A Cowboy's Heart. Brenda Minton
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He breathed deep and let go of the anger.
Too many years had gone by to remind his father of that time, and to hurt him with the truth that would have sounded like accusations. He stood and walked to the window. Behind him his dad coughed.
“I could use a drink.”
Clint shrugged but didn’t turn away from the window, and the view of someone’s hayfield. A tractor sat abandoned in the middle of the field, half the hay cut and the other half still standing. Something must have broken on the tractor. Not that it mattered. But for a moment he needed to think about something other than the past, and his dad still needing a drink, even with his liver failing.
“Where’s your sister? Is she home from school yet?”
His dad had slipped into the past, too.
Clint turned, shaking his head as he sat down on the bed. It was easy to forgive a man who was broken. The surprising thing was that he even felt compassion.
“Dad, Jenna is in Missouri. She’s going to Iraq.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She’s in the Army.” He took the water glass from his dad and set it on the table. “Dad, do you remember? Jenna is twenty-seven. She has two little boys.”
“She shouldn’t have had them without a father. She should have married that boy.”
“He didn’t ask.” Clint had to fight back a remaining shard of anger over that situation. The ramblings of an old man he could overlook. The past could be forgiven. His sister being hurt, that was something he still had to work on.
“What’s your sister going to do with those boys?”
“I’m going to take care of them.”
His dad laughed. “You? How are you going to take care of two little boys? Do you even have a job, other than working for Janie?”
“I’m helping her niece with the bucking bulls she raises.”
His dad’s eyes widened at that and then narrowed as he smiled. “Are you in love with her? I imagine she’s way out of your league.”
How could one conversation reduce him from grown man to a sixteen-year-old kid teaching the judge’s daughter to ride the horse she’d gotten for her birthday? Way out of your league must have been the statement that took him back.
“No, Dad, I’m not in love with Willow Michaels. She needs help, and I need a job.”
“I need to take a nap, and you need to find out why Jenna didn’t come home on the bus. She hasn’t even fed the chickens.”
“Okay, Dad, I’ll go check on her.” Clint stood, towering over his dad’s frail body. Before he left, he leaned and hugged the old man who had hurt them all so much.
Forgiving had been taken care of. Forgetting was getting easier.
Now he had to go home, to the foreman’s house and get it ready for the boys. He tried not to think about that house not being his, or about the home he’d grown up in not being a fit place for two boys.
As he climbed into his truck, he tried, but couldn’t quite block the thoughts returning, thoughts of Jenna leaving the boys. He tried not to think about her being gone for a year, and what could happen in that time. And he tried not to think about living a dirt trail away from Willow Michaels—who was way out of his league.
Six in the morning, Willow was barely awake, and as she glanced out the kitchen window she saw two little boys run across the lawn, heading toward the barn. Two days ago Clint had asked her if she would be okay with the twins living on the farm, and now they were here. She hadn’t thought about them being here so soon.
The bigger problem now was that the boys were running for the pen that held her big old bull, Dolly. She set her glass of water down on the counter and hurried for the front door. Janie, sitting in the living room, looked up from her Bible, brows raised over the top of her reading glasses.
“Is there a fire?”
“No, but there are two little boys heading for Dolly’s pen.”
Dolly was her first bull. At bull-riding events they called him Skewer, because it was easier on a cowboy’s ego to get thrown from a “Skewer” than a “Dolly.” Gentle or not, she didn’t want the two little boys in that pen.
As she ran across the lawn, she glanced toward the foreman’s house. A small sedan was parked out front, the same one she’d seen easing down the driveway yesterday. No one was outside. The boys, silvery-blond hair glinting in the sun, weren’t slowing down. They obviously had a plan they wanted to carry out before the adults realized they’d escaped.
Willow hurried after them, rocks biting into her bare feet. If she didn’t catch them in time…She shook off that thought, that image. She would get to them in time.
“Don’t go in there,” she shouted, cupping her mouth with her hands, hoping the words would carry and not get swept away on the early morning breeze.
The boys stopped, turning sun-browned faces in her direction, sweet faces with matching Kool-Aid mustaches. They were armed with paper airplanes and toy soldiers.
Willow’s heart ka-thumped against her ribs. Fear and remnants of loss got tangled inside her. She had to stop, take a deep breath, and move forward. The way she’d been moving forward for the last five years, one step at a time. Rebuilding her life.
The boys were watching her, waiting.
She reached them and they stared up at her. Their eyes were wide and gray, familiar because up close they looked a lot like Clint Cameron.
Their gazes shot past her. She turned as Clint and a young woman walked out of the foreman’s house. The two, brother and sister, paused on the front porch and then headed in her direction.
“Uh-oh,” one of the boys mumbled and his thumb went to his mouth.
“Don’t suck your thumb,” the other shoved him with his elbow, pushing him hard enough to knock the slighter-built of the two off-balance.
“You two do know that it isn’t safe to go in the barn or around the bulls, right?” Willow knelt in front of them, her heart catching.
They nodded. The smaller boy tried to hide the thumb in his mouth by covering it with his other hand. Their twin gazes slid from her face to something behind her. Clint?
She stood and turned, ready to greet him and his sister. The little boys scurried to the side of their mother, their hands reaching for hers.
“Clint.” Willow didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t know that she wanted to say more.
“Willow, these two rowdy guys are my nephews. This is my sister, Jenna.”
Jenna, brown hair streaked with blond highlights and petite frame clothed in shorts and a T-shirt, held out her hand. “Nice to meet you. And I’m really thankful to you for giving Clint a place to keep the boys.”
“You’re welcome, Jenna. We’re glad we can do it.”
Willow squatted to put herself at eye level with the two little boys, matching bookends with identical looks of sadness and fear. Their mother was leaving. Willow fought the urge to pull them close, to promise that everything would be okay.
She thought about her own fears, her own longings. It all paled in comparison to what this family was going through.
“My name is Willow. What are your names?”
“Timmy,” the bigger of the two pushed at his brother again, “and this is Davie.”
“David,” the boy mumbled, looking down at the ground.
Insecure? She understood insecure, and how it felt to not know where she was supposed to be, or what she should do.
Janie