The Cowboy's Twins. Tara Quinn Taylor
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just above a whisper now. And closer. “Daddy said to stay out of this barn. Period.”
Other than the voice, she heard nothing. No movement. Shuffling. Breathing. Or any other indication of life. Hair tied back, she wiped a hand on the full-body apron covering her jeans and black Lycra pullover. Thought about calling the children out, giving them a warning and sending them on their way.
A mental flash followed right on the heels of that thought. A picture of her mother all alone. She shook it away.
Hoping that if she ignored the interlopers, they’d mind their father and vacate the barn, she continued to scoop spoonfuls of batter from bowl to pan. She had a system. One pan’s worth of cookies was cooling on foil, one pan was baking, and she needed to have the third ready to go in the oven when the others came out. Efficient.
Technically, she was checking out the kitchens. Testing the equipment. Making certain that everything was in place, worked and was fully stocked so that each contestant had an equally fair chance.
Normally that meant something simple. Prepared by someone on staff. And it had been that day, as well. For the first six kitchens. The last two hadn’t been ready—some last-minute electrical hookups—and she’d sent her staff on to enjoy their free afternoon and evening.
That was technically the situation. And all true.
But also true was that today she’d needed comfort. And was taking it in the form of chocolate chip cookies.
With one eye on the timer and the rest of her attention on the bowl, Natasha figured she’d finish panning her cookie dough with about ten seconds to spare. More foil was laid out, ready for the cookies coming out. She could see it in her peripheral vision.
Except...something was wrong with the symmetry.
She gave the foil-covered counter a full-on glance.
And noticed a cookie missing from the far corner.
Only one.
Split between two children? Or had Justin glommed it all for himself?
She’d never had a brother. Wasn’t up on little-boy things.
But...she’d known two mothers with sons recently. Contestants on her last two series. And had been drawn to both the mothers and their sons.
Been personally touched by them. By their stories...
Shaking her head, Natasha finished spooning dough. In spite of her hurried efforts, the timer went off before the spoon was sitting in an emptied bowl. But only a second before.
Transitioning trays was easy. Mitts on both hands, one out, one in, close door, set timer. And then, with freshly baked tray still in hand, she faced the counter.
Two cookies were now missing.
* * *
“JUSTIN? TABITHA?” SPENCER hurried from the back door into the yard. He’d been later than he’d expected, coming in from checking on the calf. Fifty percent of calf deaths within the first forty-five days of life came from birthing difficulties. Getting enough colostrum from the mother’s milk—which provided the antibodies a calf needed to survive—had to happen within the first twenty-four hours. And Ellie’s calf wasn’t nursing enough. He’d left Bryant tube-feeding her colostrum.
“Justin!” He raised his voice as he ran into the yard. He’d missed the school bus dropping the kids off. They knew to leave their backpacks in the hall and go immediately to Betsy if he wasn’t there.
The backpacks were in the hall. “Tabitha?” He was on his way to the cabin Bryant and Betsy shared, but his number one man had already told him that the kids weren’t there. He’d called Betsy’s cell the second Spencer had noticed the time.
“I’ve been all over the yard.” Betsy ran up to him. “Over to the tree house, and down by the creek.”
“Would you mind going up to the house?” he asked now, his chin tight as he fought back the thread of fear piercing his heart. If something happened to those two... “Just stay there in case they return? Or call or something?”
His kids didn’t have cell phones. But they were going to. Flip phones. With no data capability. Just so they could call him.
“I’m going to check the other barns,” he told her, knowing as he did so that the kids wouldn’t be there. Not together. The barns were off-limits unless they were with Spencer or Bryant, or had permission from one or the other.
Justin might get sidetracked by something and disobey him. Tabitha...never.
There were six big barns within walking distance of the main house. He headed toward the horse barn first. Tabitha wanted her own horse. Bad.
He was going to have to take care of that. Sometime. When she was big enough that the thought of her falling off didn’t choke the breath out of him. She’d asked him again that morning how old she had to be.
He’d given her his standard answer: “Older than you are now.”
Nodding at Will, the twenty-one-year-old who kept up the stables for him and fed the horses Spencer boarded to help make some extra cash, he walked up to the stall Will was mucking out. “You seen the kids?” he asked.
“Nope.” Will kept right on raking. “Not today. But I heard about a foal that’s going to be available for sale,” he said, giving Spencer an over-the-shoulder glance.
“I’m not in the market for a foal.”
“She won’t be ready to ride for at least another year,” Will said.
He had to find his kids. Not talk about horses. “If you see the kids, tell them to get back to the house, pronto,” he said on his way out.
“My grandpa says you were riding by the time you were five!” the young man called.
Spencer ignored him. Because he had his children’s safety on his mind. And because he was not ready to risk Tabitha’s life on a horse. No matter how good a trainer Will Sorrenson might be turning out to be.
The tractor barn was empty of human life. He took a turn from there and, at a jog now, went down the row of cottages—some empty, some occupied—that housed married cowboys. And on to the bunkhouse. Justin had been known to wander in there a time or two, in spite of Spencer’s strict instructions that he not do so.
If he’d taken his sister in there, he was going to get the first hiding of his young life.
The bunkhouse was empty, too. As it should have been. Most of his men were out on the range this week—their absence scheduled purposely to coincide with filming.
And that was when it hit him. He’d told the kids that absolutely, under no circumstances were they to go near the outer barn that had been changed into a television studio for the next six weeks.
But they were seven. And it was TV.
Not sure if he was praying that the kids were there or not, he sped up, his boots kicking up dust on the dry ground as he switched course.
“Today I’m giving you my best peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” Cocking his head, Spencer picked up his pace even more as he heard his daughter’s voice coming out loud and clear from a location that was still some distance away.
A mixture of stunning relief—they were safe!—and tense disappointment—they’d not only disobeyed him, they’d involved the one place on the farm he wanted them the least—flooded him. No one had prepared him for the emotional roller coaster of parenting.
“I have the best bread—white—and I have two pieces of it...” He’d always served his kids wheat bread because it was healthier, but Betsy had white bread at home, and when they ate there...
His step grew heavier, frustration growing right along with dread. He’d heard that the Family Secrets crew had gone into town for the afternoon and evening—and had been relieved