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“They’re becoming teenagers.”
“They’re only eleven.”
“And a half.” She smiled. “They told me they were born in early May. Apparently they are hoping to do something fun with you for their twelfth birthday... something about going to Orlando?”
“I have not agreed to Orlando. I would never agree to Orlando. Flathead Lake, yes. Florida, no.”
“Why not Orlando?” she asked.
“Too many people. Don’t like crowds. Not a big fan of amusement parks.”
“Have you ever been to an amusement park?”
“No.”
“You can’t blame them for being curious.”
“They’re Montana kids. They’re just as happy camping and fishing. So if they really want to go somewhere for their birthday, I’ll take them to Flathead Lake. Amy’s parents have a cabin there and we can fish and hike.”
“Molly fishes?”
“For their tenth birthday I gave each of them new poles and tackle.”
Harley squashed her smile. She couldn’t imagine her Emma or Ana ever being excited about a fishing pole and tackle, but her girls were good athletes and had loved skiing and snowboarding and having adventures with their dad. That’s how they’d died, too. Setting off on an adventure with their dad.
David should have never taken off in that bad weather. Never, never, ever.
But he never did listen to her. He was always so sure he knew what was best.
Her smile faded.
She realized Brock had stopped talking and was looking at her. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.
She shook her head, unable to talk about the kids, or how they died, or how selfish their father had been, piloting his own plane when there had been severe weather warnings.
“Nothing,” she whispered, pushing back the flood of memories, heartsick all over again. Emma and Ana and Davi, her little boy. Gone. All gone.
She turned to the cabinet, stared blindly at the boxes of tea, waiting for her vision to clear.
“I’m sorry,” Brock said, after a moment. “I forgot that this is a difficult subject for you.”
“It’s okay,” she said thickly. She turned to face him a few moments later. “I’m sure you know it, but you’re lucky. You have such sweet, smart kids. You should be proud.”
“I’d be prouder if they didn’t run away from school and if they’d tell me the truth when one of them gets hurt.”
“Maybe they’re scared that if they tell you the truth they’ll get in trouble.”
“I’ve never hit them. There’s no reason for them to be afraid of me.”
Harley regarded him a moment, still feeling the ache of grief that accompanied thoughts of her children. “Maybe they just need you to talk to them more. Reassure them that they can trust you—”
“Of course they can trust me. I’m their father.”
“You can be a little intimidating,” she said gently, thinking that right now he looked about as soft and receptive as the granite counter slabs in the kitchen. “Maybe just try to talk to them as a friend.”
His big arms crossed over his chest, drawing the knit shirt tight at his shoulders, revealing those hard carved abs again. “I’m not here to be their friend.”
Suddenly JB’s words came to Harley’s mind. Mr. Sheenan’s been a bachelor too long. Is that what this was?
She dropped her voice, softening her tone. “Don’t you want to know who they are? Don’t you want to know about their ideas... their feelings... their dreams?”
His upper lip curled. His expression was openly mocking. “For a woman who never had kids, you certainly seem to have a lot of opinions on how to raise them.”
She flinched, caught off guard.
She shouldn’t have been caught off guard, though. She’d pushed, wanting to help, but her attempt had backfired, and he’d lashed out at her instead.
It was a good lesson. Not just because he’d hurt her feelings, but because she wasn’t a counselor, a family member, or a friend. She was his employee and day after tomorrow she’d be gone.
Dropping the teabag in her mug, Harley vowed to mind her own business until then.
She counted to ten as she filled her mug with hot water, and then counted to ten again.
When she was confident she could speak calmly, she faced Brock. “I never said I’d never had kids. I said I don’t have children now.” She looked Brock in the eye, held his gaze. “My children died with their father in a small plane crash three years ago February. And maybe you don’t need to be friends with your kids, but I loved being friends with mine.”
Blinking back tears, she grabbed her mug and headed to her room to sip tea and read in bed and think of anything and everything besides her children who were angels now.
Brock cursed under his breath as Harley disappeared.
He’d hurt her again and he hadn’t meant to hurt her as much as get her to stop, back off. He wasn’t accustomed to being lectured, and she’d given him an earful and he’d had enough of her dispensing advice.
He didn’t need advice, not when it came to parenting his children. Mack and Molly were his kids and he was raising them the way he thought best.
But with Harley gone from the kitchen, he could still feel her surprise and hurt. He could still see the bruised look in her eyes when she’d turned away.
Shit.
This is exactly why he didn’t date and avoided polite society. He didn’t fit in polite society. He was better away from people, better on his own.
Angry with himself, he went to the barn to do his nightly check before bed. As he entered the barn, his dogs were immediately at his heels and followed him from stall to stall as he greeted each horse, stroking noses, giving treats, trying not to think about Harley or what she’d told him.
She’d been a mother. She’d had kids. Her children had died.
He cringed all over again, disgusted with himself, not just for his put-down, but for his need to put her in her place.
What was wrong with him?
Why did he have to shame a woman?
If his mom were alive she’d be horrified. She’d raised her boys to be gentlemen. She’d taught her five sons that women were equals and deserving of protection and respect.
He certainly hadn’t been respectful to Harley tonight.
Heart heavy, he returned to the house, locked up the doors, and turned off unnecessary lights but he couldn’t settle down in front of the TV, not when his conscience smacked him for being a heel.
Brock climbed the stairs two by two, and then the narrow staircase to the third floor bedroom he’d carved from the attic.
He knocked on the closed door with a firm rap of his knuckles.
She opened the door after a long moment, peeking out from behind the door. Her long hair was loose, a thick golden brown curtain about her face, and from behind the door he glimpsed a bare shoulder, her skin creamy and smooth.
She must have been changing when he’d knocked.
Just like that, his body hardened, pulse quickening.
He wanted her and he couldn’t remember when he’d lasted wanted anyone.
“I didn’t know,” he said shortly, glaring down at her, now unhappy with himself for being unable to manage the way he responded to her. In the eleven years since Amy died he’d never had an issue with lusting or physical desire, but something about Harley annihilated his famous self-control. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being rough with you and not being more... sensitive. As you might have noticed, I’m not a very sensitive guy.”
“I share the blame,” she said. “I shouldn’t have been offering advice. I won’t do it again.”
They were the right words but somehow they didn’t make him feel better.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had kids?”
“It’s not something I talk about anymore.” She tugged her robe up, over her shoulder, concealing her delectable skin. “I’ve discovered that people treat you differently
if they know. She’s the lady who lost her husband and three children... I could hear people whisper that, or look at me with pity, and I’ve found that it’s just better for people not to know. That way there’s no awkwardness.” She made another little adjustment before stepping from behind the door, firmly tying her sash at her waist. “Which is why I didn’t want you to know I had children. I liked coming here to work knowing that my past didn’t matter, that my grief was my grief alone, and that this Christmas I’d get through the holidays with a minimum of fuss.”
“And then my kids came home,” he said quietly.
“Your eleven-year-olds.” Her lips curved but her expression was haunted. “My oldest was eleven when she died.” She drew a slow breath. “Eleven is such a great age, too.”
Brock could see how hard she was trying to keep it together, trying to be calm and strong, and her strength and courage moved him far more than tears ever could.
He’d wanted her moments ago because she was beautiful and desirable and now he just wanted to hold her to comfort her.
But he couldn’t.
There was no way he could make a move, not even to comfort. She was his employee. He was responsible for her.
