Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | The Cowboy′s Twins

The Cowboy's Twins
Tara Taylor Quinn
It looked so good on camera…If it weren’t for the money, Spencer Longfellow would happily drive Natasha Stevens and her TV crew right off his ranch. But his land, and his kids, mean the world to him—and he’ll do anything to secure their future. Even cohost Natasha’s cooking show, Family Secrets, in his barn. Even play the token hunky cowboy to her sophisticated city slicker and flirt with her on national television… It could never amount to anything real anyway. After all, he was fooled and left in the dust by a city girl once. And he will never let that happen to him—or his kids—again.


It looked so good on camera...
If it weren’t for the money, Spencer Longfellow would happily drive Natasha Stevens and her TV crew right off his ranch. But his land, and his kids, mean the world to him—and he’ll do anything to secure their future. Even cohost Natasha’s cooking show, Family Secrets, in his barn. Even play the token hunky cowboy to her sophisticated city slicker and flirt with her on national television... It could never amount to anything real anyway. After all, he was fooled and left in the dust by a city girl once. And he will never let that happen to him—or his kids—again.
“You don’t like me, do you?”
Spencer had just spent the evening with Natasha. Was it wrong to need a little time to himself?
“I don’t know you.” Yet he recognized the way her eyes glistened in the firelight. They’d had that same glint the night before, under the light in Ellie’s stall, just after she’d witnessed her first calf birth.
He could have sworn, that night, that the sheen was due to tears she was refusing to shed.
But tonight?
“You say that like you don’t want to get to know me.”
Apparently he was easy to read. But hey, he lived a simple life—a cowboy on a ranch. He didn’t need subterfuge. Or societal graces.
It wasn’t as if his cattle were going to get an edge on him because they could tell what he was thinking.
“I could pretend otherwise. With our business arrangement, and you here on my ranch, I probably should pretend. But no, I don’t.”
Dear Reader (#ulink_1942ac53-ef6c-5ba5-9108-e3c36a426aaa),
Welcome to the Family Secrets cooking show, and the episode where you’re going to see everything that goes on behind the scenes, straight from the show’s creator, producer and director herself, heroine Natasha Stevens.
Natasha’s a strong woman. There are a lot of us making our way through this world. Some of us were just born that way. Most of us grew strong through the challenges life has imposed upon us, and the challenges we brought upon ourselves. Natasha’s strength comes from a mother who would accept nothing less. It was formed in the womb. She knows no other way.
And then she meets two children—and a man—who expose the lie about everything she’s always believed about herself. And Spencer is a cowboy to die for. To drool over. And yet...he’s got a lie in his life, too. A big one. These are fictional people, but they’re facing real-life situations. Problems that, when we face them, might make us give up hope.
But please don’t give up on us. Because there is always hope. In my books, in Harlequin books, but in real life, too. In the real world in which we live. I know this for a fact. Because I, too, have felt hopeless, and have learned that if we don’t give up, if we keep trying, and if we’re willing to do the toughest job of all—listening to our true hearts—hope will be right there waiting for us.
I love to hear from my readers. Please find me at Facebook.com/tarataylorquinn (http://Facebook.com/tarataylorquinn) and on Twitter, @tarataylorquinn (https://twitter.com/tarataylorquinn). Or join my open Friendship board on Pinterest, Pinterest.com/tarataylorquinn/friendship (http://Pinterest.com/tarataylorquinn/friendship)!
All the best,
Tara
www.TaraTaylorQuinn.com (http://www.TaraTaylorQuinn.com)
The Cowboy’s Twins
Tara Taylor Quinn


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Having written over seventy-five novels, TARA TAYLOR QUINN is a USA TODAY bestselling author with more than seven million copies sold. She is known for delivering emotional and psychologically astute novels of suspense and romance. Tara is a past president of Romance Writers of America. She has won a Readers’ Choice Award and is a five-time finalist for an RWA RITA® Award, a finalist for a Reviewers’ Choice Award and a Booksellers’ Best Award. She has also appeared on TV across the country, including CBS Sunday Morning. She supports the National Domestic Violence Hotline. If you or someone you know might be a victim of domestic violence in the United States, please contact 1-800-799-7233.
To my mother, Agnes Mary (Penny) Gumser, who spent my formative years putting me first, teaching me about the type of person I wanted to be. And who still, all these years later, is showing me, through every stage of life, how to listen with an open mind, to welcome with an open heart and to love with an open soul. I know joy exists because she first introduced me to it. And later, after a tragic death in our family, she showed me how to find it again.
Contents
Cover (#u4ca55419-2cbe-5514-b3ce-3724734f22df)
Back Cover Text (#u9f1dd35a-4306-5c14-b281-db58ea8aecce)
Introduction (#u214ac0f2-5e98-561e-a78a-687455ce2366)
Dear Reader (#ulink_9bb5d3d4-cf49-5e5c-b8a9-5c50a389810a)
Title Page (#u0e68c171-b154-51f9-8ee1-7318d7fc9877)
About the Author (#u2ebf31a4-6190-5a97-8806-e1807348065d)
Dedication (#ub021ddd6-9be7-56b7-97a4-6954105879f7)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_61fafb1b-a194-5e1d-8080-9c85b587acda)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_d2a061c2-48f1-55df-8da7-005dcb3db8d4)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_44ab3385-de2c-5892-a3b6-2b6ffa39fd90)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_f91f61fb-87c2-50ed-91b1-97cbaf95172e)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_3aac872a-820b-53fc-9558-f37484e93b53)
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_56e7ae14-de3b-5795-9b30-2392900f57bb)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_73fd499e-dde1-520a-8376-f5f6b53a2b44)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_07c0e906-d173-5cc2-bf6b-0cb11557098a)
THE THINGS YOU do for love...
Monitor receiver in hand, Spencer Longfellow took one last look at his sleeping seven-year-olds, slipped into his boots and quietly let himself out the back door, the line from an old song playing in his head.
The things you do for love...
Every single thing he did was for love. Love for his children. And love for his ranch.
He didn’t much love the idea of waking up the glamorous city woman at two in the morning. But a deal was a deal.
And he needed the money she was paying him.
With a nod at Betsy, the wife of one of his most trusted full-time cowboys, he continued across the yard. Blanket and pillow in hand, Betsy was on her way to his couch, where she’d sleep until Spencer and Bryant, her husband, were back from the barn.
If they didn’t make it back in time for breakfast, she’d get the kids up, feed them and put them on the bus for him.
It was routine. One he’d grown up with on that very ranch.
Hating the extra five minutes it was taking him for the detour to the cabin he’d given Natasha Stevens to use during her visits to the ranch over the coming weeks, Spencer reminded himself, once again, of the money.
If you’d have asked him two years ago if he’d ever allow a TV crew access to any part of his two-thousand-acre ranch, he’d have issued an unequivocal absolutely not. But a lack of rain had all but wiped out his hay crop—right at the time the cattle business he was building, while hinting at a success that could climb even higher than his hopes, was still in the fledgling stage.
He was on the brink of turning the land of his ancestors into a lucrative venture that would ensure the financial security of not only the twins but also their children and grandchildren. All while remaining true to those members of the family who had come before. Using heritage to build on the legacy.
He just needed an influx of cash...
Passing a few dark cabins, he stepped quietly.
Most of the guys who stayed on the ranch were single—and lived in the bunkhouse on the other side of the barns. A few, like Bryant, lived with their wives in cabins. Spencer was heading toward one of the larger ones—one outfitted with modern amenities including wired high-speed internet for those times when the wireless connection was in a mood.
A figure moved just outside the front door. Tall. Slender. She was in shadow, but there was no doubt in Spencer’s mind, the second he saw movement down the steps, that the body belonged to Natasha Stevens.
“I’ve heard of cowboys sleeping in their clothes, to be ready to ride on a second’s notice, but not a famous television producer,” he said, meeting her a few yards from the cabin.
“You called five minutes ago,” she said. He could tell she was grinning by the show of even, white teeth. “And I was prepared before I went to bed. It takes less than one minute to pull on jeans and a sweatshirt. Give me another one to pull on the boots...”
Her words trailed off as she kept pace beside him. He’d sped up to get to Ellie. And to keep his thoughts from lagging behind with visions of the city woman climbing out of bed and into jeans.
Natasha broke the silence in the crisp night air, her voice night-soft in spite of the miles of vast land around them. “You said she was going to calf tonight. You were spot-on.”
When it came to his precious cattle, he usually was. Came from breathing ranch air every day of your life. The whole heritage thing.
The closer they got to the big barn housing his dry cows, the faster he moved. As though he could outrun the fact that he was allowing a television crew to be a part of a live birth as part of footage that would be used on a cooking competition reality show.
He was a serious rancher who took pride in his work, not a drama monger looking for ratings. Not that he knew Natasha Stevens well enough to know if there was any drama, or monger, in her. It wasn’t her fault that her presence there—and the fact that he’d succumbed to it for the money—made him feel cheap.
“How much do you know about cattle?” he asked her as lights came into view. Bryant was the only member of his staff who’d be with them that night.
“Assume I know nothing,” she told him. He heard the click as she turned on her recording device—a compromise since he preferred not to be formally interviewed on camera. Reading from a teleprompter, as he’d be doing for his small portion of the filmed segments, was one thing. Answering questions without a script was another. He’d told her so, quite clearly, before he’d signed her contract.
To appease his conscience more than anything else, he gave her a brief rundown of America’s top cattle breeds. If he was going to do this, he might as well make the best of it—get the promotion out of it she’d promised him.
“Ellie’s classified as Purebred Wagyu,” he told her. “You’ve heard of Kobe beef?”
“Of course. It’s the best of the best...”
“Kobe’s a type of Wagyu.” He simplified it. “It’s tender with abundant marbling. Historically the cows have been fed beer to amp up their appetite, which allows for premium maturity standards.”
“Do you feed your cattle beer?”
