The Rancher's Twins

She stepped closer to the deluxe five-burner stove with double ovens and felt a spark of joy. A little swirl of hope circled inside of her. If Lydia had designed the kitchen herself, she wouldn’t change a thing. Cozy and gourmet utilitarian at the same time. Cooking was an area where she felt supremely confident.

The girls skipped into the kitchen. Genevieve climbed up one of the tall stools at the kitchen’s island.

“It’s dinnertime, why don’t you guys go ahead and sit at the table?”

“We eat here,” Abby said, joining her sister in the next chair.

Hmm. Lydia had fond memories of her and Nana sharing meals at the table. “Every day?”

“When we eat here.”

“What do you mean when you eat here?”

“Since it’s calving time we usually eat in the bunkhouse with the cowboys.”

“I see.” But she didn’t. Was she supposed to cook for a bunch of cowboys, too? Now that she thought about it, the position hadn’t come with much of a job description. That had been the least of her concerns. She and Blackwell needed to hash out a few details.

“Tonight, we’re going to sit at the table, okay? That way we can see each other while we eat, and I can get to know you guys a little bit.”

“Are you going to quit, too?” Abby asked.

“Quit?”

“All our babysitters quit,” she explained.

“No, I most certainly am not.” For once in her life quitting was not an option.

The girls exchanged glances. Leaning their heads together, they whispered excitedly. After a moment, something seemed to be decided because they sat up straight again, grinned at Lydia and shrugged in tandem. “Okay.” They hopped down and darted toward the dining room.

“Hey, you guys want to help me set the table since you’re headed that way?”

They turned back toward her, matching gray-blue eyes wide and curious. For a few long seconds Lydia thought they were going to balk.

Abby’s face erupted with a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll get the spoons,” Genevieve said.

The three of them were seated and waiting when Blackwell strode into the kitchen. Stopping short, he looked from the kitchen to the dining room and back again. Lydia almost laughed at the baffled expression on his face.

Abby saved Lydia from having to explain. “Daddy, look, we’re eating at the table.”

“Isn’t this neat?” Gen added.

“Uh... Yeah, very...” He walked over and stood before the table for a second, hands on hips. “Neat.” He folded his tall length into the vacant chair and Lydia couldn’t help thinking that he moved with the graceful ease of an athlete. Or a cowboy. Not that she’d ever known one of the latter. Dipping his head down, he studied the steaming bowl of stew as if trying to decide what it might contain.

Unlike the new kitchen, the oak dining table looked very old. The girls had shown Lydia the drawer in the matching buffet where place mats were kept. They’d seemed excited when Lydia encouraged them to choose a set.

Fiddling with the silverware laid out on his left side, Blackwell looked at Lydia. “We don’t usually eat here.”

“The girls told me.” Lydia unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. “Dinnertime is a nice way to multitask, though, don’t you think? You get to eat and spend time together as a family. That’s what my grandmother always said.”

Blackwell’s lips formed a grim line while the twins stared at her solemnly.

“You’re lucky to have a grandma,” Abby said.

“Yeah,” Gen agreed. “We have Zoe, but she doesn’t like us to call her Grandma. She doesn’t do any grandma stuff, either. One time she painted our fingernails.”

Abby added, “We love Great-Grandma Dorothy. But she lives far away in Texas and we hardly ever see her.”

“I was very lucky to have a grandma. She died, but I’m glad I had her as long as I did. I’m sorry you guys don’t have a grandma.” Lydia wanted to ask questions about this Zoe person, but Blackwell’s glower stopped her.

She briefly considered calling for a blessing or some other type of predinner ritual, but decided there’d be time to introduce that later. “I think we should eat.”

A few minutes later, Lydia decided Sofie might be a paragon of sweetness, but she was a terrible cook. The stew was bland and the corn bread dry. But the Blackwells ate without complaint and there was no way she was going to voice her opinion on a gesture of such obvious goodwill. Nor was she going to comment on the fact that the twins ate like piglets. Not yet, anyway.

“Did you grow up on a ranch, too?” Genevieve asked, scooping up a large chunk of corn bread and shoving it into her already full mouth.

“Nope. I was raised in Philadelphia. That’s in Pennsylvania. Do you know where that is?”

Gen shook her head.

“I think Pennsylvania is a state,” Abby said, and then licked her fingers.

