The Rancher's Twins. Carol Ross
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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.
Lydia began tidying up the space around her. “I’ll put this stuff away and meet you in the kitchen. There’s a fresh pot of coffee.”
“All right then.”
Jon headed there, poured himself a cup and took a sip. Dang, it was good coffee, too. Standing at the window, he could see the barns, the shop, the chicken coop, woodshed and various other outbuildings. He tried to imagine what it might look like to a woman from Philadelphia who’d never seen it, or any ranch at all. The flower beds needed weeding and the three raised garden beds could use some attention. Cows and their bright red-brown calves stood in the east pasture. That had to be an appealing sight, didn’t it?
The reality wasn’t like television, that was true, but it was his and he loved pretty much everything about it. At the end of every day he wouldn’t trade the long hours he spent blistering under a blazing summer sun, or shivering in a winter cold so brutal it seemed to gnaw right into his bones, for any other job in the world. Not even in the midst of calving season, when he rarely slept more than two or three hours at a stretch and worry was his constant companion.
There were roughly a million things that warranted