He’d been experimenting with the process. Part of his new venture. If he could get a full herd of Purebred Wagyu grazing his lands, the twins would be set for life. At a cow per acre, that would be close to two thousand head at any given time. Being able to bring the Wagyu to production in less than a year per head...
But...he was way ahead of himself. Mostly he was raising Angus. Which were also premium steak producers.
“You’re asking for my secrets,” he told the show’s host, producer and founder. “Did you know that one of the reasons Wagyu are historically so tender is that they were massaged as they grew?”
“Now you’re messing with me.”
“Nope,” he told her. She didn’t know him well yet. She’d figure out soon enough that when it came to his cattle, he never messed around.
Not ever.
* * *
“WAGYU’S MARBLING IS UNIQUE, not only because it adds juiciness and flavor to the beef, but also because the fat contains an acid that is friendly to heart health...”
Natasha’s long legs made it easy for her to keep up with the handsome cowboy’s strides. She just wasn’t used to tromping across dusty ground in new cowboy boots in the middle of the night.
Though she’d lived on the West Coast for most of her adult life, she’d never succumbed to that particular footwear—having just purchased her new shiny red boots for the show. She’d figured boots were boots. Not so.
She clearly should have practiced walking in them before trotting across uneven ground in the dark. That she didn’t think to do so earlier was definitely unlike her.
Truth be known, everything about this endeavor was unlike her. Taking her proven, successful show on the road? To a ranch?
What had she been thinking?
Their Palm Desert studio had been working wonderfully well for years.
Just because Angela had thought it would be a good idea hadn’t been reason actually to do it. While she highly respected and relied on her stage manager, she disagreed with her often.
“...the marbling is also of particular note because it has the highest USDA rating, meaning it’s veined throughout the meat. I’ve got pictures of the various grades. Remind me to get them to you.”
“I’d like that, thank you.” That’s right, focus. At least Angela had found her a top-rate rancher in Spencer Longfellow.
Though she suspected her stage manager/jack-of-all-trades assistant had chosen the dark-haired, dark-eyed rancher as much for his good looks—and his female audience draw—as anything else, Natasha respected his focus.
His drive.
His warm, virile energy was just something she’d work around. As soon as she got her footing.
His cattle quality lecture stopped as they reached the barn. Her first step from cool darkness to brightly lit warm barn was a shock. And probably why the cowboy at her side, dressed in jeans and a dark plaid button-up, taller than her five-feet-six by several inches, suddenly seemed so...desirable...to her.
In so many ways.
Giving herself a mental shake, she followed him across a hard dirt floor, past wooden doors and gated stalls housing other dry cows, she’d been told during her tour of the ranch earlier that day.
She didn’t need a man. Or his strength. Didn’t even want one. Her strength of character—okay, her innate need to run her own show, whether it be on television or in her home—was like a coffin in waiting for any relationship.
“Through here,” Spencer said. Opened wide a double size wooden door and moved so she could see inside.
Bryant, in jeans and a sweatshirt, sat in a corner of the stall, by the door. He nodded at her, sipping from a cup of coffee.
Ellie stood a few feet away, swinging her tail.
“Nothing yet?” Spencer asked, focused on his prize cow.
Pursing his lips, Bryant shook his head. She knew he was Spencer’s age since they’d told her earlier in the day that they’d gone to high school together.
Having never seen a live birth before, of any kind, Natasha had only her imagination to feed expectation. A cow standing, seemingly calm, in a bed of hay wasn’t anything close to what she’d come up with.
She wanted to ask if they were sure this was it...the moment of birth...but was able to clamp her lips together, holding her tongue hostage. They knew their business.
And if someone had made a wrong call on this one, they’d all know it soon enough.
“Come in.” Spencer held the door open wider and motioned to her. “Over here.” He pointed to the corner opposite of Bryant. “Stand, or sit in the hay,” he said. “You should be fine, but with animals, one never knows. Stay alert. And be prepared to get out of the way.”
She nodded, not sure if he was irritated by her presence or merely concerned with the birthing process.
Ellie’s tail swished. Lifted. Natasha stared, wondering if she was about to see a calf appear, but saw only a slight oozing.
She glanced away.
“If you need to leave, do so.” Spencer’s words were harsh. But his gaze, when she caught him catching her slight discomfort, was warm. His grin even more so. “It’s all part of nature,” he said. “But it could take some getting used to.”
She supposed, since he was doing so, they were allowed to talk.
“Did you have to get used to it?” she asked. For the show. Get to know the rancher. Not just the ranch. Humanize it. She knew what her audience would respond to.
“Not so much.” He shrugged, glancing back at Ellie.
“Spence was barely out of diapers the first time he was present for calving,” Bryant said. “Ain’t that right, bro?”
“Yep.”
Natasha wanted more. A lot more. Because her viewers would want more.
Down on his haunches, he seemed to be studying the cow’s hindquarters. She heaved. Natasha saw a speck of black behind her tail. And then it was gone.
“What...” She broke off. Both men were staring at the cow. Bryant, next to Spencer now, rubbed her belly.
Bryant glanced back at Natasha. “That was a hoof,” he said. “You’ll see the front hooves first. Then the nose and head will appear. She works the hardest to get the front quarter birthed. Then, if all goes well, a lot of the rest will slide out.”
“All is going to go just fine,” Spencer said, standing. He moved to the cow’s head. Petted her. “Good girl, Ellie. You’re doing great.” The tenderness in his voice struck her with an impact she didn’t fully understand. “You’re a good mama,” he told her, continuing to stroke the upper flank of the cow.
Almost as though she understood, Ellie collapsed to the ground, lying on her side, as she heaved again.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_3f900b14-e385-5aa7-bfb0-52578eedc052)
HE DIDN’T WANT the woman there. Spencer took a deep breath. And didn’t like what he smelled. A sixth sense told him something wasn’t right.
And he knew what that something was. The city woman sitting in the corner, staring, while Ellie labored.
When she’d asked if she could watch, and record, the live birth, he’d agreed because there’d been no reason not to. Cows weren’t like people. They dropped their young right out in the open and went on about their business.
One of her camera people had been by Ellie’s stall earlier. She’d taken some footage of Ellie and Bryant. She’d be back to get some film of Ellie’s calf when the work was done.
They’d air the cute stuff.
On her side now, Ellie heaved. The little black-tipped hooves appeared again. And disappeared again. He should be seeing them clearly out by now, full hooves, with a nose between them. Should be seeing more than a nose, based on when Bryant had told him Ellie had started to give birth.
She didn’t need them there. It wasn’t like he or his men could sit and watch over the hundreds of cows he’d have birthing every year once his operation was in full swing, but Ellie was special. She’d been his first Wagyu purchase. He’d laid down a mint for her. Massaged her himself, as the first Wagyu breeders had done so long ago. Technically the practice was no longer necessary, but he was doing absolutely everything he could to make this venture work. Overkill or not.
In a herd of hundreds, a few births would go wrong. He could lose a few calves. Maybe a mother.
He couldn’t afford to lose Ellie.
Rubbing the side of her face, her neck, he said, “That’s it, girl. You’re doing good.”
The words didn’t matter. His tone of voice did.
Her nostrils flared, and she raised her head. Looked straight at him.
And that was when he knew that something was really wrong.
* * *
NATASHA DIDN’T NEED to understand anything about birthing to know that they had an emergency on their hands. Spencer had told her in the afternoon that his cows birthed their babies without assistance. That the process was natural and took about thirty minutes, and that the mama cow would immediately stand over her calf, clean him herself and get him to stand.
If all went well.
The pinched look on Spencer’s face when he stood from his position beside the cow’s head and moved lower told her that he was worried.
The flurry of activity and harsh, staccato conversation between him and Bryant that followed filled in the blanks.
The calf was not coming out hooves first. It was going to have to be turned.
Spencer was in charge. He obviously knew what he was doing. Ellie continued to heave. To make un-moo-like noises.
Natasha couldn’t see much. Was watching out of mostly squinted eyes. The clear concern on Bryant’s face told her that at least one of the bovine lives was in danger. Maybe both.
She had to restrain herself to keep from speaking. Asking. Looking for answers. A way to help.
Her way was not to sit back and watch.
“I turn him and he moves immediately back to position,” Spencer hissed. She could see beads of sweat forming on his temples. The sides of his neck.
With energy pulsing through her, until she could almost feel its pressure against her skin, she itched to approach the cow’s head, as Spencer had done. To rub gently. To comfort the beast.
He’d told her to stay put in the corner.
Would he need hot water? She thought about the buckets she’d seen on her way to the stall. About the big utility sinks along one wall of the barn.
Spencer barked orders as he worked inside the cow. Bryant complied, working the cow’s bulging stomach.
She stood. Had to do something to help. To fix the problem. It was what she did. What she was good at. Taking charge. Helping. Fixing.
“Grab some gloves.” Spencer’s command was directed over his shoulder. She was the only person behind him. Seeing the crate of gloves along the wall, she grabbed a pair. Pulled them on.
They were far too big. There was no time to go shopping for smaller ones.
“While Bryant continues his pressure on the outside, I’m going to guide inside,” Spencer told her. “I need you to grab the hooves as soon as they appear and pull with all your might.”
She was strong. But that strong?
“If you can’t budge the calf, don’t worry. Just hold on until I can get there to pull him out.”
Nodding, Natasha jumped into the fray. She grabbed when she was told to grab. Pulled. The calf didn’t budge. Her arms ached. Using her entire body weight, she leaned back. And managed to keep the hooves outside the cow’s body.
Everything happened in seconds after that. One minute Ellie was in obvious stress with Spencer on the ground by the struggling cow’s tail. The next, Spencer was pushing Natasha aside, grabbing hooves, and had pulled a calf out into the world.
Her new red boots were going in the trash.
* * *
“I GET TO name her.”
“Nuh-uh, I do.”
Listening just outside the bathroom door while his kids stood on identical stools at double sinks, supposedly brushing their teeth, Spencer smiled. Starting the day with only two hours of sleep would catch up with him.
