by Meg Maxwell
He dropped his head in his hands. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I was a jerk. I couldn’t handle my life then and I’m not doing a great job now.”
“You are handling it, though,” she said, her voice softening. “You went to that PO box. You went to Tuckerville again. To the hospice. You spoke to the aide. You met Phoebe. You gave me your blessing to foster her. You are handling it. You’re not sticking your head in the sand.”
He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I want to.”
She smiled. “I know. And I have a feeling that this, I mean, what just happened between us, was part of that. But it’ll just add another level of complication for both of us, Logan. Sex means something to me. It’s not about forgetting my life or having an orgasm. Sex means...love to me, Logan.”
He turned away, unable, no, unwilling, to continue this conversation. He wanted her desperately but he didn’t want to think beyond right now. He had enough on his plate, on his mind.
She sat up straight. “If I do get to foster Phoebe, I think it would be very good for the two of you to be in each other’s lives. She doesn’t know you’re Parsons’s biological child. She only knows you as her bull-riding hero. It’s up to you to tell her or not about your connection to her stepfather. But I do think the two of you could do each other a world of good.”
Too much, too fast. His temple was beginning to throb.
“I’m raising two boys alone, Clementine,” he practically grit out. “I have a ranch to run. I don’t have time or resources to be her hero just because of some lightweight connection between us.”
“Logan, I thought we were going to talk about ground rules for how things would work if I foster Phoebe. But I think we’ve gone as far as we can on the subject tonight.”
“I think we’ve said all there is to say on the subject, period.”
She stood up and walked to the door and grabbed her jacket from the coatrack. “I don’t think we have,” she said, her voice softer. “In the morning I’m going to call Phoebe’s caseworker and let her know I’m a foster parent who’d like to take in Phoebe. I’m going to explain how we’re connected, if that’s all right with you. I do think we should be honest about how I came to meet Phoebe.”
He walked as far as the archway that separated the foyer from the living room. “Okay.”
She looked at him, then opened the door and walked out, taking a piece of himself with her.
Chapter Six
Clementine was working on her Creole sauce on Thursday morning when the call came from Phoebe’s caseworker. She was approved to foster Phoebe! Apparently, after Clementine had called the caseworker two days ago, there had been a rush of calls and meetings to discuss Phoebe’s situation and all was now in order for Phoebe to come live with Clementine. Clementine would need to drive out to Tuckerville tomorrow to sign some paperwork and be briefed on specifics relating to Phoebe, and then on Saturday, Phoebe would arrive at the apricot Victorian to live.
Clementine clicked off her cell phone and squeezed her eyes shut as a feeling of happiness tingled up her nerve endings. This was happening.
“Clem?” her sister Annabel said, eyeing Clementine from her grill station. She flipped over chicken breasts, slathering the meat with marinade. “Did you just get very good news or very bad news? I can’t tell.”
“I want to laugh and cry at the same time—out of happiness and a little fear,” Clementine said. “That was Phoebe’s caseworker. I’ve been approved to be her foster mother.”
Annabel and Georgia rushed over to hug Clementine, well, as much as their very pregnant bellies would allow.
Their grandmother came into the kitchen and tied on her apron. “What are we celebrating? Big reservation for lunch? Ranchers Association coming in?”
“Actually, they are,” Clementine said. “I took that call myself a half hour ago. “But we’re celebrating that I’m going to be a foster mother starting Saturday morning at nine!”
Clementine had told her grandmother and sisters about meeting Phoebe and her relation to Logan; all four women had been rooting for the placement to happen.
Essie Hurley gasped and clapped her hands. “Oh, Clementine. I’m so glad. You’re meant to do this. And you’re going to be great at it.” She hugged Clementine and gave her a big kiss on the cheek.
“Today’s Thursday—that gives you only two days to get her bedroom ready!” Annabel said. “What is she like? Girly girl? Tomboy? Somewhere in between?”
