"Did you have any problems with the girls?" Mitch asked.
"Nah. Read 'em every book in their case, and they finally gave up."
"Thanks."
"I enjoy them. Nice to have little ones in this house." He placed a cup of water in the microwave and set the timer.
"How about Suzanne? She have any problems?"
"You might want to go over tomorrow to see if Rand needs any help with his septic tank."
Uh-oh. "Why?"
"Oh, they flushed a few things down the toilet. Soap, shampoo, toothpaste—not the bottles and tubes though. Maybe a few pair of Rand's underwear."
Mitch's stomach rolled. His daughters were not exactly a means to make friends and influence people.
"They're just high-spirited," his grandfather said, as if that excused them. "How did you and Trina hit it off?" he asked, dismissing the flushing incident.
Mitch gathered his thoughts. "Just fine."
"She's a cute one, isn't she?"
Mitch nodded.
Garrett stirred a spoonful of instant coffee into his cup. "There are other single young ladies in town. Several of them." He'd picked up on Mitch's lack of enthusiasm.
Mitch studied him curiously. "What is it you're thinking?"
The old man gave him a sheepish smile. "Just that I'd like to see you find someone here and stay. You might find someone you like enough to marry. You'll need a son to pass on the Kincaid land."
Uncomfortable with that suggestion for more than one reason, Mitch remained silent. Mitch would like a wife and perhaps more children —someday, maybe—but he didn't have a problem with leaving any land he inherited to his daughters.
"I appreciate that you want me to stay. I promise I'll give it my full consideration. Dates or no dates."
Garrett sipped his coffee, understanding. "'Night, son."
"'Night." Upstairs, Mitch pulled the sheet up around the sleeping forms of his daughters sharing the double bed, changed into sweatpants and stretched on the narrow daybed. Morning would come quickly. It was a long drive from the ranch to Heather's place, a drive on a winding mountain road that seemed to grow more time-consuming each day. The girls were not easy to get out of bed that early, so this new routine was a challenge—as was everything since his wife died.
There had been an emptiness in his life these past four years, a hollowness that may have been natural, but often made him feel guilty for thinking he needed more than Taylor and Ashley—or that he just needed help with them.
Needing help wasn't a reason to miss his wife— or to think of marrying someone else. He wasn't ready to jump into anything.
He closed his eyes and relaxed.
And into his head came the sight and sounds and smells of the woman who had taken up residence there.
"We're going to finish this back porch this morning," Mitch told Heather the following Monday. "After the carpet's installed this afternoon, we'll move the furniture back into the living room and office. Tomorrow we start on this downstairs bath."
She gave him a thumbs-up. "Sounds like a plan."
She poured the sleepy girls juice and cereal. Her kids weren't up yet. Taylor had arrived cranky and rested her head sullenly on her fist at the table.
"We have to get up an hour earlier to get here in the morning," he explained.
Heather poured him a cup of coffee. "I wondered how hard the drive was on the girls."
"They whine all the way back at night."
"They're young for such a long drive twice every day," she sympathized. She'd considered how to make the situation easier, but nothing short of having the girls stay with her had come to mind. And she wasn't willing to supervise them all night as well as all day. Besides, they needed that time with their father. She needed for them to spend that time with their father.
"How about the bunkhouse?" Mitch asked. "Would you consider renting that to me until the ranch is ready to sell?"
Heather had investigated the bunkhouse upon her arrival and knew it to be adequate living space: simple bunks, a functional kitchen with gas and electricity. There was no reason in the world that Mitch shouldn't ease the burden of daily travel and use it.
He would be living and sleeping only yards away. Her late nights had been hers alone for the past several weeks, but she could hardly deny him an arrangement that made things easier for all of them in the long run. "It's probably not very clean."
"Not a problem."
"I wouldn't rent it, but you're welcome to use it, if you're sure you want to."
"I am. All we need is a place to sleep at night."
And she would have to think of him sleeping over there at night. "I'll take the kids over with me and do some cleaning this morning," she said, then turned when she remembered something she'd wanted to ask. "If I go buy a swing set and sandbox, will you help me put them together?"
A smile lifted one side of his mouth. "You going to take them back apart and move them to California with you?"
"No, I'll just leave them or sell them."
"Then I'll help you—if you let me pay for half."
The playground equipment would entertain his children as well as hers. "Deal."
He gave his daughters the usual subtle warnings to behave themselves and headed out the screen door. Heather watched him take a tool belt from the lock box on the back of the borrowed pickup and buckle it around his narrow hips. He looked as sexy in his work clothes as she'd imagined he would that first day. He smacked a cap against his thigh and adjusted it on his head in a charmingly masculine gesture.
She stood at the screen door a little longer than necessary, admiring the morning sun on his sandy hair, the play of muscles beneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt as he carried his toolboxes to the house. And now he'd be close by 'round the clock.
She turned and busied herself. A few minutes later when his workers arrived, Heather carried a thermos of coffee out to them.
Jessica, who had awakened by the time she returned to the kitchen, carried a pajama-clad Andrew on her hip. Patrick followed a short time later, and her day was under way.