Later.
For now, he had duties to tend to.
“No, Justin, that is not true. Daddy said that if she’s a girl, I get to name her. And she’s a girl.”
Spencer couldn’t help the smile growing wider on his face as he listened to the most articulate seven-year-old he’d ever known. Justin was a handful but didn’t faze him a bit. Tabitha was going to be the death of him.
“Well, I get to pet her first...”
When he heard the intensity rising in his son’s voice, Spencer entered the room to see two dark-haired little kids standing on stools, their brown gazes at war in the mirror. Neither of them had anything resembling toothbrushes in sight.
“You’re supposed to be brushing your teeth.”
“We did.” Justin’s immediate response was followed by a drop in his gaze. And then his chin met his chest. “No, we didn’t,” he corrected himself before Spencer could take the breath necessary to challenge the boy. “But...do we gotta?” Justin’s eyes widened as he gave Spencer an imploring look. “They’ll just get dirty again, and I’ll brush it all away tonight.”
Spencer pressed his lips together, hoping he looked stern.
The hardest part about being a single parent was having no one with whom to share the laughter.
“I want to see Bella before we have to catch the bus, and...”
“Who’s Bella?” He allowed himself to be distracted. Just until he could demand brushing with the firmness it deserved.
“Ellie’s baby. Justin thinks he’s naming her,” Tabitha said, opening the cabinet where their teeth-brushing paraphernalia was stored. She handed her brother his brush and then took her own. “But he’s not, is he, Daddy? You said if she’s a girl, I can name her.”
He had said that. He couldn’t remember when. Or why. But he vaguely remembered making the promise.
“Yes, I did. If she’d had a boy then Justin would name her.”
Satisfied, Tabitha wet her brush and stuck it in her mouth.
“Toothpaste?” Spencer gave her the look. The one with eyebrows raised, warning that a child wasn’t going to get away with something.
“I’ve got toothpaste, see?” Justin held out his brush, turning lips smeared with goo up at Spencer. And dripping a blob of blue on the linoleum floor while he was at it. Which was why Spencer had installed the linoleum over the old wood floors when he’d remodeled the bath for the twins to share. He didn’t want to have to worry about spills and other little things.
Making a mental note to wipe up the blob later, Spencer nodded. He didn’t care about drops on the floor. What he cared about was that the twins loved the ranch, their home, as much as he did.
That they felt the same sense of excitement—of security—that he’d always felt there.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, doing a quick mental rearrangement of his morning. “You two finish brushing and grab your backpacks.” He picked up Tabitha’s hairbrush and started in on the morning ritual of getting the tangles out of her long, dark hair, remembering to be gentle on the ones that invariably rested at the base of his little girl’s neck. She winced.
He winced, too. Waiting for the morning when he could get through this part without hurting her.
“Lunches are made,” he continued. “So if everyone is on his best behavior—” said for Justin’s benefit “—we’ll take a walk over to say good morning to Ellie.”
“We’ll miss our bus.” Tabitha spoke with her brush in her mouth, leaving spots of toothpaste on the mirror as she met his gaze in the glass.
“I’ll drive you to school this morning.” He had no need for a trip to town but welcomed the idea of being away from the ranch for a couple of hours.
And he made no pretense to himself about the reason for that.
He wanted to spend as little time as possible with the city girl who’d invaded his space.
In more ways than one.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_27528dfa-cb3c-526d-a2c0-b36cddf50aef)
THE PEAL OF her old-fashioned ringtone woke Natasha from a sound sleep. Not sure where she was at first, Natasha reached an arm toward the side table, pulling herself to a sitting position.
Her mother called only when she had something important to say. And the ringtone was reserved exclusively for the woman who’d birthed her thirty-one years before.
Birthed. She knew, firsthand, what that meant.
By the time her eyes were fully open and focused on the paneled walls of the cabin’s master bedroom, Natasha had regained full faculties. And memories of helping to bring a calf into the world came flooding back.
“Hi, Mom. What’s up?” She forced cheer and wakefulness into her tone. Susan Stevens wouldn’t approve of sleeping past six—no matter that she’d not made it back to bed until sometime after four that morning.
The red digital numbers glaring at her from the nightstand let her know that she was over two hours late getting up.
By her mother’s standards. Which had been firmly indoctrinated as her own...
“How are you, dear?” Polite conversation meant that her mother was displeased. Or worse, disappointed. Now she felt like a real slough off.
Searching her brain for what she could possibly have done to earn this, she came back to the time. Had her mother already called once? Had she slept through the ring?
“I’m fine, Mom,” she said, standing beside the bed to ensure that her blood was flowing and she sounded busy.
It was half past eleven in New York City. Her mother would have already handled a full calendar that morning and would be off the bench for the next hour and a half before her afternoon calendar began.
Susan wouldn’t think ill of her for not taking her call. It was understood that they were both busy women. Missing a call was to be expected...
Which meant her own sleeping habits had nothing to do with her mother’s displeasure.
Maybe a case had gone bad. As a superior court judge on the criminal bench in a city like New York, Susan led a less-than-peaceful life.
She lived in a less-than-peaceful city.
So had Natasha...until...
“The new season of the show starts in a couple of days,” Susan stated, as though Natasha didn’t know her own schedule. Because she wanted Natasha to know that she knew. That she kept track.
Her way of saying that she cared.
“I’m already at the ranch,” Natasha said, collapsing to the side of the bed. She told her mother about Ellie. About birthing the cow. And when Susan asked how she was going to integrate the experience into her show, a fifteen-minute conversation followed. A good, meaty, mind-melding conversation.
Between mother and daughter. Two high-powered women whose minds were simpatico.
“So...how’s Stan?” Natasha asked, after their brainstorming morphed into a series of ideas, a plan, that pleased them both.
When she was up and ready, Bryant’s wife was going to be doing a walk-through with her of the staging and kitchens that had been built in a tractor barn on the property. The pantry and green room. Now that she was awake, she was eager to get to it.
“That’s what I called about...”
Back straightening, Natasha slowed her thinking. Had something happened to her mother’s long-term companion? While not technically her father, Stan had been in their lives for over a decade, and...
“What’s wrong? Is he ill?”
The appeals court judge had been in perfect health when she’d visited her mother over Christmas. But that had been...nine months ago.
“No...to the contrary, he’s more physically fit than he’s been in years,” Susan said. A note in her mother’s voice gave her concern. Or rather, a lack of any particular one did.
“He’s taking an early retirement,” Susan continued, her words even. Emotionless.
“But...he’s only, what, fifty-one?” Her mother had thrown a high-powered fiftieth birthday bash for him. The guest list had included most anyone who was anyone in power in the city. Natasha had flown home to New York to oversee the caterer her mother had hired for the occasion.
“Fifty-two. And he’s decided that he wants to sail around the world,” she continued. Natasha sat frozen on the bed. She couldn’t tell if her mother was being literal. Normally she’d have been able to tell.
“Wow.” Not her best articulation, but she was shocked. To the bone. “I thought he’d die at ninety-five, still on the bench,” she half murmured.
“I know. Me, too.”
Just as her mother planned to do...
Unless... With a surge of...she didn’t know what exactly—an emotion that felt a lot better than the disbelief and uncertainty weighing her down—she entertained the thought that had struck.
Could her mother be calling to tell Natasha that she was retiring, too? That she’d finally reached a point where she felt she’d done her duty to the world that had given her life—to the purpose for which she’d been born—and could just relax?
Where that thought came from, Natasha didn’t know. She was certain it was unbidden. And unwelcome, too.
Her mother and she were not women who wanted to just relax. They weren’t made for sitting around.
And yet...to think that Susan and Stan were moving on to the next stage of their lives together was...reassuring. In an odd, offhand sense...
“So, I just thought I should let you know...”
Wait. What? Wasn’t there more? “Are you having a retirement party for him? Do you need me to cater?” Sense was coming back into focus.
“No. I won’t be doing that.” Susan sounded distracted now. Which made no sense again.
“My gosh, Mom, he’s been employed by New York’s legal system for thirty years. Has had an illustrious career. I can’t imagine him not wanting a party to celebrate that. If nothing else, I’m sure there are a lot of people who’d be offended not to be a part of such a celebration.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Natasha. Which is why I’m certain he’ll have a party such as you describe. I just won’t be having it for him.”
Oh. No. With a sudden thud, realization dawned. “Why not?” she asked, dreading the answer.
Her entire life, anytime anyone had tried to get too close to her and her mother, Susan had ended the relationship. Because invariably, the man had wanted her to become less of who she was and more like he’d needed her to be. Less powerful. More nurturing.
But Stan...
“We are no longer...friends.”
They’d broken up, Natasha translated.
“Because he wanted to retire?”
That didn’t sound like Susan. Even if she didn’t want to join him in early relaxation, Susan wasn’t one to ask anyone to be anything they were not. Because she couldn’t be who she was not. Her mother was nothing if not fair...
“Because he wanted me to marry him. He wants to get married again. He said if I won’t marry him, we’re through.”
Mouth open, Natasha just sat there. What was probably one of the most critical moments of her life, and she had nothing to offer in response.
Except a couple of inexplicable, seldom-present tears that slid slowly down her cheeks.
It was happening again.
Just as it always would.
For her mother.
For her.
Because, as the women they were, the women they’d been born to be, there was no other choice.
* * *
“SO, BRO, THAT’S one hot babe you’ve got staying with you,” Bryant said. Spencer had stopped to tell his right-hand man that he was taking the kids to school. Bryant, who’d been after Spencer to take a look at some new side-by-sides for hands to use to check fence line, had invited himself to hook up the trailer to the back of Spencer’s truck and ride along.
He’d talked Spencer into purchasing two of the all-purpose off-road vehicles. Which had used up more of his cash than he’d have liked. There was still a bundle put away. But that was all the security his kids had, and he didn’t like dipping into it. Ever.
