The Rancher's Reunion. Tina Radcliffe
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tone became gentle. “Rose has missed you, Annie. You know you’re the daughter she never had.”
What about you, Will? Did you miss me?
She couldn’t ignore the frustration in his voice and countered with her own. “I know that, and I’m sorry. But Rose isn’t always going to be around to pick me up and dust me off.”
“That’s just what I’m getting at. Rose isn’t getting any younger.” He rubbed his palm along his denim-clad thigh. “If you weren’t happy at St. John’s, why not work at another medical center in town? With the nursing shortage and all, you could have taken your pick.” He continued without pause. “For the life of me I cannot figure you out. They’re pulling Americans out of Kenyan refugee camps and you have to go in. Why can’t you ever do anything the easy way?” His fingers clenched the leather steering wheel. “Where will it be next? Siberia?”
Annie turned and met his glance head-on. “I already checked. They don’t have any openings in Siberia.”
He stared at her for a moment, before the tension finally eased from his broad shoulders and the corners of his mouth pulled into a smile. “Keep it up, smart-mouth.”
“Will, you have to do what you have to do, and I have to do what I have to do. It doesn’t get any simpler than that.”
“What are you running from?” Barely a whisper, his question floated to her.
Silence stretched between them.
Annie tipped her head back against the seat. Running? The man thought he had all the answers. This time he was much too close to the truth. “Will,” she pleaded.
“Okay, you’re right. Now isn’t the time.” He let out a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll say you are,” she said, taking a light tone again. “One sorry Sullivan.”
“Hey, I’m trying to apologize here.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me. Keep shooting straight. I count on that from you. Give me a few days. Let me rest, clear my mind and sharpen my wits, then we can have this conversation. Deal?”
“Always have to have the last word.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then clamped her lips shut.
Will laughed.
The sound warmed her like a quilt as her gaze found the May moon. So many stars. Was the sky really clearer here? Were stars really brighter? She released a deep breath of contentment.
“Annie?”
When she turned her head their eyes met in the moonlit truck.
“I want you to know I’m proud of you.”
She bowed her head, locking the words away to be savored later.
Will reached out and strong fingers gently pushed the hair back from her face. “You’re wearing the earrings,” he said, his voice a husky murmur.
Annie moved back imperceptibly; she wasn’t strong enough to feign indifference to his touch. She reached up to finger the pearl studs.
They were a gift from Will her first Christmas at the ranch. She was only thirteen. It had been a bleak holiday for all of them. Will’s first Christmas following his father’s death. Annie’s mother had recently dumped her with Rose before taking off yet again. It was just the three of them, and that was the way things stayed until Annie left for Africa.
“Yes. I hate flying,” she replied.
“What?” Confusion played across his angular face.
“I wear your earrings when I need to be brave.” She tried to laugh off the admission.
Blue eyes searched hers, before his hand dropped to her shoulder for a light squeeze.
Will looked up the road. He couldn’t believe what he saw. The white clapboard farmhouse sat like a candle on the hill. “Rose has every single light on.”
“Is she trying to tell you something?”
“Me? She wants everyone to know you’re home. The woman is so excited and proud of you she can’t stop telling everyone.”
As the truck stopped Rose O’Shea burst through the front entrance, sending the screen door slamming against the house. Her gray topknot bobbed and the white apron around her ample waist flapped as she ran down the porch steps.
The passenger door was yanked open, and Annie slid out of the truck and into Rose’s arms before Will could pull the parking brake.
“What on earth took you so long, Will? You stop for every squirrel in the road?”
“She made me go the long way.” He lifted the suitcases from the flatbed and set them on the porch.
“I did not,” Annie protested from within Rose’s embrace. “He drove like an old woman trying to keep his truck clean.”
Will watched Rose fuss over Annie, making clucking noises as she took the younger woman’s face in her hands. “You’ve lost weight.”
“Well, naturally,” Annie said, stepping back. She gave a dismissive toss of her dark head. “Nobody cooks like you.”
“How’s that leg? Hurt much?” Rose questioned.
“No, it’s more of a nuisance than anything.” Annie stepped forward.
“Easy. Will, come and help her up the steps,” Rose directed.
“Help?” He moved next to both women. “She bites my head off every time I try to help.”
Before Annie could protest Will had scooped her up in his arms and started up the steps. He realized his mistake the minute she frantically wrapped her arms around his neck.
Annie Harris wasn’t a scrawny little kid anymore. She might have lost a few pounds, but she felt exactly like a woman, with curves in all the right places.
Annie was a woman. Will stumbled at the realization. When he deposited her on the porch like a hot potato, she grabbed the railing for support.
The phone echoed from the house.
“That’ll be my sister wanting to know if you’re here yet.” Rose flew past them.
“What did I tell you? It’s just begun,” Will said. He pulled open the screen door for Rose.
Annie still stood holding the rail, eyes wide and accusing. “That wasn’t necessary,” she said with a quiet voice. She yanked her pants and shirt straight and wouldn’t look him in the eye.
“What?” he asked.
“Carrying me.”
Her gaze flew to his, sparks of gold flashing in the dark eyes.
“Ah.” Will took the opportunity to roll his shoulders in mock pain. “I think I pulled a muscle.”
“You did not.”
He looked her up and down and grinned. “Still a scrapper.”
Years ago she’d stood on this same front porch, her hair in a single braid, enormous eyes staring. A little girl clutching a brown paper grocery sack which held all her belongings.
But Annie never cried. Not even when her momma left.
That was almost twelve years ago, the same day he set aside his own grief. At eighteen he’d recognized a soul mate in the brave kid who had been left on their doorstep.
He leaned back against the rail, his glance skipping over her. Long, silky chestnut hair flowed around her shoulders as she surveyed the land, a challenging tilt to her chin. Her brown eyes, almost gypsy-black, had dark smudges beneath them, telling signs of the ordeal in Kenya.
Will counted up the years.