The Triplets' Cowboy Daddy

by Patricia Johns

  The house felt more familiar without Easton around, and she stood in the kitchen, soaking in the rays of sunlight that slanted through the kitchen window, warming her toes. She sipped the coffee from a mug that said Save a Cow, Eat a Vegetarian. That was a sample of Easton’s humor, apparently. She let her gaze flow over the details of this kitchen that she’d always loved...like the curtains that she’d sewn as a kid with the flying bluebird–patterned fabric. She’d made them in home ec, and she’d been so proud of them, despite the wandering hemline and the fact that one side was shorter than the other.

  He kept those.

  It was strange, because Easton hadn’t kept much else of the original decor—not that she could blame him. The furniture and kitchenware had all been castoffs from the main house. Anything of value—sentimental or otherwise—had been distributed amongst the extended family when Great-Granny passed away. Easton’s furniture was all new, and the kitchen had gleaming pots and pans. The dishes in the cupboard were a simple set of four of each dish, but they had obviously been recently purchased except for a few well-worn mugs like the one she was using now. There had been some renovations, too—fresh paint, some added built-in benches in the mudroom. He’d taken pride in this place.

  And yet the floor was the same—patches worn in the linoleum by the fridge and stove. Though freshly painted, the windowsills still had that worn dip in the centers from decades of elbows and scrubbing. Nora used to stand by those windows while her elderly great-grandmother baked in the sweltering kitchen. She used to scoot past the fridge, wondering if Granny would catch her if she snagged another creamsicle. This old place held so many childhood memories, so many family stories that started with “When Great-Granny and Great-Grandpa lived in the old house...”

  It felt strangely right to come back to this place, or it would have if Easton didn’t live here. If her father had just done the normal thing and left everything to his wife, then she would be settling in here on her own—her future much easier to handle because of this family touchstone. But it wasn’t hers—it wasn’t theirs. Instead she felt like an interloper. She still felt like she needed permission to open the fridge.

  It was after eight in the morning now. She’d fed the babies and changed their diapers, and now she was antsy to get outside into the sunshine. She’d thought she wanted space and quiet, but the silence was getting heavy. Solitude wasn’t going to cut it. She needed a plan for her future, how she’d take care of these girls by herself, and that didn’t seem to be formulating on its own.

  The day was hot, and Nora had dressed the triplets in matching yellow sundresses—clothes that Mia had lovingly purchased and set aside for her daughters. The babies squirmed a little as Nora transferred them into the stroller outside the door, but once in the stroller, they settled back into deep slumber, tiny legs curled up around their diapers. She brushed a wisp of chocolate-brown hair away from Bobbie’s forehead, love welling up inside her. It was dangerous to be falling in love with these girls, but she was.

  Nora shut the door behind her and pushed the stroller over the dusty path that led from the house to the dirt road. The morning was still cool, the sun bright and cheerful in a cloudless sky. Dew still clung to the grass in the shady patches of lawn that Easton seemed to keep mowed around the little house. Thatches of rosebushes grew unfettered beside the sagging fence that encircled it. She paused at one and fingered a lush, white bloom.

  Her father had been wrong in giving this house away. More than wrong—cruel. And what he’d been thinking, she had no idea. Easton was treating the house well, but no amount of appreciation or hard work would make him family, and this house belonged with family.

  Had Dad been angry that she’d created a life for herself in the city? Maybe there was unspoken resentment she’d never known about. Nora pushed the stroller on, bumping onto the dusty road. The ditch beside the road was filled with long grass and weeds, but beyond that ditch, and beyond the rusty barbed wire fence, green pasture rolled out. The old barn stood a hundred yards off, grass growing up around it. Every year it bowed a little lower, hunching closer to the ground that longed to swallow it up. Her father had never been able to bring himself to tear the structure down. Cliff was a practical man in every sense, but when it came to that old barn, he used to say, “Leave it. It makes a pretty picture.”