Her bedroom! Clementine hadn’t even thought about that. Of course she’d need to decorate a bedroom for a nine-year-old girl. Right now, the three second-floor bedrooms were guest-friendly, but nothing that would make a nine-year-old girl feel particularly at home—or happy. “Well, from what I’ve seen and the bit I’ve heard from the caseworker, she’s definitely a tomboy. She loves the rodeo. Logan is her rodeo hero. She used to go to all his events.”
“Cowgirl chic,” Georgia said. “I can see it now.”
Clementine laughed. “I think plain Western is more her style. She’s also a Texas Rangers fan.”
“Let’s go shopping tomorrow morning at Home Style,” Annabel said. “After I put Lucy on the school bus. I’ll pick you all up.”
“I love the idea of each of us choosing a little something for her room,” Gram said. “To let her know she’s part of our family now.”
“You’re the best, Gram,” she said. “You all are. I don’t know what I’d do without you three.”
Georgia smiled. “That goes ditto for me.”
“And me,” Annabel said.
Clementine had goose bumps. This was exactly what Clementine wanted for Phoebe. Love and family and support. And goose bumps—in a good way.
* * *
On Thursday afternoon, Logan was grooming his favorite horse, a beautiful brown-and-white mare named Sundappled, when he saw Clementine’s little navy car coming up the long gravel driveway to the ranch. She hadn’t called. Which told Logan she must have news she felt was worthy of a personal delivery.
He braced himself. He’d been bracing himself ever since she’d come over the other night and told him she wanted to foster Phoebe. He’d avoided her all week, having Karen drop off the boys at Monday’s and Wednesday’s Christmas show rehearsal. He’d been busy. A section of fence had been damaged by a fallen tree during Sunday’s rainstorm, and his ranch hand had called in sick on Wednesday. Logan had been glad for all the extra work; it had been easy to stay away from town, from the town hall, from Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen and from thinking too much about Clementine’s plans to foster Phoebe.
But he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how she’d felt in his arms. How much he wanted her. The past few nights, while he lay in bed he thought of little else but kissing Clementine, the way she’d kissed him back, that lacy bra.
He put down the grooming brush and adjusted his Stetson, then walked over to where she’d parked.
She got out of the car and pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head. “Sorry for just turning up like this. But I wanted to talk to you face-to-face.”
He waited.
“A little while ago I heard from Phoebe’s caseworker. I’m approved to foster her. She’s going to arrive Saturday at nine.”
There it was. Official and done. He let it sit for a second. He wasn’t jumping out of his skin the way he’d been for so long after getting Parsons’s letter. Phoebe would be coming to live with Clementine, that was a fact, and he would deal with it. “Well, I’m happy for both of you, Clementine. I know this has been a dream of yours for a long time. And any kid would be lucky to have you as a foster mother.”
He hadn’t even meant to say that; the words had just tumbled out of his mouth, straight from the deepest part of him.
She rushed over and hugged him. “Thank you, Logan
. Sometimes you say exactly the right thing just when I need to hear it most.”
He hugged her back, then stepped away a bit, giving himself some distance from all the emotion on her face—happiness, fear, concern, excitement. “I’m glad to hear that. I usually say the wrong thing at the right time.”
She smiled. “I’m going to be a foster mother,” she said with wonder in her voice. “I’m going to be able to give back what was given to me by my parents.”
“I know you will,” he said, picturing Phoebe in her Texas Rangers cap at the second-floor window of the home she lived in now.
For the past few days he’d been trying to imagine how things would go if Phoebe came to live with Clementine. If he’d pay a visit or not. He still wasn’t sure.
You gave her your card with your cell phone number, he reminded himself. She could easily just call you and ask you questions about the rodeo. You’ll have to talk to her.