“She’s not staying with me,” he said now, still brewing over the side-by-side matter. Maybe he was being too much of a stickler by refusing to buy anything on credit. Maybe Bryant was right and he needed to loosen up a bit.
“You put her up in your old house...”
With a sideways glance at a man he wanted to punch on a regular basis—mostly because Bryant knew Spencer too well—he shrugged.
If he overreacted, Bryant would be on it like a newborn calf on her mother’s teat.
What a night they’d had. The city woman had not puked as he’d been half expecting—hoping?—and she’d actually been a bit of a help there, toward the end. For a second...
“You got nothing to say for yourself?” Bryant’s words prodded him. But not as much as the other man’s grin. “You know when you say nothing, you’re just telling me that I’m getting to you.”
There came that urge to punch again.
“I’m not going to feed your lurid and completely drama-filled and ludicrous imagination,” Spencer said, focusing on the road. He was kind of looking forward to getting the new vehicles off the back of the trailer he was pulling and giving them a go. So they’d be ready for a spin when the kids got home...
“She’s in that house because it’s the nicest one on the ranch.” As it should be, since, as Bryant said, it had been his.
He’d built it himself when he and his mother had decided it was time for him to have a place of his own. He’d moved back into the big house only after his mother had passed. The year before he’d married Kaylee—another city girl.
And the biggest mistake of his life.
“And be a little more respectful, would you?” he continued, because Bryant had a way of putting him out of sorts like none other. “You don’t go around referring to a successful television producer and star as a hot babe. Next thing you know, Justin will be calling her that to her face.”
His son adored Bryant—a lifetime cowboy if ever there was one—which mostly pleased Spencer no end. Justin was one of them.
He was also young. Impressionable. Had an overabundance of energy. And no mother.
“Point taken,” Bryant said. And then turned a wicked grin on him. “But just between me and you...she’s hot.”
He didn’t agree. “If you like that type of woman, maybe,” he allowed so Bryant wouldn’t think he was holding out on him. And start thinking he had something for auburn-haired model types.
Although...her hair was almost as long as Tabitha’s. Perhaps the woman could give him a hint about the morning tangles...
With an eye on meeting his goal of a winceless morning for his little girl, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask.
“You like that type of woman.” Bryant’s words dropped to the floor of the truck with such force Spencer could have sworn he felt it.
He wasn’t going to validate them with an answer.
“All kidding aside, Spence, we both know what type of woman gets to you. I’m only saying that if you keep it light, joke about it, she’s not going to do a number on you.”
Though he’d cooperated because Spencer had asked him to do so, Bryant had been against him signing the contract with Family Secrets from the beginning. Was this why?
He gave his best friend a quick once-over.
“No worries, bro,” he said, feeling easy again. He sat back and put the pedal to the floor as they crossed miles of empty California desert. “Glamorous women might be tempting, but Kaylee cured me of ever...and I mean ever...wanting to be with one again.”
He spoke with total confidence. The second his wife had left her dust behind her as she’d driven off the farm—leaving him with full custody of their two-year-old twins—he’d been cured of any attraction he might have had.
Glancing at Bryant one more time, he grinned.
It was good to know that he had a friend—more like brother—who had his back.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_f6c1c51a-14d4-554c-85fb-d9a4b955f19f)
“JUSTIN! JUSSSTIIIIN! YOU come out of there right now.”
In the middle of spooning a batch of chocolate chip cookie dough onto a tray in one of the kitchens on her newly staged set, Natasha froze.
Her staff, including Angela, had all been dismissed to other tasks. At the moment, “staff” meant a handful of techies, two camera operators and her stage manager/right hand/assistant. All of whom—except for Angela, who’d driven back to Palm Desert—had been sent off to town to squeeze in what R & R they could before working almost around the clock for the next few days.
Filming the show on location was taking more out of all of them than they had expected. She had to make sure they enjoyed their lives, too.
Losing employees was not something she took lightly.
The Family Secrets crew were her family. And...
“Justin, I mean it. Come out now.”
The first command had come in the form of a stern whisper. The second in a more stern, loud whisper. The identity of the commander was a mystery.
Whoever Justin was, or wherever he was, remained unknown to her, as well.
But she had a theory.
She’d heard that Spencer Longfellow had a couple of children. And the whisperer was definitely of the child variety.
From what she’d understood—and she’d been pretty clear about gaining complete understanding on this point—the Longfellow children were the only human minors on the ranch. She’d have chosen to film elsewhere if that were not the case. And had almost chosen to move on down the road when she’d heard about the rancher’s kids.
While she had nothing against children, Natasha needed to be able to work undisturbed. And to have her contestants and staff able to do the same. A lot was at stake for the winner of the show. Her show offered external economic value to the winner, and to contestants as well, and it was paramount that she provide a fair competition environment.
Filming on location was already going to create certain levels of stress and inconvenience, and they couldn’t have added interruptions from little ones.
“Justinnn. I’m telling you.” The voice was just above a whisper now. And closer. “Daddy said to stay out of this barn. Period.”
Other than the voice, she heard nothing. No movement. Shuffling. Breathing. Or any other indication of life. Hair tied back, she wiped a hand on the full-body apron covering her jeans and black Lycra pullover. Thought about calling the children out, giving them a warning and sending them on their way.
A mental flash followed right on the heels of that thought. A picture of her mother all alone. She shook it away.
Hoping that if she ignored the interlopers, they’d mind their father and vacate the barn, she continued to scoop spoonfuls of batter from bowl to pan. She had a system. One pan’s worth of cookies was cooling on foil, one pan was baking, and she needed to have the third ready to go in the oven when the others came out. Efficient.
Technically, she was checking out the kitchens. Testing the equipment. Making certain that everything was in place, worked and was fully stocked so that each contestant had an equally fair chance.
Normally that meant something simple. Prepared by someone on staff. And it had been that day, as well. For the first six kitchens. The last two hadn’t been ready—some last-minute electrical hookups—and she’d sent her staff on to enjoy their free afternoon and evening.
That was technically the situation. And all true.
But also true was that today she’d needed comfort. And was taking it in the form of chocolate chip cookies.
With one eye on the timer and the rest of her attention on the bowl, Natasha figured she’d finish panning her cookie dough with about ten seconds to spare. More foil was laid out, ready for the cookies coming out. She could see it in her peripheral vision.
Except...something was wrong with the symmetry.
She gave the foil-covered counter a full-on glance.
And noticed a cookie missing from the far corner.
Only one.
Split between two children? Or had Justin glommed it all for himself?
She’d never had a brother. Wasn’t up on little-boy things.
But...she’d known two mothers with sons recently. Contestants on her last two series. And had been drawn to both the mothers and their sons.
Been personally touched by them. By their stories...
Shaking her head, Natasha finished spooning dough. In spite of her hurried efforts, the timer went off before the spoon was sitting in an emptied bowl. But only a second before.
Transitioning trays was easy. Mitts on both hands, one out, one in, close door, set timer. And then, with freshly baked tray still in hand, she faced the counter.
Two cookies were now missing.
* * *
“JUSTIN? TABITHA?” SPENCER hurried from the back door into the yard. He’d been later than he’d expected, coming in from checking on the calf. Fifty percent of calf deaths within the first forty-five days of life came from birthing difficulties. Getting enough colostrum from the mother’s milk—which provided the antibodies a calf needed to survive—had to happen within the first twenty-four hours. And Ellie’s calf wasn’t nursing enough. He’d left Bryant tube-feeding her colostrum.
“Justin!” He raised his voice as he ran into the yard. He’d missed the school bus dropping the kids off. They knew to leave their backpacks in the hall and go immediately to Betsy if he wasn’t there.
The backpacks were in the hall. “Tabitha?” He was on his way to the cabin Bryant and Betsy shared, but his number one man had already told him that the kids weren’t there. He’d called Betsy’s cell the second Spencer had noticed the time.
“I’ve been all over the yard.” Betsy ran up to him. “Over to the tree house, and down by the creek.”
“Would you mind going up to the house?” he asked now, his chin tight as he fought back the thread of fear piercing his heart. If something happened to those two... “Just stay there in case they return? Or call or something?”
His kids didn’t have cell phones. But they were going to. Flip phones. With no data capability. Just so they could call him.
“I’m going to check the other barns,” he told her, knowing as he did so that the kids wouldn’t be there. Not together. The barns were off-limits unless they were with Spencer or Bryant, or had permission from one or the other.
Justin might get sidetracked by something and disobey him. Tabitha...never.
There were six big barns within walking distance of the main house. He headed toward the horse barn first. Tabitha wanted her own horse. Bad.
He was going to have to take care of that. Sometime. When she was big enough that the thought of her falling off didn’t choke the breath out of him. She’d asked him again that morning how old she had to be.
He’d given her his standard answer: “Older than you are now.”
Nodding at Will, the twenty-one-year-old who kept up the stables for him and fed the horses Spencer boarded to help make some extra cash, he walked up to the stall Will was mucking out. “You seen the kids?” he asked.
“Nope.” Will kept right on raking. “Not today. But I heard about a foal that’s going to be available for sale,” he said, giving Spencer an over-the-shoulder glance.
“I’m not in the market for a foal.”
“She won’t be ready to ride for at least another year,” Will said.
He had to find his kids. Not talk about horses. “If you see the kids, tell them to get back to the house, pronto,” he said on his way out.
“My grandpa says you were riding by the time you were five!” the young man called.
Spencer ignored him. Because he had his children’s safety on his mind. And because he was not ready to risk Tabitha’s life on a horse. No matter how good a trainer Will Sorrenson might be turning out to be.
The tractor barn was empty of human life. He took a turn from there and, at a jog now, went down the row of cottages—some empty, some occupied—that housed married cowboys. And on to the bunkhouse. Justin had been known to wander in there a time or two, in spite of Spencer’s strict instructions that he not do so.
If he’d taken his sister in there, he was going to get the first hiding of his young life.
The bunkhouse was empty, too. As it should have been. Most of his men were out on the range this week—their absence scheduled purposely to coincide with filming.