“It is. I’ll show you on a map.”

“Have you ever seen a calf being born?” Gen asked.

“No, I have not.”

Abby wrinkled her nose. “It’s kind of gross.”

“No, it’s not!” Gen argued. “It’s the roof over our head and the boots on our feet, huh, Daddy?”

Blackwell gave her a gentle smile. “Yes, it sure is.”

Abby shot her sister an irritated scowl. “I know, Gen. I just meant if you’ve never seen one before.”

“I’m gonna be a rancher, too.” Gen shoveled up another too-large bite of stew and then wiped at her face with the back of her hand. “Like Katie.”

“I want to be a vet like Uncle Ethan.” Abby dipped a finger in her stew and wiped it on the place mat.

Lydia wondered if the girls knew what napkins were for.

They continued chatting through the rest of the meal. Lydia was grateful for the distraction as it saved her from having to talk to her new employer. At least, she noted happily, he wasn’t grouchy with his girls.

Dinner complete, the girls hopped up from the table and scampered out of the dining room. Lydia watched them go and felt a mix of sympathy and affection wash over her. What had happened here? Where was their mother? She could feel Blackwell watching her. Turning her head, she saw puzzlement and...something not quite as grouchy splayed across his face.

Standing, he reached across the table and stacked the bowls into a pile. “I’ll help you clear the table and then I need to go check on some cows.” He carried them into the kitchen.

Lydia gathered the glasses and followed. “Right now? Shouldn’t we go over what you expect of me?”

“It’s calving season.” He pointed this out like a normal person might comment on the obvious state of the weather. He opened the dishwasher, and began loading the bowls inside.

Maybe grumpy, condescending and rude was just his normal state? But how could he have such a nice friend like Sofie? And his daughters might be a bit...unrefined, but they were clearly loved, and they adored their father. Obviously, it was her. What wasn’t obvious was why.

“But...”

“It’ll be dark soon,” he added, tucking the glasses in the top rack.

Lydia felt a bubble of frustration at his cryptic dialogue. “Oh, do they have a curfew?”

The chuckle seemed to escape him before he realized it and left him looking a little surprised. The smile lingered, and Lydia couldn’t help but notice how much it transformed him. Jonathon Blackwell was an extremely nice-looking man when he wasn’t scowling at her.

“Yes, ma’am, they kind of do. I need to take a look at them and that’s easiest when it’s still light out. What I should have said is that we’ll have a chat when I get back in.”

“Oh. In that case you don’t need to help with the dishes.”

A chime sounded. Lydia watched him pluck a phone out of his shirt pocket. “Just a sec.” His expression tensed again, and Lydia wondered how many different scowls the man possessed. He looked up from the screen. “I’m sorry. We may need to have that discussion in the morning. I might need to turn a calf and... I mean, I’ve got a heifer in labor that needs some assistance. Unless you want to wait up, but it could be late by the time I get back to the house.”

Lydia swallowed nervously. Although why she was nervous exactly she couldn’t say. “Morning is fine. Should I get the girls ready for bed?”

His eyes zeroed in on her like he was considering the question. At least his eyes didn’t have as hard a glint as before. She’d call this expression thoughtful instead of grouchy, which felt like progress.

“I would appreciate it more than I can say.” But then he grimaced. “The sheets for your bed are in the dryer in the laundry room. I apologize. I wanted to have it made up when you got here.”

“Oh. No worries. Sofie showed me around.” Who was this guy? Cranky and ill-tempered with her on the one hand and then full of remorse about sheets on the other? “That’s fine. I can do it. Any special instructions regarding the girls?”

“No, not really. They’ll guide you through it. Although, I need to tell you...” His voice trailed off thoughtfully while his focus drifted behind her. Gray eyes latched on to hers again and the intensity she saw there had her bracing herself for some truly horrific news. “I probably should mention that they can be kind of a handful.”

“A handful?”

“Several hands probably, at least that’s what Sofie would say. Their last couple of babysitters would say worse.” He sighed. “It’s just that they’ve never had a mom or a steady female influence for...quite a while. Their longtime babysitter, Annie, passed away a year and a half ago. We’ve been struggling to get someone regular since then.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss. I completely get what you’re saying. Kids need structure. Don’t worry, I’m sure I can get them tucked in. We’ll talk in the morning.” No mom at all? Which prompted thoughts of the poor cow mom who needed his help. Waving a hand, she shooed him away. “Go. We’ll be fine. Go and do your rancher midwife thing.”

