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Brock felt a pang as he thought of Amy. His wife had only the pregnancy and then six months with the babies before she died. She never knew them, not the way he did. He wondered if she’d be disappointed in him, as a father. He wasn’t a perfect father, not by any means, but he loved his kids. He loved them so much he’d sent them across the country to ensure they had the best education. He hated it when they were gone. The house was too empty. He was too empty. Life wasn’t the same without them. But he had to put the kids’ needs first. The prep school would get them into the best universities in the country and that’s what Amy had always wanted for their children. A loving foundation, a great education, and rewarding careers. Brock was trying hard to honor Amy’s dreams, but it wasn’t easy.
He’d missed the kids when they were gone, and selfishly, he was glad they were back. But they weren’t back for good. He’d drag them back to New York, kicking and screaming if he had to. This was for them.
And Amy.
Amy hadn’t had a future. He needed to make sure her children did.
Once Molly was patched up and gone, Brock washed his hands at the sink and then dried them on a hand towel, glancing in Harley Diekerhoff’s direction.
Earlier she’d lifted off the burned pastry crust from the top of the pies, throwing it away, before scooping the warn apple pie filling from inside the pie shell, transferring the golden gleaming filling into a dozen ceramic ramekins.
Now she mixed brown sugar and cinnamon and some chopped nuts with a little flour and a lot of butter, creating a crumbly brown sugar mixture.
“Making a crumble,” he said, surprised, but pleased. He’d been disappointed that the pies burned. He loved apple pie. He’d wondered if one of the kids had told her it was his favorite dessert.
She nodded, and shot him a quick, shy smile. “What’s the old expression? When you burn the apple pie, get rid of the crust and make a crumble?”
He lifted a brow. “I’ve never heard that before.”
“That’s strange,” she said, lips twitching. “Maybe it’s not an expression you use in Montana.”
“Or maybe it’s an expression that you just made up.”
She laughed, once, and her green eyes gleamed as she suppressed the husky laugh. “Maybe I did,” she admitted, beginning to sprinkle the brown sugar mixture over the first of the ramekins. “It seemed fitting, though.”
He leaned against the counter and watched her work. It was strangely relaxing, watching her bake. She moved with confidence around the kitchen. She obviously liked cooking and baking, and was certainly comfortable feeding a big group. His ranch hands claimed they’d never eaten better in their lives, and it wasn’t just the quantity, but the quality. Harley Diekerhoff’s food actually tasted good, too.
She continued to heap topping on the ramekins and he stayed where he was, leaning against the counter, enjoying the smells of apple and cinnamon along with the roast in the oven, as well as the sight of an attractive woman moving around the kitchen.
Knowing that she’d be gone day after tomorrow made him feel less guilty for lingering.
He wasn’t attached to her. Wasn’t going to let his attraction interfere.
And yet she did look appealing in his kitchen, in her yellow apron with cherries and lace trim. She looked fresh and wholesome and beautiful as only a country girl could.
“You’re a farm girl,” he said, breaking the silence.
She paused, glanced at him. “I grew up on a dairy, and then married a dairyman.”
Surprised, he said nothing for a moment, too caught off guard to know what to say. He wasn’t good at conversation. It’d been too many years since he’d chatted for the hell of it. “You’re divorced,” he said flatly.
She sprinkled the last of the topping over the ramekins, making sure each was generously covered with brown sugar and butter before rinsing her hands. “Widowed.”
He felt another strange jolt.
“I’m sorry,” he said, wishing now he’d never said anything.
She dried her hands, looked at him, her features composed. “It’ll be three years in February.”
He shouldn’t ask anything, shouldn’t say anything, shouldn’t continue this conversation a moment longer, not when he could see the shadows in her beautiful green eyes. But he knew loss, and what it was to lose your soul mate, and he was still moved by what she’d told him this morning, about how she’d never been able to have children, and how it’d hurt her. “How long were you married?”
“Almost twelve years.”
He couldn’t hide his surprise. “You must have married in high school.”
“No, but I was young. I’d just turned twenty. Still had one more year of college, but Davi had graduated and we married the same weekend of his graduation ceremonies.”
“A June wedding?”
“A huge, June wedding.” She tried to smile. It wasn’t very steady. “I think I had something like seven bridesmaids and my maid of honor.”
“You met in college?”