And that was when it hit him. He’d told the kids that absolutely, under no circumstances were they to go near the outer barn that had been changed into a television studio for the next six weeks.
But they were seven. And it was TV.
Not sure if he was praying that the kids were there or not, he sped up, his boots kicking up dust on the dry ground as he switched course.
“Today I’m giving you my best peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” Cocking his head, Spencer picked up his pace even more as he heard his daughter’s voice coming out loud and clear from a location that was still some distance away.
A mixture of stunning relief—they were safe!—and tense disappointment—they’d not only disobeyed him, they’d involved the one place on the farm he wanted them the least—flooded him. No one had prepared him for the emotional roller coaster of parenting.
“I have the best bread—white—and I have two pieces of it...” He’d always served his kids wheat bread because it was healthier, but Betsy had white bread at home, and when they ate there...
His step grew heavier, frustration growing right along with dread. He’d heard that the Family Secrets crew had gone into town for the afternoon and evening—and had been relieved to have the place to himself. If Tabitha had found a way to make a mic work, he could only imagine the damage Justin had done.
Was doing.
“I have peanut butter—just the butter part, no peanuts.”
She liked it smooth.
“And jelly—we use grape because Daddy likes it best, not jam with the lumps in it.” The note of authority in her childish voice was growing in leaps and bounds.
Spencer started to leap, too, or at least it felt that way as he took the last few yards at a dead run.
He couldn’t afford to repair an entire studio.
Nor did Family Secrets have time to build another one. Contestants were due to arrive the next day.
Rounding the corner in the barn, his worst imaginings became reality. There was Justin, sitting at what could only be some kind of sound board—or control center. His hands were on knobs. Turning.
“I take a knife, this kind, because I’m not allowed to use the sharp ones...” Tabitha’s voice was loud and clear—far too loud and clear—coming from somewhere on the other side of a temporary wall. He didn’t want to think of the mess she was making.
He’d seen her “cook.”
Justin hadn’t noticed him yet, and Spencer had to rein himself in before he approached his recalcitrant son. The boy had gone too far this time.
He was going to be meting out some serious discipline.
As soon as he trusted himself not to lash out first.
His good day had just gone really, really bad.
* * *
“JUSTIN GERALD LONGFELLOW, please take your hand off that board. Now.”
Natasha froze. And watched as seven-year-old Tabitha, with a rather large glob of peanut butter dangling from her table knife, stopped moving, as well. Rising from her seat in the middle row of the bleachers in their makeshift studio, Natasha kept her eye on the child but spoke into the headset she was wearing.
“Justin, are you okay?” She hadn’t recognized the voice she’d just heard issuing an order to the boy in what could only be termed a threatening tone.
But then, the only men she’d spoken to on the farm, other than her own crew members, were Spencer Longfellow and the cowboy, Bryant.
“No, ma’am.” She’d known the child only for about an hour, but long enough to tell her that the vulnerable tone in his voice was not common.
“Who are you talking to?” The male voice came again. But Natasha recognized it that time.
“Spencer?” she called as she rounded the corner of the wall in back of the stage. Locating the control booth behind the stage had not been anyone’s first choice, but for remodeling cost effectiveness and electric concerns, they’d made the decision to put it there. Monitors allowed views of the stage from every angle. Monitors that were not currently turned on.
“Natasha?” The cowboy in dusty, faded jeans, a red plaid shirt and the inevitable boots stood there, his gaze piercing as he looked between her and his son.
“I’m so sorry...” Words came tumbling out of her mouth. “It didn’t occur to me that I should have told you I was keeping them awhile,” she said. “It should have. I apologize.”
His frown deepened. The opposite of the effect for which she’d been aiming.
“Tabitha? You can join us.” Spencer’s tone, though not as fierce, still remained unrelenting.
The little girl, knife still in hand, though free of peanut butter, came around the corner of the stage. She didn’t walk down the steps.
And Natasha’s heart gave a little twitch. She’d told both children they weren’t to climb those stairs unattended because the safety rail had been defective—the wrong size had been sent—and the new one wasn’t being installed until the morning.
Moving forward, she took Tabitha’s hand and held on while the girl slowly descended the four steps to the linoleum laid temporarily on the barn’s dirt floor.
“I’m sorry, too, Daddy,” Tabitha said. But while Justin’s face was pointed at the floor, his sister’s nose pointed straight at their father. Natasha’s heart noted that, too.
What in the heck was wrong with her, getting emotional all of a sudden? These children were interlopers who’d interrupted her only afternoon with solo access to the studio. She had much to do to satisfy herself that the set was ready to welcome contestants the next day.
And...
“I’m disappointed in you,” Spencer said, the words clearly delivered to his daughter. Her lower lip quivered.
“Wait.” Natasha couldn’t stand back, in spite of her self-admonition to do so. “It’s not her fault...”
She knew she’d made a mistake before his gaze landed on her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“What did I tell you two about this barn?” he asked.
“Not to go here,” Tabitha answered, still looking right at him.
“Justin?”
With his chin to his chest, the boy mumbled, “Stay away.”
“You have Ms. Stevens apologizing for you, but I’m fairly certain that she didn’t pick you up and carry you to this barn, did she?”
“No.” Justin spoke, though he didn’t look up to see that his father was pinning him with that stare.
“You walked here.”
“Yes.”
“Even though I told you not to.” He glanced at Tabitha then, too.
“We didn’t walk, Daddy,” she said, her big brown eyes solemn as she shook her head of long, tangled hair.
“You didn’t.”
“No, Daddy, we ran.”
“You ran over here?” The little girl had his full attention. “Even though you know I expressly forbade you to be here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
In that second, Natasha’s feelings of protectiveness toward the children changed to sympathy for the man standing there in front of them. He was clearly perplexed.
And alone in his parenting responsibilities.
She could only imagine... No, she couldn’t even imagine trying to run a ranch and be the sole parent of two hooligans with acres and acres spread before them...tempting them...
“Because I was chasing Justin.”
Spencer’s brow cleared. For the second it took him to face his son. Down on his haunches, he placed his face within inches of the boy’s.
“Is this true, Justin?” Spencer’s tone was soft now but, Natasha imagined, no less menacing to his seven-year-old son.
“Course. Tabitha doesn’t lie...”
Implying that the boy did?
“You deliberately disobeyed me,” Spencer reiterated.
The boy nodded.
“You weren’t chasing a butterfly...there was no frog hopping in this direction...you didn’t think you’d heard a cow...you weren’t lost...”
The ease with which the words came gave Natasha the idea they were all excuses Spencer had heard before.
“No.”
“Then why?”
She supposed he had to do this. Had to call the boy out in front of her so he’d learn his lesson. Still, she wished he’d take his disciplining home.
“I smelled the cookies.”
Spencer’s gaze turned unexpectedly in her direction, catching the grin that had sprung to her face. She wiped it away. Immediately. But suspected she hadn’t been quick enough.
“You were baking cookies?” he asked. And the twinkle in his eye made her heart twitch again.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_6877a135-32fb-5bfe-828c-c6da3b2639ff)
SPENCER STILL WASN’T sure how it happened, but he ended up staying at the studio, eating the best chocolate chip cookies he’d ever had and watching while his children continued to help Natasha Stevens with the independent sound check she’d been running.
She’d explained that her crew ran the official checks. And that since the very beginning, she had run one of her own, as well. Because it set her mind at ease to know firsthand that everything was running properly.
Tabitha had been the one to explain that she and Justin were working for her for free as punishment for trespassing and stealing cookies.
And then he’d been hoodwinked into inviting her to share their dinner with them. He’d promised them hamburgers, camp potatoes and grilled corn because it was Friday night and they didn’t have school the next day. He’d also promised roasted marshmallows over the fire pit.
With her crew gone for the night, it had seemed churlish to make a big deal out of his kids’ invitation to her to their Friday soiree.
He just hadn’t expected her to hang around after the kids went to bed.
He’d left the fire burning, because it was a nice night, and he’d intended to come back out with his tablet and get some work done.
The kids had said good-night to her. He’d nodded his goodbye.
And yet when, fifteen minutes later, tablet in hand, he’d carried a cup of coffee out to the fire pit, there she was, still sitting in the sling chair she’d occupied during dinner. Elbows on her knees, she was leaning forward, her hands folded, and dangling by the warmth of the fire. The formfitting, long-sleeve black shirt she was wearing outlined a perfect female form.
Attraction flared for the instant it took him to clamp down hard on it.
“I didn’t expect you still to be here.” He tried to come off as cordial, enough so that she could think he was pleasantly surprised to find himself still in possession of her company.
But even to his own ears, he sounded surly.
“I was enjoying the fire,” she told him. “I can’t remember the last time I had the chance to sit by a campfire.”
“People don’t have fire pits in Palm Desert?” He knew they did. A buddy he’d graduated with had one in his backyard, right next to his pool. Spencer had taken the kids there for a Fourth of July party the year before. Justin had put his hot dog in the pool to see if it would float...
“I don’t have one,” she said.
Taking a seat, he set his tablet on his knee. Tapped it. Waited for her to go. He watched stock prices every day. Wanted to see what the farm markets were doing. And then place a couple of orders.
He purposely did not make conversation. Enough was enough.
“You don’t like me, do you?”
He’d just spent the evening with her. Was it wrong to need a little time to himself?
“I don’t know you.” Yet he recognized the way her eyes glistened in the firelight. They’d had that same glint the night before, under the light in Ellie’s stall, just after Natasha had witnessed her first calf birth.
He could have sworn, that night, that the sheen was due to tears she was refusing to shed.
But tonight?
“You say that like you don’t want to get to know me.”
Apparently he was easy to read. But, hey, he lived a simple life—a cowboy on a ranch. He didn’t need subterfuge. Or societal graces.
It wasn’t like his cattle were going to get an edge on him because they could tell what he was thinking.
“I could pretend otherwise. Our business arrangement, you here on my ranch, I probably should pretend. But no, I don’t.”