She liked the way one side of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Rancher midwife,” he finally said, repeating the words. “I’ll do that.”

Lydia forced herself not to fidget and watched, fascinated, as his lips curled and puckered like he was going to... What was he going to do?

An earsplitting whistle pierced the air.

Lydia yelped and threw a hand over her chest. “Crikey! What the—?”

He winced. “Oh shh-oot. Sorry.” Trout dashed into the room. Ears up, tail wagging, the dog skidded to a stop by his side.

Putting a hand on the dog’s head, he asked, “Ready, my man?”

Trout answered with a single bark. Blackwell gave Lydia a final assessing look, his gray eyes blazing with an intensity that clogged her throat. “Good night, Ms. Lydia. And thank you.” His voice was soft and deep, the tone sincere.

She felt a little light-headed as she watched man and dog disappear through the doorway that Sofie had told her led outside and to the JB Bar Ranch beyond. Ms. Lydia? A warm flush heated her cheeks and neck. She managed to wheeze out a breathy “Good night” that he probably didn’t hear. She was glad because she knew her voice sounded weird. A few minutes ago, she’d wanted to run off and now she wanted to fan herself. What was up with that?

It was just relief, she assured herself. Terror, hopelessness, desperation and anxiety so acute she’d barely slept in days, followed by two days of traveling, would scramble a person’s brain. Added to the mix was the sobering realization that her boss didn’t seem to like her and the single teenaged girl she’d signed up to ferry around was in reality two busy preschoolers. Exhaustion was setting in. But the thought that she might finally be safe left a small smile on her face.

She’d do anything to stay that way. Wrangling a pair of out-of-control twins and sparring with their irritable father seemed like a cakewalk compared to what she was running from.

CHAPTER FOUR

“YOU DON’T LOOK nothin’ like a old pear.”

Lydia looked at Genevieve. “Excuse me?”

“It’s noth-ing, Gen,” Abby said. “Not nothin’.”

“I know that, Abby, but I like the way Tom says nothin’.”

Abby rolled her eyes at her sister. “Well, I think you should say you don’t look anything like an old pear.” Face taut with concentration, she studied Lydia. “But she’s right, you don’t.”

“Who told you I did? And are we talking about fruit or boots?”

“Tom,” Gen answered.

“Fruit,” Abby said.

“Tom said I look like an old pear?” Lydia asked.

Abby explained, “No, Tom said we were getting an old pear. It’s a fancy name for a nanny.”

Ah. Lydia smothered a laugh. “Actually, it’s au pair not old pear.”

Gen frowned. “Oh. What’s an oh pear? That don’t make no sense.”

“It’s a French term,” Lydia said, choosing not to correct the child’s grammar quite yet.

“Like a French fry?” Gen asked.

“Crepes are French,” Abby stated knowingly. “They’re real skinny pancakes.”

Gen gushed, “I lo-o-ove pancakes. Buttermilk pancakes are right yummy vittles.”

“Let me guess.” Lydia looked at Abby, whose eyes had gone skyward again. “Tom?”

“Mmm-hmm. Sofie says he talks like a movie cowboy.”

“Who is Tom, exactly?”

“Tom is Daddy’s foreman. Gen lo-o-oves him.”

Gen scowled at her sister. “Only because I’m gonna be a ranch foreman someday. Like Katie.”

“Katie doesn’t talk that way.”

Lydia held out her hands, palms down, fingers spread. She’d herded the girls into the bathroom to commence bedtime preparations. “Okay, hold on.” It was already going to be a challenge to become fluent in five-year-old, but five-year-old-aspiring-cowgirl was going to require some serious effort.

“Now who is Katie?”

Abby explained, “Katie is Lochlan’s daughter. He’s the foreman at Big E’s ranch.”

Gen fiddled with the faucet. Being still didn’t appear to be the child’s greatest strength. “But Katie should take over soon. I heard Daddy tell Tom.”

They had already mentioned Big E and Lydia now knew him to be the girls’ great-grandfather—Blackwell’s grandfather—and he was married to Zoe. Lydia wondered about his parents, but knew introducing yet another topic would only further delay her immediate mission.

“Interesting. Thank you. We’ll discuss this more later. For now, let’s get back to bath time.”

