The first one had Belinda’s dress fabric. Daisy lifted the top fold, holding it up as best she could, admiring the pattern she knew would make a beautiful gown for her sister. As she lifted it above the table, something fell out of the folds and clattered to the table. Two somethings.
“Slingshots?” she asked, confused as to what they were doing there.
“Oh...”
His voice trailed off and she looked over her shoulder. He was cracking an egg into the mixing bowl, and she tried not to envy his dexterity. His cheeks had pinked. One of them now wore a line of flour, as if he’d swiped at his cheek.
“What?” she asked.
“Well, I... When I saw your list, you wanted books for the boys, and they’re not the kind of gifts a boy that age would appreciate.”
Already smarting from his withdrawal, now her temper flared. “The boys are rowdy. Learning to sit still and read would be good for them.”
“Um, maybe...”
His eyes flicked to her and away. She started to cross her arms, then remembered that wasn’t possible, and let her hand rest on her hip instead. “What did you do? Did you choose these instead?”
She shuddered to think what her stepbrothers would do with those things. Probably terrorize Matilda.
“Yep,” he admitted. “I thought since you were starting out as a new family and all, maybe you’d want to make a good impression on them. Win them to your side or something like that.”
His calm demeanor annoyed her.
She shook her head. “With these?” She held up one of the slingshots between two fingers, letting it dangle as if it was a dangerous snake or the like.
He smiled tightly, even as he stirred up his doughnut batter in the mixing bowl with a wooden spoon. “You don’t have to hold it like that. It’s not gonna bite ya. You’ve got to have ammunition before you can use it.”
“I know. I was an ace shot with one of these as a girl.”
She’d clearly surprised him, because his eyes came up and met hers. Against her will, she found herself smiling, and he matched her smile, his face going warm and open...
Until he seemed to catch himself, and turned his face back down to what he was doing.
Shutting her out.
She didn’t like the distance between them. She wanted things back to the tentative friendship they’d begun. She needed a friend. Temper deflating, she just felt wrung out. Sad.
“I’m—I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night,” she blurted before she thought better of it.
His brows came together over his eyes. “Uncomfortable?” He set aside his mixing bowl with a clunk against the counter and wiped his hands on a towel.
“Yes.” Now that she’d started, she didn’t know how to go on. “When we were...standing close.” She motioned to the particular area in the kitchen where it had happened. His head followed her pointing hand before his gaze came back to her. “I thought—I thought...”
He raised his brows, waiting for her to finish. Not making it easy on her. Why had she started this conversation anyway?
“I thought, for a moment, that you might kiss me.” She rushed on, a fountain of words babbling out of her. “And I know you didn’t want to. I know you said we’re to be friends, and I didn’t want you to think that I had any expectations, because I don’t—”
Three strides brought him to her, but it wasn’t until he took her upper arm in his hand that she went silent. Looking up at him, she could see his face was like a thundercloud, eyes stormy.
“You think I don’t want to kiss you?” He grated the words, as if it was hard to speak them.
“I know you don’t.”
“You don’t know anything.”
He reached for her, and before she could even think that she should push him away—that she didn’t want a pity kiss from him—he’d cupped her jaw, his calloused palm sliding along her cheek and sending sparks flying like a summer cowboy campfire. Her palm rested on his shoulder, the muscles hard beneath the fabric of his shirt.
He leaned in close, so close, surrounding her with heat and the contrasting smells of baking and man...but he hesitated a fraction away from her lips, almost as if he was afraid what would happen if he closed the distance between them.
She knew about fear. She’d been living it daily for these past lonely months.
She exhaled, allowing the motion to carry her closer until their lips brushed together.
It was like putting a match to tinder.
Her eyes fluttered closed as his other hand came around her waist in a proprietary hold. Her hand flattened on his chest, and she raised on tiptoes because she wanted to be closer.
His lips were gentle, careful against hers.
Until she slid her hand up over his shoulder and buried it in the waves at the back of his head, as she’d wanted to do for so long...
Then his arm around her waist tightened and his lips slanted over hers.
Moments later, he broke the kiss, pressed her head to his chest, and they both panted for air.
“I’ve wanted to do that since we were in the barn with Matilda,” he said.
*
What had he done?
Ricky’s heart raced wildly as he tucked Daisy into his chest. The smell of the roasting duck made him almost nauseous.
He’d seen the hurt buried in Daisy’s eyes behind her adorable stammering. The self-doubt that had controlled her since the accident.
Still reeling with jealousy over seeing her with Beau, he hadn’t even thought. Not one coherent line of reasoning as to why he shouldn’t.
He’d done what he’d always done. Rushed forward on instinct. Took what wasn’t his. Kissed her.
And...
Now what?
There was so much Daisy didn’t know about him. So much he couldn’t undo.
So much he still planned to do to set things right for her.
But a small, violent part of him exulted in the fact that she’d returned his kiss. That she must return his growing feelings for her.
“Shall I help with this Christmas meal you’re determined to prepare?” she asked, mouth moving against his shoulder through his shirt. Her hot breath through the fabric set his heart to pounding all over again.
