The Cowboy's Twins. Tara Quinn Taylor
Читать онлайн книгу.
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.
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