  And yet he’d given away the house. Blast it—why couldn’t his sentimental streak have stretched long enough to keep the house in the family? If he’d willed it to a cousin, she’d still be upset, but at least the person living there would have a personal connection to the family history.

  The road led around to the main barn—a large, modern building—and as she walked, her nerves seemed to untangle. There was something about the open country that soothed her right down to the soul. There had been countless times in the city when she’d considered coming back, but things were complicated here in Hope. She and her mother had always been at odds, and Nora loved having her own space. She’d never been able to spread her wings under her parents’ roof, in the same tiny town that would always see her as a kid.

  As she crested a low hill, she spotted Easton a stone’s throw down the road. A rusted pickup truck was parked at the side of the road, and the cattle were nearby the fence, a steer trying to push through a sagging stretch to reach the lush weeds beyond. Easton shouted something at the steer and waved his arms.

  He had toughened into a tall, muscular man over the years. How had she failed to notice? His shirt was rolled up to expose his forearms, and he moved with the ease of a man accustomed to physical labor. But under the muscular physique was the same old Easton she’d always known—an uncomfortable combination of hardened muscle and old friend. It almost made her feel shy watching him work, and she’d never felt that way around Easton before. She’d always been the one in control, the one with all the power. Somehow the years had tipped that balance.

  Nora picked up her pace—that was a two-person job by the look of that steer, but she had the babies with her, too. There was no way she could leave him alone with this.

  “Easton!” she called.

  He turned and spotted her. He pushed his hat back on his head and gave her a wave, then returned his attention to the fence. If he could get the steer to back up, she could staple up the barbed wire and the problem would be solved. She put the brakes on the stroller, making sure it was well off the road, then jumped the ditch.

  “Give me the staple gun,” she said.

  He passed it to her then took off his hat and swatted the steer with it. “Come on,” he grunted. “Get going!”

  The animal bawled out a moo of frustration and took a few steps in reverse. Nora grabbed the barbed wire, pulled it taut and stapled it in one deft movement. She could feel the tongs of the wire pressing into her hand, but she didn’t have time to complain. Then she grabbed the next wire down, being more careful this time where she touched it, and stapled again.

  “Done,” she said, stepping back.

  “Thanks.” Easton took the staple gun back and shot her a grin. “You’re handier than you look.”

  “Accounting is tougher than you’d think,” she joked.

  Easton bent down and eased through the space between the wires, emerging on her side of the fence. He was closer than she’d anticipated, close enough for her to smell his musky scent. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked up at him. He was tall and broad. While those eyes hadn’t changed, the rest of him certainly had.

  “Is it?” he asked teasingly. “All those numbers and cushy office chairs?”

  “I fixed the fence,” she shot back. “And I have the blood to prove it.” She held up her palm where the scratch had started to bleed.

  “You okay?” Was that sympathy she saw in his eyes?

  “It’s a scratch, Easton. I’ll survive it. Give me a hand over, would you?”

  He j
umped the ditch first then took her hand as she jumped across. He followed and she bent over the stroller, checking on the babies, who were all still asleep.

  “Let’s see that hand,” he said, and she straightened, holding it out.

  His touch was gentle and warm. “You’ll need some antiseptic on that.”

  Nora turned the stroller around. “Yeah, I’ll take care of it. Where’s the first-aid kit in the house?”

  “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll come along. I’m ready for my coffee anyway.”

  “What about the truck?”

  He shrugged. “Not going anywhere.”

  It was nice to have his company, and if she didn’t look over at the new, taller, stronger Easton, it almost felt like old times. Except that it wasn’t.

  “I’m sorry about when we were teenagers,” she said after a moment. “When I was only focused on my own issues, I mean. I feel bad about that.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It was a long time ago. We’ve both come a long way since then.”

  “Maybe not as long as you think,” she said wryly. “I also had a cup of your coffee.”

  He glanced over at her, dark gaze drilling into her for a beat longer than was comfortable.