Relief zinged through him that she didn’t ask what this meant for them, how a shared kiss changed things.
He didn’t have an answer for her.
He liked her. Oh, how he admired her strength, her quick wit and determination.
But he didn’t know if he could be the man she needed, even if he was a new person.
“You can help by sitting and resting a bit. You’ve been going since the middle of the night.”
He forced himself to release her, when what he wanted most was to keep her close. Why did he feel the loss of her warmth so acutely?
“I can chop the vegetables,” she argued.
“You could. But we’ve got plenty of time and who knows when someone is going to wake up and need something?”
He crossed behind the work counter, pointing a finger at her when she attempted to follow him. “Over there,” he said, pointing to the opposite side of the counter. “You’re dangerous when you get too close.”
She didn’t look offended at his teasing words. She looked pleased.
How easily the charming, flirting Ricky returned.
His stomach coiled into a tight fist of apprehension, but he showed none of his internal misgivings.
She acquiesced with a small, almost secretive smile and turned one of the chairs at the nook table to face him.
He floured the surface of the counter and rolled out the dough quickly. Doughnuts were a treat he rarely got to enjoy, and one that would make this day seem more like the holiday it was supposed to be.
He hadn’t been able to find a doughnut cutter, so he used an upended glass to cut the larger circle shapes, then a knife to cut rounds out of the middle. He tested the heat of the fat he’d set to warming on the stove by flicking
several drops of water into it first. When it sizzled satisfyingly, he dropped in the first of the doughnuts.
The hot oil bubbled up around the dough, sizzling, and he stepped back, sweeping his palms against each other to lose some of the flour. He was warm from being near the hot stove, but maybe even more so from the awareness that Daisy had been watching him this whole time. The smell of frying dough wafted through the room.
“You seem so comfortable in the kitchen. I know you told me about your papa and brothers, but it amazes me,” she said from the table.
“We’ve had some memorable times—a coupla pranks pulled in the kitchen. My brother Edgar once baked a crow inside a pie after he’d proved another brother—Oscar—wrong. Couldn’t get Oscar to eat the thing, though.”
She laughed, and he found himself smiling in response.
“They sound like the twins.”
“I guess we can get a little ornery like that,” he admitted.
“Maybe once all of this is over, you can help me figure out how to deal with the twins.” Her soft-spoken words were the question he’d been expecting after their kiss.
Was he staying around?
Did he want to be a part of her life, of her family?
And the answers weren’t easy.
“Sure,” he said easily, but he was still full of turmoil. Full to the brim.
He grabbed a spoon and began fishing out the first round of doughnuts, using the slender end to scoop through the holes instead of trying to dip them out.
He put the last of the doughnut dough in and then the cutouts from the holes, as well. The smaller pieces were his sister Breanna’s favorite.
Returning to the work counter, he used a sieve to drop powdered sugar over the doughnuts, watching it mushroom above them as it rained down like miniature snow flurries.
He could keep his hands busy, but he couldn’t stop his mind from playing over the problem of that kiss over and over again. He tried to distract himself. “If everyone is a little better by tonight, I’ll need to go out tomorrow and make sure the sheep have feed.”
“Will you be able to do it yourself?” There was a hint of concern in her voice.
“It would go faster with two riders, but I’ll be able to handle it.”
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement out the kitchen window. He approached the window, using a cloth to wipe off the flour and powdered sugar from his hands.
A lone rider trotted into the yard. From this distance, Ricky couldn’t identify him. He wore a long slicker and a Stetson. He could be anyone.
“Someone’s riding up,” he told Daisy.
“On Christmas? Who would be coming here?” She joined him at the window, her elbow brushing his biceps, comfortable at the nearness.
He wasn’t.
The rider dismounted and took off his hat and Ricky got a look at his face.
His stomach dropped out.
“It’s my pa.”
Chapter Twelve
Ricky’s papa had arrived?
Ricky ducked out the back door, not even donning his coat. He left the door cracked, almost as if he expected her to follow him. Bright afternoon sunlight slanted in.
She paused in the shadows just inside the door, the cold air washing over her. But it wasn’t the cold that caused gooseflesh to rise all up and down her spine.
Except for the preacher the day of Papa’s wedding, she hadn’t faced anyone outside the ranch since the accident had taken her arm. And although she’d made progress working inside the house—mostly because she hadn’t had a choice but to help her family—she was still afraid of what others would think of how she looked.
But this was Ricky’s father.
And Ricky was becoming important to her.
The unexpected kiss had changed everything. She liked Ricky. And it seemed apparent that he felt the same way.
She didn’t know whether a relationship between them could work, but she couldn’t imagine a man like him desiring to be with someone who was as good as a hermit.
She breathed in deeply, lungs burning.
The door fell open easily under her hand, with only the squeak of a hinge, but it was anything but easy to make her feet move and cross the threshold. Fear gripped her.
“What are you doing here?” Ricky was asking his father as she stepped out onto the veranda, down a step.