She gave a soft chuckle. And he started to relax. At least she wasn’t overly sensitive. Not that it would really matter to her if a country boy ranch owner didn’t like her.
“Mind my asking why?”
He minded that her smile made her look even more beautiful—softer—in the night air. And he minded that she wasn’t leaving him to enjoy the rare moment of solace in his day.
“It’s nothing against you,” he quickly assured her. He needed her money. And because of that, truly wanted her experience on his ranch to be a good one.
He just didn’t want to be the one to show her a good time.
There were plenty of others who’d jump at the job.
“I didn’t think it was.”
She picked up a bottle of water at her feet—which was when he noticed she’d helped herself to a fresh one—uncapped it, took a sip and, slowly, with fingers that were long and slim, turned the cap back into place.
He wanted to kiss those fingers. Heat rose up his neck. How could a guy be embarrassed when he was the only one who knew of his humiliating thoughts?
He had to get rid of her. In a way that let her know, quite clearly, that she shouldn’t come back. He’d designated the part of his property that was temporarily hers. She had plenty of room. She needed to stay there. In spite of whatever else his kids might pull.
“You’re a city woman,” he said now, feeling stronger already as it occurred to him that if he was boorish, she’d have no way of knowing it wasn’t his norm. Seemed an easy enough way to ensure that she’d stay clear of him.
And what better way of convincing her than a version of the truth?
“You don’t like me because I carry my New York upbringing with me?”
“What?” He frowned. What had he missed?
“You said city woman. I thought you were referring to the fact that I grew up in New York City.”
“How would I possibly know that?”
She shrugged. And chuckled again. A nice sound. Not a derisive or sarcastic one. “My bio is public knowledge,” she told him. “I just assumed, since the show was going to be filmed here, that you’d read up on it.”
He’d read about the show’s success. Had purposely shied away from any personal information about the show’s founder, producer and on-air host.
Thankful for the darkness, he sat back from the firelight, hiding his expression from her gaze.
“So, what do you have against city women?”
“Nothing.”
“You just dislike them all? For no reason?”
His version of boorish was clearly not working.
Maybe honesty would do it. Changing tactics, he said, “I don’t dislike city women. I just don’t get friendly with them.”
Eventually, after more than a couple of minutes passed without a response, and without her leaving, Spencer looked away from the fire to see her studying him.
“What?”
She shook her head. “I’m just trying to figure you out,” she said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You seem like such a smart—and, judging by the way you deal with your kids, fair—man. Yet you’d have me believe that you arbitrarily disregard much of the female population simply because they live in the city.”
“What’s with you?” He leaned forward now, too, exposing his face to the firelight. “You get some perverse delight putting a damper on my evening?”
“No.” She didn’t smile, and his gut clenched. He wanted her gone. He didn’t really want to hurt her. From what he’d seen, she was a genuinely nice person.
And a miracle worker with his kids that afternoon. Justin had called her ma’am. He couldn’t get the sound of his son’s reply to her out of his brain. What had she done with his boy? And how did he get it done, too?
“I’m taking advantage of your good nature, and your fire, to give me an excuse not to go back out to the cabin earlier than I have to.”
Her words knocked him back. Almost literally. Wow. Talk about getting what you give out. The whole honesty idea...it had been a bad one.
“Life on a ranch can get lonesome,” he said, “especially if you aren’t used to it.”
“I actually kind of like the quiet,” she said, surprising him again. Why had he ever thought he was a natural with women?
“Something wrong with the cabin? It’s the largest, and most newly remodeled, but we’ve got others a little closer together...”
“It’s fine.” She shook her head. “I’m being ridiculous. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”
He didn’t know her well enough to make a guess. Not that he wanted to.
“It’s just... I had a call from my mother this morning...” She glanced at him again. But differently. Uncertainty didn’t look right on her. Or normal.
“Is something wrong?”
“No. At least, according to her it isn’t.”
Okay. So now things were starting to make sense. She was out of her element, away from her friends, stuck in the middle of nowhere. And she’d had bad news.
Now, that he could wrap his mind around.
And deal with, too. After all, except for when city women cramped his space, he really was a nice guy.
“You want to talk about it?”
“No.” She laughed, but there was no amusement now. “I generally keep my own counsel.” She picked up her water bottle. “It’s probably just some manifestation of jitters because my first show on the road has its official start tomorrow...”
“I’m a good listener.” Wait. He was getting exactly what he wanted. Her taking her departure. “It’s not like you’re ever going to see me again,” he reminded her. “After our six weeks are up, that is.”
The first week of filming was just preliminary stuff. Introductions. Some interviews. She’d given him a complete schedule so he’d know. Then, starting the next Saturday, four weeks of competition would follow. The sixth week was the final round, a cook-off between any and all contestants who won the preliminary rounds. That winner would receive, among other things, a contract to have one of his or her recipes mass-produced and packaged with national retail distribution.
Dropping her water bottle onto her lap, she relaxed against her chair. “My mom called to tell me that she was breaking up with her boyfriend.”
“She’s not married?” He gave himself a mental kick as soon as the words slipped out. Of course, if she had a boyfriend, she wouldn’t be married. He really did need to get out more.
“No.”
“How long has she been divorced?”
“She isn’t divorced. She’s never been married.”
“Oh.” The ensuing silence felt awkward, and he said, “Not that I’m judging. Just...”
“My father was a fellow law student at Georgetown. He had an interest in her, in hooking up, but not in marriage and children. Not until he’d established himself in Massachusetts law and politics.”
Okay, now he was out of his league.
“The thing is, my mom said she wouldn’t have married him if he’d offered. She claims that, like him, she’d had goals and didn’t want to be tied down, either.”
Wait... “I kind of know firsthand that when you’re a parent, that’s exactly what happens. Your wants and needs take second place to your children’s...”
“At home, yes. Emotionally, maybe. But not professionally. Look at you. You’ve got this ranch. It’s obvious that you love it. And that you give it, professionally, everything it needs.”
“I inherited the ranch. You know, from my parents. Who inherited it from their parents...”
Legally, anyway. Legally he’d inherited it from his parents. Sort of.
Legally the ranch was all his. That was what mattered. Why he’d suddenly thought of old news, he had no idea. And had no intention of doing so again.
Longfellow Ranch was his without question. Fairly. Legally. And morally, too. Just as it would one day belong to Justin and Tabitha...
“My mom had career goals. She cared more about them, has always cared more about them, than she’s ever cared about a partner relationship.”
He’d invited the conversation. Proclaimed his listening skills. Finding no response to her statement, he nodded.
“She’s strong-minded. Knows what she wants. But it’s not so much a selfish thing as it is that...she’s right. She’s accomplished everything she’s set out to do. Including raising me in an environment where I never, ever had to doubt her love for me.”
Now she had his attention. Having not had that kind of assurance in his own formative years, he wanted more than anything to get it right for his kids.
“Because she paid someone to watch out for you?”
“No. Because she was always there for me. And anytime I was otherwise involved, she focused one hundred percent on her career.”
“Which is?”
“She’s a trial court judge in New York City.”
Wow. He was so far out of his league, he was surprised he was still sitting there with her.
“It suits her, being the boss. Making the decisions. She’s good at it. Happy doing it. And I know in my heart, if she’d had to live side by side with another adult all her life, compromising her needs and ideals to fit another’s, she’d have been miserable.”
“But she had a boyfriend.”
“Another judge, in appeals court. They were suited because there was no need for compromise. They both had their lives. And happened to enjoy doing the same things. It was perfect. At least, I thought so...”
Now he had to wonder: What did it do to a girl, growing up with such a strong female influence, and no male influence whatsoever?
Unless... Had the boyfriend been around all those years? She clearly cared about the guy.
“How long were they together?”
“Ten years.”
“Were there boyfriends before that?”
“Not that she actually brought home.”
Her eyes had that sheen again.
Prompting within him another tug that he didn’t like.
“So, what happened?” Best to get through this and move on down the road. She did, that is. She needed to move on down the path to her cabin. And the next evening, when that week’s filming was over, ideally she would drive her SUV and her crew right back to Palm Desert until the following Friday. “Did they have a fight? Was he unfaithful to her?”
“He asked her to marry him.”
And they broke up.
Spencer studied her in the firelight. Could see her struggle. If he let himself, he was pretty sure he’d feel her pain.
And do something stupid, like give her a hug.
Yep. He was having a seriously bad day.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_0cd1b499-d362-5da3-ad69-5a9db07617b8)
FEELING ABOUT AS stupid and awkward as she’d ever felt, Natasha stood up. She’d outstayed her welcome by a long shot and needed to take her demons to her temporary home.
“Thanks for dinner,” she said, water bottle in hand. “You’ve got great kids.”
Yeah, they’d disobeyed his direct orders, for a chocolate chip cookie. But they’d taken responsibility for their actions.
When he stood, too, she tensed a bit. In a not altogether horrible way. Except that that in itself was horrible.
She was not going to like this guy. He was as different from her as night was from day. And had made his dislike of her quite clear.
When he wasn’t busy being sweet.
“I’ll walk you back” was all he said.
“I know the way. It’s fine.”
“It’s dark. And your people aren’t back yet. Because we turned that part of the yard over to you, it’s pretty much deserted until they return. I’ll just see you to your door.”
Because she was, as she’d just acknowledged to herself, completely out of her element, she accepted his offer rather than take a more normal course of action and assert her independence.
She could hear voices in the distance and see lights shining from the bunkhouse complex. He’d said that they had a kitchen over there—which the ranch hands were responsible for keeping stocked—and that, depending on the season, he employed up to fifteen men in addition to Bryant. He was still running hay while he built his cattle operation and needed men skilled in both business ventures.
He’d already answered any lay ranch questions she might have come up with on their walk in the dark.
When her hand brushed his, she sidestepped. And he noticed. Maybe he’d been more on target than she’d realized earlier. The silence was getting to her.
She was undersensitized.
“Can I ask a personal question?” It was better than stumbling in the dark.