Why had he done that? The girl wanted his autograph and he’d scrawled it on the back of his card—pointedly. He’d felt for her during their lunch as she’d talked about her situation, what she’d been through. And when Mrs. Nivens had made that crack about how a career as a rodeo clown was more up her alley than bronc rider, he’d been glad he’d given Phoebe his number. She hadn’t used it. At first he was afraid she’d call constantly, pestering him with “remember this, remember that” about his events and championships. But she hadn’t.
“Well, I’d better get back and help with the dinner prep and dining room set up,” she said, squinting up at him in the bright sunshine.
“I’m glad it all worked out,” he said. “I mean that. I might not be all that comfortable with it, but like I said, I’m glad for the two of you.”
“I know you are,” she said. He had the feeling she wanted to say something else, but she just reached out a hand to his arm and then turned and got back in her car. He watched her car drive away until it was out of sight.
* * *
Saturday morning, Phoebe Pike arrived at the Victorian with two suitcases. Phoebe’s shoulder-length sandy-brown hair was in a low ponytail under a Texas Rangers baseball cap. She wore a red T-shirt advertising a Stocktown rodeo, blue jeans and bright orange sneakers. She had a yellow backpack hanging off one shoulder.
Ellen Moncrief, her caseworker, smiled at Clementine and her grandmother who waited on the porch. The girl stood staring up at the house, taking in the sign reading Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen, the front garden, the people walking around Blue Gulch Street and going in and out of shops.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” Clementine said, rushing down the porch steps to meet them.
“I still can’t believe it,” Phoebe said, putting down her suitcases. “Why would you want to take me in? My own aunt doesn’t want me.”
Clementine’s heart squeezed. “Well, like Ellen told you, for the past several months I’ve been working on becoming a foster mother. And when I met you and heard your story, I thought we might be a good match for each other.”
Part of Clementine wanted to tell Phoebe the entire story so that everything was in the open, but Ellen thought that the right time would reveal itself.
“I’ll be living in a restaurant?” Phoebe asked, glancing up at the sign, her hazel eyes full of wonder.
Essie Hurley laughed and came down to meet Phoebe. “Well, we do live in this Victorian, which also houses Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen. But there are three bedrooms on the second floor and Clementine’s on the third floor.” Essie extended her hand toward Phoebe. “I’m Essie Hurley, Clementine’s grandmother. I’m so happy you’ve come to live with us. I hope you like cheeseburgers because that’s one of our specials for lunch today.”
“I love cheeseburgers,” Phoebe said.
“Me too,” Clementine added. “Why don’t we go show you the house and your room?”
Ellen said her goodbyes to Phoebe, reminding her of a few details and how to get in touch.
Clementine picked up the suitcases and let her gram lead the way. So far, so good. Phoebe had to be nervous. This morning, when Ellen had called to confirm the drop-off time, she’d let Clementine know to expect attitude and tears and push back and to not take anything personally or respond to drama—only to what was behind the attitude: fear. Soothe the fears, Ellen had said.
Clementine remembered walking into Clinton and Charlaine Hurley’s pretty white house across town for the first time when she was eight, staring up at it just the way Phoebe had the Victorian, overcome with fear and hope in equal measure.
Now, Clementine stepped into the house, through the round parlor that served as a waiting area for the restaurant and overlooked the large archway to the dining room off to the left. Now, at just after nine, the restaurant wasn’t open, but the kitchen was busy in preparation for lunch.
“I smell something amazing,” Phoebe said, sniffing the air.
“That’s lunch prep,” Clementine explained. “The restaurant opens at eleven, so the kitchen staff is hard at work.”
“Speaking of kitchen staff, I’d better get back to it,” Gram said. “Phoebe, again, I’m so happy you’re here. And remember, this is your home too now. You can call me Gram, Gram Hurley or Essie—whichever you prefer.”
A shy smile lit Phoebe’s face, but she didn’t say anything.
Essie went into the kitchen, Phoebe watching her.
“I’ve never had a grandmother,” Phoebe said.
“Gram is a great one. When my parents first brought me to live with them when I was eight, she immediately made me feel like part of the family. I never forgot that.”