The man who met him in the yard was much younger than Daisy had thought he would be—thirty-five at the most. As Ricky had described his large, unusual family to her, she’d expected someone older. This man must’ve been barely an adult when he’d begun adopting Ricky’s brothers. He held the reins loosely in one hand, the horse behind him following placidly, blowing once and sending a puff of white steam into the air.
“Maxwell told me you’d telephoned and were in a bind.” The older man’s brown eyes flicked up to her and he nodded, doffing his hat to her.
Ricky turned and caught sight of her. His eyes widened. Maybe in surprise. She couldn’t read the emotions crossing his face.
She smiled, even if it was tremulous. “Hello.”
Ricky stepped up two stairs, his boots thudding against the wood planks. He reached for her with one hand. She met him, allowed him to clasp her hand. He was warm, even though it was cold out and neither of them had put on a coat. He stood on the step beneath her, the difference in height putting them at the same level.
“My pa, Jonas White.”
She nodded.
“This is Daisy Richards. Her pa owns this place. I work for him.”
She was conscious of Ricky’s words, how he described their relationship—but more conscious of his papa’s eyes on their connected hands.
She swallowed hard. Would he say something about her arm? He had to have noticed...
“Nice to meet you, Miss Richards. It’s a pretty place.” His eyes went to his son, and he said, “Maxwell said it sounded like you could use some help.”
She waited—again—for a flick of his eyes to her arm, for him to say it must be true if she was Ricky’s only relief.
But none of that happened.
“There’s seven of them down with a real bad stomach virus,” Ricky said. “Lot of folks in town affected, too. The two youngest, twin boys, seem to be coming out of it all right.”
Ricky seemed stiff and uncomfortable. Which surprised her, because every time he’d spoken to her of his family, it was with evident warmth and affection.
“Won’t you come inside? Have you been traveling long?” She put the questions out without really thinking about it, because Ricky hadn’t asked.
“On the train a couple of hours. Do you mind if I put the horse in the barn? Took me some finagling to get the liveryman out of his house today.”
“Of course.”
She’d almost expected Ricky to go with his father out to the barn, but he followed her into the house.
He dropped her hand to hold the door open for her and allowed her in first. Inside, he ran one hand through his hair, looking lost.
She started to ask him what was between the two of them, why had he left home, but there was the sound of movement from one of the upstairs rooms and her eyes lifted to the ceiling.
“I’ll go check...” She waited, gave him ample time to dissuade her from leaving the room, but he didn’t.
When she returned downstairs, coming after a fresh glass of milk for Belinda, she could hear two distinct male voices in the kitchen. She slowed, her footsteps quiet in the hallway.
“I’m a little surprised you came, after the way I left.” That was Ricky’s voice.
So he hadn’t left home under the best of circumstances. At least, that’s what it sounded like. What had happened?
Jonas’s response came quietly. “Of course I came. Maxwell thought you needed some help, but he’s got...another situation brewing at home.”
“Something with Hattie?”
“Something else.”
She was almost to the kitchen now, hesi
tant to interrupt their conversation. The smell of coffee was stronger the closer she got.
“I can’t believe you left the little ones on Christmas,” Ricky said.
At the threshold, she could see Jonas and Ricky standing at the counter. Jonas had a mug in front of him, so at least Ricky must’ve extended the basic courtesy of a cup of coffee. He was watching Ricky, while Ricky stood in profile to him, eyes on his hands where he’d begun peeling the potatoes.
“You’re my son, too,” Jonas said.
Ricky shook his head. Then he looked up and his eyes met hers and some of the tightness of his expression leached away.
She crossed into the kitchen, smiling for both of the men. “Belinda woke, she’s asking for a fresh glass of milk. Says she feels a little hungry.”
“That’s good,” Ricky said. “I’ll have the soup on a little later.”
He didn’t leave off peeling the potatoes to help her.
She was a little nervous with Jonas watching her as she wedged the glass against the curved piece of wood Ricky had attached to the counter. As long as she angled the pitcher slowly and didn’t overfill the glass, she should do all right.
“That’s a pretty slick way to make sure the milk doesn’t spill,” Jonas said after she’d finished pouring.
She looked up at him, almost afraid to see censure or to see him staring at her injured arm, but she saw neither, only an acceptance that warmed her.
“Ricky made it for me,” she said softly.
“He’s always had lots of ideas,” Jonas said. “Most of them geared toward playing pranks on his brothers.”
Ricky shook his head, a flush spreading across his cheeks. “I did rig a lock for the gate when Oscar had that horse that kept opening the standard one.”
Jonas chuckled. “I remember.”
Ricky popped a broken piece of doughnut into his mouth, still shaking his head.
His papa watched closely and Daisy got the idea that the older man remembered a lot, but Ricky’s tight expression revealed that maybe he didn’t want to remember some of those same things.
The question was, why?
A Cowboy for Christmas (Mills & Boon Love Inspired Historical) (Wyoming Legacy - Book 5) Page 13