  “Okay, that’s it,” he deadpanned. “That’s where I draw the line.” He paused. “You did leave me at least one mug, right?”

  “Of course.” She grinned.

  Rosie woke up and squirmed, letting out a little whimper. Bobbie slept on, but Riley pushed out one tiny fist.

  “Good morning, sleepyheads,” Nora said.

  The warm, low sunshine, these tiny girls, the sweet scent of grass carrying on the breeze, this good-looking cowboy walking next to her—it felt impossibly perfect, and the contentedness that rose up inside her was bittersweet. Staying in the old house—raising the girls here as would have been the plan if it weren’t for her father’s surprise will—wasn’t an option. And having it so close, but just past her fingertips, made her ache for everything she couldn’t keep.

  She wanted to raise these girls, but she had to be realistic. She was an accountant, after all, and she knew how to look at a bottom line. And raising these girls alone didn’t look possible.

  Thanks a lot, Dad, she thought bitterly.

  * * *

  BACK AT THE HOUSE, Easton rummaged up the first-aid kit from under the sink and pulled out some iodine and some bandages, tossing them onto the counter. His coffee sat on the stove, the smell warming the room. He’d get himself a mug in a minute.

  He’d been impressed by her quick thinking out there with the steer at the fence. She’d been around the heavy work on the ranch, of course, but when the men were working, Cliff made sure she kept a more supervisory position—out of the way. She was family, not a hired hand, and there had always been a line there. After her time in Billings, and now with her focus on the babies, he hadn’t expected her to be on her game when it came to ranch work.

  “I can do it,” she said, taking the bottle from him. She winced as the brown drops hit the torn skin.

  Nora had always been that rare combination of vulnerable and stubbornly independent. She needed people, but she wouldn’t stick around for long. She was like a wild deer, leaping to her feet and dashing off the moment she’d regained enough strength. But while she sat next to him, close enough to touch, opening up about her internal world, it was possible to forget that the leap for freedom was in her nature.

  Easton peeled the backing off the bandage and put it over the scrape. She smiled her thanks, ran her fingers over the bandage then moved toward the fridge.

  Coffee. That was what he needed—his practical routine. He liked his coffee lukewarm—an oddity, he knew. But he liked what he liked, and his way of doing things provided for it. It had started when he was a young teenager, working part-time and trying to keep up with his schoolwork. He hated the taste of coffee back then, but it buzzed him enough that he could get everything done. And if he put enough cream in coffee, it ended up lukewarm. He preferred more coffee to cream now, but the lukewarm part remained oddly comforting.

  And having Nora here was oddly comforting, too, as much as he hated to admit it.

  “I’ll get breakfast,” Nora said, taking a mesh basket of eggs from the fridge. She paused to look down at the babies in their little bouncy chairs then glanced at her watch. “They’ll need their bottles in an hour.”

  “I’ve already eaten.” He put down his coffee on the counter and reached up for the slow cooker from the top of the cupboards. “But I’ll start dinner.”

  Dinner was going to consist of pulled pork on some crusty rolls. The beauty of a slow cooker meant that the cooking could happen while he was out working. Single men had to suss up their dinner somehow, and he’d had a lot of practice in fending for himself. He had a whole lot less practice in providing for a family, though, even if they weren’t his. He could have steeled himself to Nora again, but the babies complicated things. Or that was what he told himself. It was impossible to look down at a baby and refuse to feel something, and once he let in one feeling, the rest all tumbled in after it.

  “You have Great-Granny’s iron skillet!” Nora exclaimed, and he glanced over his shoulder.

  “Your dad said I could have it if I wanted, and those iron skillets can go forever if you care for them right.”

  She looked like she was trying to hold back something between tears and anger, and he cleared his throat. Was that wrong to keep the skillet? He felt like he’d messed up somehow.

  “Look, if you want it, take it,” he said. “I can buy another one in town easy enough. It just seemed like a waste not to use it, that’s all.”