“We like to take showers now that we’re five.”

“Great. Showers it is. We’re going to do this like an assembly line. I’ll wash your hair first, Abby. Then you can hop in the shower while I wash Gen’s. Then you can shower, Gen. Got it? Use soap, okay?”

Gen groaned. “Do I have to take a shower?”

“What’s a sembly line?” Abby asked. “Is that French, too?”

“Yes, you do have to take a shower, Gen. It’s as-sem-bly line, Abby,” she said, enunciating carefully. “And an assembly line is an organized way of doing things. As far as I know, it’s not French.”

“Why?” Gen demanded, still fixated on the apparent torture of sanitization unfolding before her.

“You don’t smell like flowers for one thing, and for another you both need your hair washed.”

“Flowers?” Gen repeated, her face scrunched thoughtfully.

“I hate getting my hair washed.” This from Abby, whom Lydia had already deduced was slightly more amenable to hygiene and civilized behavior than her sister.

“Why’s that?”

“It hurts.”

“What do you mean it hurts? Washing your hair shouldn’t hurt.”

“It’s the after part. It gets all snarly like a rat’s nest—that’s what Daddy calls it—and it hurts to brush it.”

“I see. Well, that’s no good.” Lydia took a moment to scope out the toiletries—soap, toothpaste, toothbrushes and basic first-aid supplies. Another cupboard held fluffy orange and yellow towels. The shower curtain featured brightly colored jungle animals. No razors, shaving cream, aftershave, cologne or other manly potions in evidence. Blackwell apparently had his own personal domain, which was a relief. She didn’t relish the idea of sharing a bathroom with him. In the shower, she spotted a single bottle. She picked it up and said, “‘Shampoo and conditioner in one.’” That explained it.

“Wait right here. No more rat’s nests for you.” She started to walk out the door and then stopped as it occurred to her that there was a good possibility they might not be here when she returned. Nibbling her lip, she thought for a second. “I have two important things I need you guys to do while I’m gone. Abby, can you find some cotton balls? Gen, can you gather up all the hair bands in that basket and put them in a pile?” Lydia pointed to a container on the counter, where she’d noticed the hair accessories were kept. “Can you guys do that?”

They both nodded solemnly, neither questioning their assigned task.

Lydia dashed to her bedroom. She’d only brought one small suitcase but it included a travel-sized bottle of leave-in conditioner. Three heads of long hair meant it wasn’t going to last long. She added conditioner to the supply list she’d already started. Under boots and jeans she wrote conditioner.

Upon reentering the bathroom, she assessed the work they’d done. “Thank you. Great job, girls. Now, I’ll make you a deal. If you let me wash your hair, and you take your showers without complaint, we’ll watch a little TV before bed.”

“We don’t have TV. We can watch movies in Daddy’s pickup.”

No TV? Lydia thought quickly. There were lots of things that might motivate a five-year-old. The problem was that she’d just got here and didn’t know the girls yet or the resources she had to draw from.

“We have internet,” Abby announced. “We watch movies on the computer sometimes.”

“Perfect.” Lydia smiled. “I have a computer. We’ll see what we can do.”

* * *

JON NOTICED TWO things when he stepped inside the house the next morning—it smelled like bacon and it was very quiet. Heaving out a tired breath, he lowered himself onto the bench and pulled off his boots. He took a moment to enjoy the silence, but mostly used it as an excuse to rest his aching back and think about the day’s chores ahead.

The calves born last night and this morning put them approximately halfway through the calving. The heavies, or most heavily pregnant cows and heifers, were waiting. Close to labor, they’d been moved into a smaller pasture, where they were monitored by Jon, Tom and his hired hands. Mother Nature had blessed them with a week of mild weather, allowing the cows to give birth outside like they preferred. It also meant less work because they didn’t have to cut the cows who were in labor from the rest of the herd and get them into the shed. It was a tedious job because that herd instinct was a strong one and they balked at being separated.

Grabbing a towel, he saw to Trout and then stood. He headed into the kitchen, where he discovered evidence that the nanny had been cooking. He could hear muffled conversation in the next room.

As he neared the doorway, a voice asked, “What about this one? What letter is this, Gen?”