“Yes.” She turned away and began placing the ramekins on a cookie sheet. “We were both ag business majors, both from dairy families, and we grew up just eleven miles from each other.”
“Your families must have been happy.” He was prying now, and he knew it.
She shot him a quick glance, before sliding the cookie sheet into the hot second oven. “They weren’t that happy. He was Portuguese, not Dutch. They predicted problems. They were right.”
Her voice was calm, her expression serene, and yet he sensed there was so much she wasn’t saying.
And yet he stopped himself from asking more. He’d already prodded Harley the way he’d prodded Molly’s wound. It was time leave her alone.
“Thank you for taking care of Molly today,” he said, gathering the medical supplies he’d used. “I appreciate it.”
“It was nothing.”
“Nothing? You lost two perfectly good pies.”
She laughed. “And ended up with almost a dozen ramekins. So I think we’re okay.”
Brock stared at her a moment, dazzled. Her laugh was low and husky and perfectly beautiful.
She was absolutely beautiful.
Maybe too beautiful.
“Well, thanks again,” he said flatly, walking out, thinking that perhaps it was a good thing that Harley was leaving the day after tomorrow.
Harley was not an easy woman to have in his house.
She made him feel things and wish for things, and he wasn’t comfortable feeling and wishing. He wasn’t a man who hoped for things, either. Life was hard, and the only way to survive it was to be harder. Which is why he was raising his children to be smart, tough, and honest.
He’d never coddled Mack and Molly. He’d never read them fairy tales or indulged them at Christmas with holiday fuss, impossible wish lists, or trips to see a department store Santa.
And so, yes, it was an inconvenience to change housekeepers yet again, but better to change now, before Harley Diekerhoff had them all hoping and wishing for things that couldn’t be.
CHAPTER FIVE
The ranch hands devoured their beef roast and gravy, roasted potatoes, and braised root vegetables, before practically licking the little apple crisp ramekins clean, too.
Harley took the empty dishes and platters from Paul and Lewis, who brought the dishes back most nights, since they were the youngest hands, and low on the seniority totem pole.
“Everybody doing okay over there?” Harley asked, glad to see the youngsters on the doorstep, their scruffy faces ruddy from the cold. Paul and Lewis were nineteen and twenty respectively, still boys, and yet she’d discovered in her eleven days here, that these Montana boys knew how to work, and here on the ranch they certainly worked hard.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lewis answered with a shy grin, pushing up the brim of his hat. “We were all just saying that you take care of us like nobody’s business.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she answered, meaning it. She’d g
rown fond of these shy, tough cowboys, and she’d miss them when she left Saturday. It was on the tip of her tongue to mention that she was going but then she thought better of it. It wasn’t her place to break the news. Better let Brock tell them when he was ready.
“We made you something as a thank-you,” Paul said, reaching behind him and lifting a large hand-tied wreath made from fragrant pine. The green wreath had been wrapped with some barbed wire and decorated with five hammered metal stars, burlap bows, and miniature pine cones.
“It’s not fancy,” Paul added, “not like one of those expensive ones you’d buy in Bozeman at a designer store, but we all contributed to it. See? We each made a star and signed our name to it.” He pointed to a copper brown metal star in the upper left. “That’s mine. Paul. And there’s Lewis’s, just below mine, and JB’s, and the rest.”
“Hope you like it,” Lewis said. “And we hope you know how much we like having you here. We were also saying, if Maxine can’t come back in January, maybe you could just... stay.”
Both boys nodded their heads.
Harley smiled around the lump forming in her throat. “That’s so lovely,” she said taking the wreath and studying it in the light. “It’s beautiful. Thank you. Thank all the guys, will you? I’m really touched, and pleased.”
Paul blushed and dipped his head. “Glad you like it.” He hesitated. “There is one other thing...” Paul hesitated again. “Everything okay with Mr. Sheenan’s kids?”
“Why do you ask?” Harley asked.
“Earlier today Lew and me caught the twins trying to cut down a tree with an ax they found in the barn. The little girl was holding the branches back so the boy could chop the trunk. We were worried something would happen, he was swinging right over her head, and told them we’d help them if they wanted to cut the tree down. They said they didn’t need help so we left. But later the tree was still there, and the ax was on the ground, and we saw blood in the snow. We got worried they’d cut off their fingers or something.”
Harley’s stomach rose. Her heart fell. So that’s how Molly got hurt. She got hit by the ax.
Brock would flip.