Phoebe hitched her yellow backpack higher on her shoulder. “Ellen told me you were in foster care when you were a kid. I guess you know what it’s like then.”
“Sure do. Which is one of the reasons I want you to feel at home here. I know you just got here and it may take a few days for you to settle in, but this is home.”
Phoebe glanced up at her, then at the pictures lining the walls and then out the windows.
Clementine waited a beat in case Phoebe wanted to keep on this track. She’d learned in her classes about fostering children that if they wanted to talk about being in foster care or about their families or if they had questions, even if they were tough ones, it was better to let them talk and to answer as honestly as possible in a way that soothed. Clementine sure hoped she didn’t make any mistakes. Phoebe seemed very forthright, but she was young.
“Can I see my room?” Phoebe asked.
Clementine breathed a sigh of relief. This was an easy part. She and her sisters had spent two hours at Home Style yesterday morning buying everything from cute table lamps with cacti as bases and funky yellow-and-white shades, a dusty orange soft comforter with lassos embroidered all over it and matching shams, an orange shag rug in the shape of a bull, which Annabel had squealed over, and a bunch of desk-related items—from school supplies to a corkboard. They’d decided on the medium-sized bedroom with the view of Blue Gulch Street, since it had a window seat where Phoebe could sit and read or just watch people as they walked up and down the shopping area. Her sisters had really seemed to enjoy helping decorate the room. All three Hurley women had had experience with loss and moving into a new home, albeit with their grandmother, and they all wanted to help make Phoebe’s room a sweet sanctuary.
Clementine led the way upstairs and opened the door. Phoebe stepped in.
“This is mine?” she said, eyes wide, mouth open as she glanced around.
Clementine nodded. “My sisters and I set it up. I hope you like it.”
“I love the lasso blanket and pillows,” Phoebe said. “And the lamps. And the rug. But it’s just missing one thing.”
Clementine tilted her head. “What’s that?”
“Is it okay if I put a poster up on the wall?”
<
br /> “Of course.”
Phoebe headed in and set her backpack on the desk, pulling out a rolled-up poster. “Will you help me put it up? I’d like it to go right beside the corkboard.”
“Sure,” Clementine said.
As Phoebe unrolled it, Clementine could see the handsome face of Logan Grainger, then his shoulders and torso and the rest of him. He was upright on a bucking bull, one hand up in the air, the other on the bull rope. Clementine stared at the poster, at the man she’d been unable to stop thinking about for months.
Phoebe held up the poster, positioning it where she wanted beside the corkboard. “I still can’t believe I had lunch with Logan Grainger. Three-time champion. And he would have won the last time but for some reason he didn’t show up.”
“Maybe that was when he went home to care for his nephews.”
“Nah, it was a month before that. I heard about that, when his brother and his wife died and he quit rodeo to take care of his little nephews. Clyde, my stepfather, told me all about it. He said that made Logan the biggest champ ever.”
Clementine’s heart squeezed. “That was a nice thing to say. And I agree.”
As Clementine helped Phoebe tape up the poster of Logan, she took in the man in question. She wondered why he hadn’t shown up for the championship. Maybe it had something to do with that talk of the Handcuff Cowboy Phoebe had brought up at lunch and Logan had quickly shut down.
“I can’t believe Logan Grainger lives right here in Blue Gulch too. I hope I can see him around.”
“I’m sure you will,” Clementine said, wondering how that would work out.
They spent the next half hour putting away Phoebe’s things, Clementine smiling at the tomboy’s clothes. Phoebe was very much into jeans and T-shirts and baseball caps. She did own one dress that had seen better days. During the shopping trip, Clementine’s sister Georgia had kept wanting to girly up the room, but Clementine had reminded her Phoebe seemed very much a tomboy, which Ellen had confirmed, and so Clementine had nixed pink and purple and boas. A collection of baseball hats now hung on the row of pegs by the door along with a jean jacket.