Jon froze and Trout followed his cue, standing at attention beside him. “Um, is it a P?” It pained his perpetually raw heart to hear the uncertainty in his daughter’s voice. Genevieve was struggling to learn her letters and numbers. Jon knew he needed to spend more time teaching the girls and he planned to as soon as calving season wound down. All the things he needed to do bore down on him like a full-out stampede.

“That’s close. It’s a D.”

“Dagnabbit! I always get that one wrong. I’m sorry. I’m not smart like Abby.”

“You’re not supposed to say that,” Abby said. “It’s almost a bad word.”

“Listen here, young lady,” Lydia said, “you are incredibly smart. Anyone who can recite every breed of horse on this planet, where they live and what they’re used for is completely brilliant. There are all kinds of smarts out there. You’ll get this. I promise. Then you can read all about horses yourself. And, just so you know, dagnabbit starts with a D.”

Jon smiled. The words and the encouragement in Lydia’s tone eased a bit of his ache. Sounded like she had the teaching skills—too bad she couldn’t stay. Jon had already called the agency, but Eileen, the woman who’d handled his application, was on vacation until the middle of April. No one else seemed to be familiar with his situation. He’d been informed he could start the application process all over or wait for Eileen to return. He doubted Lydia could teach Gen to read in two weeks. Doubted she’d want to stay, anyway, after he told her she wasn’t suitable.

Jon motioned to Trout and the dog bolted forward into the room. Jon followed, his lungs constricting so tight at what he found that it took several seconds before he could draw a proper breath. Abby was lounging against a pillow on the sofa, an open book across her lap. Gen sat on the floor in front of Lydia, who was doing her hair. Lydia deserved a bonus for this task alone. Little-girl hair was a mystery to him. He had a difficult time even getting a brush through their curls. The ponytails he managed rarely lasted through a day.

“Hi, Daddy!” Gen cried. “How many new calves?”

“A bunch.”

“Yay! How are they?”

“Feisty, healthy, hungry fuzzballs. Cute as can be.”

“I can’t wait to see them!”

“After breakfast.”

Abby sat forward, turning to look at him. “We already had breakfast.”

“Oh,” he said, noticing her hair was already done. Braided and twisted into a pretty little bun on top of her head. Clean clothes, clean face, even clean hands clutching that book in her lap.

“Did you—”

“Yep,” she interrupted, “already brushed my teeth. Seeee,” she drawled, “showing” him the evidence as if he could tell from her clownlike grin.

“Excellent job. Shiny and white, just like the dentist ordered.” Which reminded him that they had upcoming appointments. A wave of dread rolled over him. The last one had not gone well.

Lydia looked up and smiled. “The girls told me they usually eat in the bunkhouse with you, but I didn’t know what time you’d be back in this morning and we were hungry. There’s bacon and pancakes keeping warm in the oven in case you haven’t eaten? And I can scramble a couple of eggs.”

“Buttermilk pancakes, Daddy,” Gen said. “Real ones. And Lydia is doing our hair all pretty like hers.”

Jon took a minute to absorb the myriad of feelings churning inside of him and wreaking havoc on both his body and his brain. It had been a long, long time since he’d entertained feelings like the ones tumbling through him right now—relief that the girls seemed to like Lydia, happiness that she seemed to like them and longing so intense it catapulted him back to a place he tried not to go. Why couldn’t Ava have wanted this? He immediately reminded himself that he was paying Lydia Newbury to shower this kind of attention on his daughters. And she wasn’t sticking around.

“That sounds just fine to me. We can talk while the girls head out for a look at the calves.”

“Great.” Lydia flashed him another bright smile. “You, sweet girl, are all done.” Placing a hand on each of her shoulders, she bent and kissed the top of Gen’s head and Jon felt that, too, like a warm surge right in the pit of his stomach. “You want to see?”

Gen took the mirror from Lydia and admired her handiwork. With her other hand, she patted the neat braids. Normally Gen didn’t care much about her hair, but the expression on her face right now reminded him a lot of how his daughter looked on Christmas morning. When she wrapped her arms around Lydia for a hug, sweetness dug right into him along with the regret. He’d hoped Lydia would be gone before the girls got too attached.

“I’ll text Tom that you’re on the way.”

“Thanks, Daddy.” They skipped over to him and one at a time he scooped them up for a quick hug and set them back on their feet closer to the door. Together, they ran toward the kitchen.

Jon tapped out a text to Tom.