  “I do want it,” she said quickly.

  “It’s yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  Nora pulled a loaf of bread out of the bread box. She moved comfortably in this space—like she owned the place. But that didn’t offend him this morning; it made him imagine doing this every day for the foreseeable future...her footsteps in the house, the scent of her perfume wafting through the place, navigating around her in the kitchen come breakfast time.

  “Is that why you kept the curtains?” she asked as she cracked eggs into a bowl.

  He glanced toward the window and shrugged. “I kept them for memory’s sake. You told me how you’d made them to fit that exact window, and I—”

  How to explain... He hadn’t been able to take them down. They’d been something made by Nora, and she’d meant something to him. So he’d kept the curtains as a part of his own history—a piece of her.

  “I guess I just thought they belonged. You can take them, too, if you want.”

  “No, that’s okay.” She kept her head down as she whipped the eggs. “They belong there. I’m glad they made the cut, that’s all.”

  She tossed some butter into the pan and it sizzled over the heat. It looked like she was having French toast.

  Easton grabbed the pork roast from the fridge and deposited it into the crock pot. An upended bottle of barbecue sauce was as complicated as it got. They worked in silence for a few minutes, the sound of frying filling the kitchen in a comforting way. He hated how good this felt—a quiet domestic scene. He wished that having another person in his space were more irritating, because he didn’t want to miss her when she was gone. It would be easier if he’d be relieved to see her go.

  Cliff had suggested that he find “some nice girl” and get married, but “some nice girl” wasn’t going to be enough to wash out his feelings for Nora. He suspected Cliff was trying to be helpful. He’d never told the older man how he felt about Nora, but Cliff wasn’t stupid, and Easton wasn’t that great of an actor. But it wasn’t going to be quite as easy as hooking up with a “nice girl,” nor would it be fair to the woman who ended up with him.

  “My great-grandpa
rents had seven kids in this house,” Nora said, breaking the silence.

  Easton glanced at the ceiling, toward the two bedrooms upstairs. There was another room that could have been used for a bedroom off the living room downstairs, though he used it for storage.

  “That would have been cozy,” he said wryly.

  “Well, there was a bit of a gap between the eldest two and the youngest five. So by the time the youngest baby came along, the eldest were getting married and leaving home.”

  “And your dad—” Easton had never heard too many details from Cliff. This was family land, accumulated over generations—he knew that much. Cliff had never expanded upon the story, though.

  “My grandfather was the eldest, so he inherited the farm, and in turn left it to his eldest son, my dad,” she said.

  “And you’ll inherit it next,” he concluded.

  “Yes.” She pulled some French toast out of the pan and began soaking the next batch of bread.

  “So why did you leave?” he asked.

  Nora shot him an irritated look. “Did my dad complain about that?”

  “No, I’m just curious,” he replied. “You’re next in line to run this place, and you take off for the city and get a degree in accounting. It doesn’t make sense.”

  She was quiet for a moment then heaved a sigh. “Accounting is important for ranching these days. You need to know where the money is going and where it’s coming from. If you don’t have a handle on the numbers, it doesn’t much matter how good you are with the cattle.”

  “Except that you didn’t come back.”

  “Because I didn’t want to,” she snapped.

  Easton was silent. She was ticked off now, and he wasn’t quite sure which button he’d pushed. She was the one with all this family pride.

  She sighed, and her expression softened. “I’m not living for a funeral,” she said after a moment. “I’ve seen cousins doing that—constantly planning for the day they inherit, but my parents had me young. My mom is fifty-two. What am I going to do, spend the next twenty or thirty years living at home, trying to wrest the reins away from her? I could work with Dad really well, but you know exactly how well my mom and I get along. I had a choice—stay close to home and keep my thumb in the pie, or put some distance between us and have a life of my own. I chose to make my own life. I could always come back when they needed me, but coming back before then—”