“Yeah. I might not answer.”
“What happened to Justin and Tabitha’s mother?” None of them had mentioned her all day. Even over dinner. They’d laughed and told her about some of their other cookouts. Told her about a time when they’d been having a picnic at a lake on their property—Spencer had inserted that it was just a pond—and Justin, who’d been standing on the shore, had seen a fish and had tried to catch it with his bare hands. He’d fallen into the water instead. It had been only a couple of feet deep, but that was when they’d both had to start swimming lessons. Every day. Until they could each make it across the small lake on their own.
They’d taken several steps since she’d asked her question. He hadn’t responded. As he’d warned he might not.
Her door was in sight. He walked her to the stoop. Waited while she took out her key.
“She left,” he said when she’d opened her mouth to say good-night.
“What? Who?”
“Their mother. They were two. And don’t remember her.”
“She’s never been back? She doesn’t come to see them?”
“Nope.”
She wanted to know why. In the worst way, she wanted to know.
But he wasn’t her friend. Wasn’t even a friendly acquaintance.
So she didn’t ask.
* * *
THE RESTLESSNESS PURSUING Natasha as Spencer walked away might have caught up with her once she was alone inside the cabin, except that her phone rang.
“Do you have any idea how long this stretch is in the dark?” her assistant said in lieu of hello.
“The same sixty miles it is in the daytime, I expect,” she said, grinning. Angela had a cryptic way about her, an almost impenetrable independent shell, but she was as hardworking and loyal as they came.
She was also fabulous at her job.
“It’s really dark.”
“I know. I drove it myself a couple of weeks ago, going the opposite direction.”
“You could have warned me.”
“I believe I did.”
“Yeah, well, you could have made me listen...”
Sitting in the rocker by the unlit fireplace, Natasha relaxed. Really relaxed. This was her life.
Angela was her “people.”
“How were things at the hotel?” she asked, knowing that she and Angela could just as easily have had this conversation in the morning when they met at Natasha’s cabin for an early breakfast. She’d invited Angela to stay with her. Her stage manager had opted to take a smaller cabin by herself, closer to the crew.
“Good,” she said. “Great, really. All eight contestants were at the cocktail party, and everyone was pumped up for the road trip.” While most of their crew had just gone into the small local town half an hour from the ranch, Angela had driven into Palm Desert. While there, she’d stopped by the hotel that had a contract with Family Secrets for contestant accommodation.
“The bus is confirmed for a nine a.m. pickup, which will have everyone here by eleven. We can give them the abbreviated tour of the ranch and have them on stage inspecting their kitchens by noon. The bus will be bringing the catered lunch. We should be filming segments by twelve thirty and have them out of here no later than two, which will have them back to the hotel around four, giving them a full evening to enjoy Palm Desert.”
They’d made it a condition of the show that contestants’ flights back home had to be Sunday, not Saturday evening as sometimes happened when they filmed in the Palm Desert studio.
They talked a bit more about the logistics of the next day’s events. About the interviews Natasha planned to do that would be a bit different from every other show’s because she wanted to tie the unique ranch setting in to something personal for every contestant. Something to convince viewers to root for each one. That was her job. To draw in the viewers who continued, after five years of watching four five-week segments a year, to make the show such an unexpected success.
Mostly she was talking to keep Angela awake, to keep her company, while she made the seemingly endless trek back across the desert.
She was talking so she didn’t think about being a city girl. About a rancher who didn’t like city girls. About two little motherless kids who’d loved her chocolate chip cookies. About the glob of peanut butter she’d cleaned up off the floor of the stage, and the smears off the counter, when she’d done her final walk-through just before dinner that evening.
Her mind wandered through all of those thoughts, though, as Angela ran through lists they’d both been over already for the first official event in their very first show on the road. Angela listed which crew members would be staying behind at the ranch Saturday night to clean up and ready the set for the first competition the next week.
“You’ve got dinner with Chandler Grey tomorrow night,” her assistant reminded her when they’d exhausted the next day’s details.
She’d shockingly forgotten about the business meal back home in Palm Desert with one of their cable network’s executives.
Her mind appeared to have taken a long trek away from home, out here on the ranch.
“I’m looking forward to it,” she said with real enthusiasm. She’d been away only for a couple of days, but it seemed like weeks. She missed the city. Missed her condominium.
Missed her usual unflappable calm.
“I think he has the hots for you,” Angela was saying now.
“He’s married.”
“Separated. I hear his wife was unfaithful.”
She still wasn’t interested.
“You haven’t been on a date in months.” Angela was really digging deep for conversation now.
While her assistant wasn’t in a committed relationship, either, she went out several times a week. Mostly with the same guy. Natasha’s theory was that if he asked Angela to be exclusive, she would be. If he asked her to marry him, she’d do that, too—not that she volunteered either theory to Angela.
“I’m not the marrying kind, and men my age are looking for commitment.” That wasn’t entirely true. There were plenty of men who were willing just to have fun, but she wasn’t interested in their kind of fun.
The show was her life. It fulfilled her. And made her so happy she didn’t ever even question her personal choices.
She knew what drove her. Knew her goals. She knew who she was. And knew what she could and could not let others expect from her. She knew what promises she could and could not make.
“I know Johnny hurt you, Natasha, but it’s been almost a year...”
Johnny Campbell. Her “Stan.” The man she’d thought would be her companion for life. They were best friends. Good together. Neither of them were interested in cohabitating or giving up their autonomy.
He was a stockbroker, a mover and shaker who worked unending hours. He’d been her stockbroker. Until she found out he’d been stealing from her. Telling her he was investing her money when what he’d been doing was gambling with it.
Thankfully she’d found out during one of his winning streaks and hadn’t lost as much as she might have.
“I’m not still hurting over Johnny,” she said now, a bit surprised to feel how completely true those words were. “I’m open to dating on occasion. I just haven’t met anyone who tempts me to spend time with him more than the show tempts me to spend time with it.”
Also true.
She was thirty-one, not twenty, and knew that her chances of finding a companionship as open-ended as the one she’d shared with Johnny were dwindling.
She just didn’t dwell on the fact. She wasn’t going to let panic or fear for her future change her mind about what she knew she needed in her present.
Like her mother, she was too bossy, too impatient, too strong and independent to be good in a commitment like marriage.
As she sat there, talking Angela all the way back to the ranch, she found peace with her day. Her mother’s breakup with Stan...it was okay. Because her mother was truly okay with it. She’d made the choice that was best for her, the one she could live with, be good at, be happy with. Which made it the right choice.
Whew.
Getting ready for bed an hour later, Natasha was humming to herself. The day had been rough. Touch and go for a second or two there. But she’d made it through.
And was ready to embrace her world in the morning.
* * *
SPENCER WAS UP before dawn. He checked on Ellie. Had a meeting with Bryant to ensure that he had no immediate problems on the ranch. The ranch hands were handling several tasks that day—fixing a fence that was showing wear, checking a couple of cows from the stock herd who were close to calving, seeing to a bull that had been seen limping on one of the camera monitors, receiving a large load of hay that was being shipped...
And Spencer was packing a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on wheat bread with potato chips and apple slices. As soon as the twins were up, they were heading out for a day of four-wheeling. Spencer driving and the twins strapped in beside him. Far enough away from the compound that Justin couldn’t somehow create havoc among the ranch visitors that day.
He had the TV filming schedule. And though his kids were tired, he kept them off-roading, laughing over dips in hills and taking small mountains like pros, until well after the tour bus had been scheduled to roll off his property with all Family Secrets contestants on board.
Making a mental note to give Bryant the rundown on the state of more fence lines he’d inspected that day, he fed the kids an early dinner and left them with Betsy while he went to check on the rest of the ranch. On Ellie.
Because it was on his property, and ultimately his responsibility, he stopped by the barn-turned-television-set. A handful of crew members remained, busily moving around the stage with clipboards, setting up cameras, working with lighting, cleaning mini-refrigerators in the kitchen.
He didn’t see Natasha, which was fine. He wasn’t looking for her.
The only reason she’d been on his mind all day was the money she was paying him. He needed her contestants able to cook in his barn, her filming to go well and her crew willing to work with what they had and be able to produce the quality show her network and viewers expected out of Family Secrets.
In the end, after collecting the kids and putting them to bed, he headed out to the farthest cabin in the compound. Just to be a good host. And put his mind at ease that all had gone well.
The cabin was completely dark, and Natasha’s SUV was no longer parked beside it. He’d thought she, like her crew, would be spending one more night on the ranch before heading back to the city for the week.
Apparently he’d been wrong.
She’d already left—without bothering to say goodbye.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_547c0ab3-c586-53a2-a9bc-a3eed0b878be)
SPENCER GOT UP Sunday morning with a new lease on life. Natasha Stevens was gone. Her crew would be pulling out sometime that day. He and his family, his people, would have the place to themselves. Business as usual.
Blue skies and sunshine greeted him as he glanced out the kitchen window while whipping up batter for pancakes. Betsy had offered to cook for him and the kids. She’d suggested he hire a girl from town to do so as well when he’d said he couldn’t have his best friend’s wife waiting on him.
He’d conceded only to having someone come in twice a week to clean.
The rest was up to him. His kids were going to be fed and nourished by him—their father. Their parent. Tabitha and Justin were going to have a solid foundation. A sense of who they were, where they’d come from. A sense of home and belonging.
To add icing on that cake, he grabbed a bag of chocolate chips and mixed a pile of them into the pancake batter. The griddle was heating. As soon as the twins appeared, he’d pour the batter—enough for the eight pancakes the griddle would hold.
In the meantime, because it was taking them longer than usual to get down to Sunday breakfast, he grabbed some oranges from the refrigerator—it would be another couple of months before the ones on the tree in the yard were ripe—and juiced enough for three glasses.
Still waiting, he warmed the syrup. Put butter on the table. Three forks. Extra napkins.
Lined up the plates on the counter.