She assigned the older children tasks in the bunk- house, and they took turns keeping an eye on Andrew. Taylor seemed a little more comfortable with her today, even joining in the tasks without complaint. By lunchtime, everything was finished except the last loads of sheets and blankets to wash.
After lunch, Heather selected audio tapes for the stereo in the Blazer, packed snacks and books, and headed for Billings to purchase the outside toys. The children slept most of the way home, which was good, because she was concerned about the boxes tied to the top of the vehicle. She kept an eye on the road behind her and an ear peeled for disaster.
Mitch met her as she turned off the engine.
"I couldn't get the sandbox," she told him. "It was too big."
"I get my truck back tomorrow," he said, his eyes bright blue in the shade of his cap. "I'll go get it."
He untied the boxes that the dock workers had efficiently tied to the roof, and Ronnie, one of his crew, helped him lower them to the ground. The kids roused and filed out.
"I thought this plastic set would be quicker to put together than one of the wooden jobs," she told him.
"Probably," he said with a shrug. "Come on in and see the carpet."
The back porch had been roofed and painted, a white railing constructed around the entire perimeter. "This looks great!"
She followed him into the house and admired the carpet. "It makes the rooms look so much bigger— and homier," she said, pleased with the outcome. The men had put the furnishings back into place. "But it sure makes this dirty old furniture look tacky."
Mitch shrugged. "That's for the new owners to deal with."
She tried to imagine new owners placing their furniture on the carpet she'd selected, hanging curtains on the clean windows and pictures on the newly painted walls. She cast the harmfully proprietary thought aside. "The bunkhouse is clean. How soon do you want to move in?"
"I'll bring our things tomorrow. Wanna get that swing set together?"
"Sure. We can do it after supper."
He nodded. "I'll call Garrett and let him know I won't be there."
Heather quickly prepared a salad and spaghetti. Mitch was in and out of the house, stopping once to use the phone. She heard him ask for his grandfather. "I'm staying at the Bolton place for supper. . . . Oh. Did she leave a message? I'll call her later, or maybe not until tomorrow, depending on what time I get in tonight. I do want to talk to you, though. Okay. Later."
Mitch stood staring at his hand on the phone after he'd hung it up.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
"Oh—yeah, fine."
"Supper's ready."
"I'll call the kids and wash up."
Once seated at the big round oak table, Heather dished up portions and served them to the children.
"I don't like this kind of spaghetti," Taylor said immediately.
Heather's heart sank just a little. For Mitch.
"Eat a little anyway," he coaxed. "Heather went to a lot of trouble to fix it for us."
"Will you buy me ice cream on the way home if I eat some bites?" she asked.
Mitch glanced at Heather, then at her children, who were already digging into their meal. She met his eyes and read his confusion. She didn't want to intrude and make him angry, but the girls were now saving their manipulations for their father. They'd come to terms with her and her rules, but they still knew which of their father's buttons to push.
"Excuse us for one minute," Mitch said to the children. He stood and took Heather's arm, guiding her into the adjoining dining room. The feel of his callused fingers against her bare skin clouded Heather's thoughts. A shiver ran up her spine.
She glanced up into his eyes. An unspoken recognition passed between them, startling her. He felt something when he touched her, just as she did when he was close. The electricity was there, beneath the surface, a consuming energy that wouldn't flare if they didn't acknowledge it.
He released her arm and she focused on his face.
"Do you deal with this every meal?" he asked, his brow crinkling.
She shook her head, ignoring the shape of his mobile mouth. "We're past this. They eat fine for me. Truly."
'Then why?" he asked, puzzlement and confusion plain in his concerned eyes. He ran a hand through his freshly washed hair, and her fingertips tingled.
She felt his frustration all the way to her toes. Her heart softened even more toward him. "Because they have to test you. They've pushed you this far and they'll continue to push you until you put your foot down once and for all."
"What do I do?"
"Tell them they don't have to eat anything they don't want to. Pretty soon they'll get hungry enough to eat what you place in front of them. And pretty soon they'll like it."
"But they need to eat something."
"Breakfast isn't that far away. When Taylor gets hungry, she'll eat, no matter what's placed in front of her."
"Those tantrums she throws—"
"The tantrums have lessened, too," she said, placing a hand on his forearm without considering the reaction she would have to touching him. It was immediate and disturbing. Her every sense zeroed in on the place where their skin met. She withdrew her hand away quickly. "I think they feel silly in front of the other kids. You're the one they want to manipulate." She didn't want to hurt him, but honesty was best.
He stood, lost in thought for a moment, and she understood how difficult it must be to accept her advice.
"All right. I've seen your methods work where nothing I've done has, so I'll take my cues from you." They exchanged another look, then he turned back toward the kitchen.
Heather served Mitch and herself and sat.
Mitch took a deep breath to prepare. "You don't have to eat the spaghetti if you don't like it."
Taylor glanced from her father to Heather. "Will you get me something else?"
Heather gave Mitch a slight negative shake of her head.
"No," he said.
