from the corner of his lip as he joked with his brothers.
What kind of hedonistic fantasy was this? Indulging in the world's best ribs and apple pie while drooling over a handsome cowboy and playing earth mother to his baby nephew?
Part of her wanted to laugh, while another feared once she started, she'd soon find herself crying. It felt so normal here, close-knit, like families were supposed to be. She didn't know why she would expect anything else…
She spooned a bite of pie filling to Timmy, to which he grunted his satisfaction, drumming his hands on his plastic highchair tray and kicking up a storm. Happy feet.
"All right, boys—and Amelia," Clara said. "I'm taking off. You stay out of trouble."
"We'll try." Brooks raised his napkin to his mouth and pushed back his chair, but before he could get up, she put a hand on his shoulder.
"Sit and finish your supper."
"But—"
"Sit and finish your supper." Her obvious affection shone through her firm insistence.
"Ma'am." He grinned and pulled his chair forward again. "Tell Pete we'll swing by at the usual time tomorrow."
"He's got you all hooked on that game show, don't he?"
Dean coughed into his napkin. "No comment."
Clara gave a hearty laugh. "That's okay. I've got him watching my soap now. Says he can stop anytime. We'll see about that…" Her laughter turned into a playfully devious cackle that left them all chuckling in her wake.
"Do they live nearby?" Amelia asked Brooks.
"Just down one of the ranch's roads, not quite within spitting distance. Mike Morgan's old place." He told her the Triple H ran a thousand head of cattle and was among the last family-owned ranches of its size in Wister County, one of the richest agricultural regions in the state. Their outfit included several empty houses in various stages of neglect—the homesteads of smaller ranches their ancestors had annexed in the days before wealthy individuals and corporations started buying up land and driving up prices, making expansion impossible. To this day, they referred to these houses by the names of their original owners. "We renovated one of them for Pete and Clara two years ago."
THE NANNY'S SECRET Page 4