Decided to go ahead and pour the glasses of milk his kids usually drank with their breakfast so they’d have strong bones.
And then he climbed the stairs. They’d taken way too long now, making their beds, getting into their clothes and brushing their teeth. And been too quiet, too.
Justin’s room was first. He wasn’t there. His bed was made. About as sloppily as usual, but made. The bathroom between his room and Tabitha’s was empty, as well. The counter was wet, and there was a glob of toothpaste in the sink.
“Hey, slowpokes, what’s...” His words fell away as he entered Tabitha’s room. Her pink-and-white polka-dot ruffled pillow sham was on top of the pillow. The matching comforter evenly spread over the bed and wrinkle-free. And his daughter was nowhere to be seen.
“Tabitha? Justin?” he called to them as he checked his own room across the hall. He poked his head in the guest room as he ran past, then took the stairs down at a trot.
“Justin?” He always heard them on the stairs.
And had been listening while he prepared breakfast. It was routine. A normal day like every other day.
They weren’t in the family room. Or the living room. Not in his office, where they weren’t allowed to be without him present. Not in the dining room. Or the laundry room.
“Tabitha!” He raised his voice as he exited the house. What was up with his kids? Twice in less than forty-eight hours they’d disappeared. Twice he’d lost them.
It wasn’t like him.
Or them.
“Tabitha! Justin!” he called, heading toward the calf barn while pulling out his phone and dialing Betsy.
People were going to start thinking he was a bad dad or something.
They’d made their beds. Brushed their teeth. There’d been no sign of a struggle. But he hadn’t heard them on the stairs. Or heard them talking, either.
How could that have happened? Unless...he’d been so distracted by thoughts of the woman he’d refused to think about...
Or... Had they been purposefully quiet? It was the only way Justin kept quiet. By trying really, really hard.
Had his kids snuck out on him?
At seven years old?
Taking a quick turn, he headed toward the temporary television studio he wished he’d never agreed to allow on his property. He’d had great plans for the day. More four-wheeling. A visit to the horse barn for Tabitha. Hot dogs on the grill. Maybe some fishing. It all faded away, usurped by punishment.
He didn’t discipline his kids often. Betsy said not enough. He did what he needed to do. As long as they followed his rules, they were allowed to be free thinkers. To develop their own individual personalities.
Until this weekend, the plan had worked. Almost unfailingly. With some Justin exceptions.
It was time to get a dog. An outdoor dog. One that Justin would have to feed. One who would bark in the yard anytime there was movement—as in kid movement. One who would follow the kids wherever they went. One he could whistle for and, by his response, would tell Spencer where his children were.
Scrap the entire rest of the day’s plans. No full day of fun for the kids. They were going into town to get a dog. And then the kids were going to be yard-bound.
They hated that—not being allowed outside the perimeter he’d designated as the yard for punishment purposes.
He could see the activity at the studio before he was close enough to hear distinct voices. No cooking had happened the day before, but for all of the upcoming weeks, prepared dishes would be transported out on the bus with the contestants, along with any perishable pantry food—bound for homeless shelters, Natasha had told him during one of their original interviews.
Whatever else was going on, he didn’t know. He could see big black equipment boxes going out on the buses. Probably because his barn didn’t have the security of a television studio.
What he couldn’t see, as he strode closer, was his children.
Angela, Natasha’s second-in-command, stage manager, assistant and, he’d concluded, friend, met him before he’d reached the studio.
“You need something, cowboy?” she asked with a grin. The woman had a curious, flamboyant style, dressed in clothes that were as tight as they could be, and yet he was comfortable with her. Like, what he saw was what he got. He liked that. And liked that he wasn’t the least bit tempted to get to know her any better.
She also seemed completely unflappable.
“My kids,” he said, continuing toward her.
“Justin and Tabitha?” Her frown slowed his step. “They aren’t here.”
He stopped. “You’re sure?” They’d hidden from Natasha on Friday. But just for a little while.
Justin could be crafty. But he was only seven. And he had a very black-and-white, mind-the-rules Tabitha with him.
“Positive. I’ve done a final check of the space. We’re out of here in the next five minutes.”
Good. He needed his life back to normal. But...
“Well, thank you.” He smiled. And then, because he wanted to know how long he got to enjoy his freedom from invasion, he asked, “When will you and Natasha be back?”
“I’ll be here Thursday,” she said. “With the crew.”
Yes, that was what he’d meant. Just because the boss lady had been there first this past week didn’t mean she would be again.
“...I’m not sure when Natasha’s going to be here,” Angela was saying. “My guess would be Friday. She’ll want to check things over before Saturday’s show. I’ll ask her and give you a call.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I figured you’d want to know for whoever’s cleaning her cabin...” He didn’t like the quirk of Angela’s head, the way she was studying him.
“It’ll be done Wednesday,” he told her, backing up. His cleaning lady was handling it all for him. And he had to find his kids.
“Well, I’ll let you know when her plans—”
Shaking his head, he said, “Don’t worry about it. I have to find my kids. Have a good trip back.” And he was around the corner, out of her sight.
“Tabitha! Justin!” He jogged. He called. Checked the barns between the studio and the house, intending to head toward the stream by way of the bunkhouse.
“Justin, don’t!” Tabitha’s stern shriek stopped him as he passed the house.
“You know Daddy says you can’t put your dirty finger in the bowl before he cooks.”
They were in the kitchen?
He was inside before his daughter could make another attempt to corral her wayward brother.
Catching Justin in the act.
The boy jerked his hand back and would have splattered breakfast all over the ceramic tile floor except that Spencer, knowing his son well, was there to catch it.
“Go wash up,” he told his son.
“I already washed when I brushed...”
“And you had your finger in pancake batter. Go.” He didn’t raise his voice.
As soon as his son was out of the room, he gave Tabitha a very firm stare. “Where were you?”
She looked away. “I’m right here, Daddy.”
“I went upstairs looking for you.”
That brought her big brown eyes back to him. “We wanted Natasha to have pancakes. Justin says she’s a good cook, and our Sunday pancakes are the best.”
Sunday was always pancake day. Because the kids didn’t have school and he had the time to make them. Because it was a tradition left from his childhood. Because traditions were important.
Sometimes they were everything.
“You went to Natasha’s cabin?” he asked now.
“Yes.” Tabitha nodded. “But she wasn’t home.”
“She left last night.”
“She didn’t tell us ’bye.”
Yes, well, that was for the best. But he wasn’t going to have his kids’ feelings hurt.
“She’s not our friend, Tabitha. When other workers come to the ranch, they don’t tell you goodbye, either.”
“She is, Daddy.”
“Is what? A worker?”
Tabitha’s tangled hair flopped around her shoulders with each vehement shake of her head. “She’s my friend.”
“No, sweetie, she’s just someone who’s working here...”
The shake of her head stopped him. “She is.”
Tabitha was his reasonable child. “Honey, it’s—”
“I know, Daddy. She is. I know ’cause I asked her, and she said yes.”
“You asked if she was your friend?”
“I asked could we be friends.”
His day just shot to Hades. He had no idea how to handle this one.
Because he needed time to figure it out, he changed the subject. “So, you and Justin, you wanted to invite Natasha to breakfast,” he said, his gaze as calculating as he could make it while looking at the cutest thing he’d ever seen on earth.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you come to me about it?”
“You were a little mean to her, Daddy. She’s our friend. If you asked, she mighta’ told you no.”
He was the parent. Disciplining his child. So why did he feel like he’d just been chastised?
“You thought you two would just show up here with her? Without letting me know?”
“No.” Her face solemn, she shook her head again. “We were going to run back fast and tell you before she got here so that you could make enough. Or at least, Justin was going to while I walked with her.”
His little mite thought of everything.
And was going to pose far more of a threat to his peace of mind than her brother ever would.
As though they were done with their conversation, she pulled out her chair and scooted her little body up onto it, her chin still only inches from the table.
He’d been against getting rid of the booster seats, but both kids had insisted when they’d started school that they were too old for boosters.
Spencer spooned batter onto the griddle, realizing too late that he’d turned it off before he’d left the house. He turned it back on, figuring it was good they weren’t going to have a professional chef joining them that morning.
He waited until Justin returned. The boy picked up his glass of juice and took a drink before sitting down.
“So... Tabitha.” He included both of them in his glance. “Did you and your brother purposely keep quiet as you came downstairs this morning?”
She nodded.
“And you snuck out the side door so I wouldn’t hear you leave.” It was off the laundry room. And rarely used.
She nodded again.
“You snuck out behind my back.” He stated the crime in clear terms so they were all on the same page.
This time he received two very solemn nods in reply.
“You know that means you will be punished.”
Tabitha’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away. Justin sighed and looked down at the table.
“We were going to go four-wheeling and fishing today. And visit the horses. Instead, as soon as we get back from town, you will be confined to the yard until bedtime.”
“Why we goin’ into town?” Justin asked, while Tabitha’s lower lip trembled.
“To get a dog. You two aren’t going to be free to roam alone anymore. You’ve betrayed my trust twice in one weekend and...”
“A dog?” Justin’s grin just about split his face.
“A dog!” Tabitha’s squeal might have hurt his ears if he hadn’t loved the happiness it embodied so much.
“Yes, a dog,” he said sternly. A watchdog. To watch his kids.
“Yippee!” Justin jumped up so fast his milk sloshed over the top of his glass.
The boy threw his arms around Spencer’s hips. Tabitha’s were already there. His little girl looked up at him, melting him with those eyes.
“Thank you, Daddy. You know, I really wanted a dog.”
“I wanted one, too,” Justin said. “I always wanted one. Didn’t I, Daddy?”
Spencer hugged his kids. But before he could answer the question, he heard a sizzle from the griddle. Had to tend to the pancakes.
“We’re getting a watchdog,” he said. “An outside dog. To watch the two of you. Every minute of every day.”
This was not a present for them. It was for him.
The rest of the day was going to be a punishment, just as he’d determined.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/tara-quinn-taylor/the-cowboy-s-twins/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.