The child thrust her lower lip out, and shot Heather a dark look before asking her father, "Will you get me ice cream on the way home?"
Heather didn't even look at Mitch this time. He was on his own.
He didn't even look at Heather. "No. If you don't like the spaghetti, you don't get anything."
"But I'm hungry!"
"The salad is good," Patrick said, obviously trying to humor Taylor and make peace in his own five- year-old way.
"The bread's good, too," Ashley added, and Mitch almost fell off his chair. Ashley was attempting to get her sister to eat?
He waited for Taylor to do something outrageous and embarrassing, but she only glanced at the other kids at the table and crossed her arms over her chest with a pout.
When she thought no one was looking, Taylor took a bite of bread or selected a few vegetables from her salad bowl. She never did touch the spaghetti, but Mitch felt an enormous victory had been won here tonight.
He thought of all the times he'd stressed and worried over them not eating. A week under Heather's direction and their mealtime disorder had been set to rights. He felt doubly foolish for allowing the situation to have grown so out of control and grateful to Heather for handling it so well.
"Thank you," he said to her later as he wiped sauce from the floor beneath the wooden high chair. He straightened and carried the dishrag to the sink.
"For what?" she asked, not turning away from the plates she was rinsing.
"For knowing what to do and for being firm— with all of us."
"I kept thinking about what you said," she told him. "About feeling sorry for them for not having a mother, and I understood, only to a small degree, what you must be feeling." She turned off the water and dried her hands. "I have spells where I feel guilty for taking the kids away from their father. I want to make it up to them. But of course I can't."
A personal revelation. The first she'd ever made. Mitch held his breath, waiting for more.
Seven
And it's different in my situation," she went on, "because I was always their main caregiver and the disciplinarian. Their father didn't have much to do with them, really. But I think a child needs a father."
She glanced at him, and he concentrated on her words, not on the fact that she'd shared something intimate about her life. She'd never opened up the least bit with him, especially about her marriage, and the slowly developing trust her words showed touched him deeply. He simply nodded.
"With Taylor and Ashley, it was their mother that they lost," she went on. "I can only assume she was a good mother and that the majority of their time was with her while you worked."
"She was a terrific mother," Mitch said, eager now to share more. "Even though we were totally blown away by having twins, she took it in stride. We bought one of those double strollers and she took them for walks. She never got enough sleep at night, but I didn't hear her complain. She always seemed to have enough time and energy and love for both of them." He dropped his gaze and watched Heather's hands as she folded the towel. "And for me."
Talk about personal. That last part had slipped out without thought. He turned and leaned against the sink, looking away from her sympathetic expression, but the words wouldn't stop. "It was frightening when she got sick. I didn't know what to do. Not for her. Not for them. And when she died. . .the whole world got knocked off kilter."
She was silent for a few minutes. The sound of the television drifted from the other room. He felt as though he'd exposed too much of his private emotions, but because he'd never really said as much to anyone before, it was almost a relief that he could finally express his confusion. Somehow he knew this woman understood and didn't think less of him.
"You love them, Mitch, and that's all that really matters." Her low voice held compassion. "Because you're doing the very best you know how."
She even understood. Oh, Lord, she understood. "I just wish I k
new how better."
"We all have a lot to learn."
He turned his head and looked over at her where she stood leaning against the sink, her eyes filled with warmth and understanding. She was lovely and desirable, the kind of woman any man would love to make his own. He wondered for the first time what kind of man her husband had been.
"Why did you leave your husband?" he asked, the question leaving his lips before he could think better of it. "What went wrong?"
Her expression shuttered abruptly. "Things were wrong all along."
He waited, hoping she'd say more, hoping he hadn't ruined their tentative familiarity. But she pushed away from the sink and took the stack of plates he'd dried and placed them in the cupboard.
"Did you love him?" The question was entirely personal. Not at all what he would normally consider asking, but their conversation had turned intimate, at least for him, and it seemed the right thing to wonder.
"I loved everything that he represented," she said finally.
"Which was?"
"Determination.Discipline." She hesitated. "Freedom."
What an odd thing to say. "Freedom from what?"
Closing the cupboard, she glanced around. "Let's get started on that swing set."
Her obvious rebuff hurt. He'd trusted her enough to bare his soul, yet she refused to share anything too personal. He'd offered her information freely, he realized; she'd never asked questions, but she'd listened with compassion. He didn't want her sympathy, and he didn't like the feeling that she saw right into the core of him, but didn't want him to pry.
They carried the boxes with the parts, and Mitch retrieved a toolbox. The children waited impatiently, finally running toward the barn in pursuit of a cat.
Heather read the instructions, but Mitch followed his own impulsive plan, finally admitting he didn't know what some of the screws and bolts were for. She held the plastic tubing and made suggestions while he placed and tightened the screws.
It was dusk when he pronounced the gym set child-safe. The kids shrieked and clambered for the swings and slide. Heather gave a lesson on taking turns and not pushing, while Mitch chased Andrew who wanted to go back to the barn. The little boy had grown tired and cried when Mitch picked him up and carried him back.
The Magnificent Seven Page 6
