Carol Ross - The Rancher's Twins

“Perfect timing,” Sofie said brightly. “The girls are back.”

CHAPTER THREE

BEFORE LYDIA’S BRAIN could even register the plural form of the word girl , a pair of them rushed into the room. Little ones. Decidedly un-teenager ones. Cries of “Sofie” and “Trout” and “Daddy” followed. Maybe these were the pregnant Sofie’s other children? But no, because they were clearly calling Blackwell “Daddy.”

Within seconds he was confirming the association. “Girls, I’d like you to meet Ms. Lydia Newbury. Ms. Newbury, this is Abigail.” He placed one large palm on a mess of long brown curls before putting the other on the shoulder of a child with lighter brown tangles even messier than her sister’s. “And this is Genevieve.” There seemed to be a challenging glint in his eyes. “My five-year-old twin daughters.”

Lydia’s brain was spinning a hundred miles an hour. There must have been a mix-up at the nanny agency. Instead of one fourteen-year-old, she’d gotten placed with two five-year-olds? As much as she wanted to apologize for the inconvenience, walk out to her car, climb in and drive away, fleeing was not an option. This was her flee, so to speak. Images of Clive and his cronies swam before her eyes. Five-year-old twins and their grumpy father versus taking her chances on the open road?

She held out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Abigail and Genevieve.” One tiny, filthy hand and then another reached out and squeezed hers. Adorable, polite, nice-to-meet-yous accompanied each gesture. Lydia studied their dirt-smeared faces and felt a tug of affection working at the knot of terror and anxiety tangled inside her chest.

“I’d like for you guys to call me Lydia, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Abigail said.

Genevieve commented, “I like that better. It’s faster to say. Like Gen instead of Genevieve, you can call me that if you want.” Expression earnest, she flipped a hand toward her sister. “And Abby you can call Abby. Hardly nobody calls us Genevieve or Abigail.”

“Hardly anybody,” Abigail said, correcting her sister.

“Yep,” Genevieve agreed with a quick bob of her head. “That’s what I meant, hardly anybody.” She hooked her thumbs in her belt loops and seemed to study Lydia’s outfit with much less disdain than her father. “Those boots are real pretty. They’re tall, huh? I don’t think you could run very fast in them. Or ride.”

Blackwell let out a sound like a cross between a snort and a chuckle. “Boots like that aren’t good for much, sugar plum. They’re not even real leather.”

Lydia felt her cheeks go hot. Why did it feel like he’d just insulted more than her boots?

“You could wear them to church?” Abigail suggested helpfully. “Or to a party? Not a barn party, though, because the heel part would sink into the dirt.” She stomped one tiny cowboy-booted heel as if to show Lydia what she meant.

“Do you like horses?” Genevieve asked.

“Um, yes, I do,” Lydia said.

“We love horses. Abby and I have our own horses. Mine is Garnet and hers is Topaz.”

“Do you ride, Lydia?” Blackwell asked in a tone that let her know there was only one right answer and he suspected she wasn’t going to give it. What was wrong with this guy? Like his first question, she wasn’t quite sure how to answer it. Lydia loved horses. But she hadn’t been on one since she was fourteen, before Nana died and her dad sold the farm, and Lydia’s already uncertain world had completely fallen apart. A painful cramp of longing seized her at the onslaught of memories. She hoped horseback riding was like riding a bike.

She opened her mouth to explain when Sofie stepped forward. “Well, if Lydia does ride, I’m sure she isn’t planning on riding in those pretty boots. Lydia, I can’t tell you how glad we are that you’re here.”

She turned toward the twins with an encouraging smile. “Abby, Gen, why don’t you girls go wash up for dinner?”

To Blackwell, she suggested, “Jon, why don’t you go out to Lydia’s car and get her bags?”

“That would be great.” Digging into the purse hanging over her shoulder, Lydia withdrew the keys. “You’ll need these.”

“Of course,” Blackwell said flatly. “You locked it.”

She dropped the keys into his outstretched palm and watched him stalk toward the door.

Sofie said, “No one locks their cars around here. You’ll get used to it. And speaking of dinner, yours is on the stove. Follow me into the kitchen and I’ll show you where a few things are before I go.”

Lydia already liked this woman and the thought of her leaving now, specifically of being left here with Jonathon Blackwell and this precocious preschool duo that she did not sign up for, left her skin itchy and prickling, probably from the cold sweat breaking out all over her body.

* * *

HALF-DAZED AND FULL-ON IRRITATED, Jon headed out to the nanny’s vehicle. At least the well-used four-wheel-drive SUV was Montana practical. Although, he noted disapprovingly, it could use some new tires. Opening the back, he wondered how many trips it would take him to haul City Girl’s stuff inside. Seemed like kind of a waste since she wouldn’t be here long. He was calling the agency first thing in the morning and getting a replacement.

“Huh,” he grunted. All he saw was one small suitcase and a bag that looked about large enough for a laptop. He’d expected at least one steamer trunk filled entirely with impractical shoes.

Back inside the house, he deposited the bags in the guest room, which reminded him to take a side trip to the laundry room and put the sheets in the dryer. Still fuming, he headed into the bathroom in his master suite. Normally, he’d just wash up in the half bath off the mudroom, but he needed a second. Several seconds. Days maybe.

After scrubbing his hands, he splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection.

“Lydia Newbury,” he said and then followed up with a whispered expletive. “It even sounds like a spoiled, city-girl name.”

How could this have happened? The agency advertised that they carefully vetted each candidate and placed them in the best possible position. He’d specifically requested a nanny with ranching or farming experience, a rural background at the very least. This woman looked like she just stepped off the subway in her tight skirt and stupid high-heeled boots. Long, silky, chestnut-colored hair shined with expensive highlights, manicured nails clutched a designer bag that looked so soft it would probably melt in the rain.

His marriage hadn’t lasted long, but it had been long enough to recognize a woman addicted to the finer things. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d blatantly given herself away. She didn’t want to be here on the JB Bar Ranch. From the window, he and Sofie had watched her, scowling and shaking her head. “I think I must have the wrong place,” she’d said, standing right on his doorstep, her expression so baffled and forlorn that once upon a time his younger, naive self might have gone weak with sympathy. That man had died right along with his marriage.

Reality rarely lived up to expectations and he couldn’t help but wonder what she’d been imagining? A stately old colonial mansion? A “rustic” lodge-style monstrosity that wasn’t rustic at all but was designed to look as if it was, like the guest house at the Blackwell Ranch? Too bad it wasn’t open yet—he could move her over there until she could catch a plane back to Philadelphia. Whatever she’d had in mind, it clearly was not Jon’s modest-sized rambler.

“How cute,” Ava had said the first day he’d brought her to the JB Bar. “A ranch-style home for a rancher. We can add on later, right?” Jon had thought she was joking. By the time he’d learned otherwise, she was pregnant. When it came to material things, Ava had no sense of humor, only a longing that he could not satisfy. Her cravings were the kind that ranching could never cure, not his style of ranching, anyway. He’d built his house and ranch from the ground up with cattle, practicality and comfort in mind. Pretty much in that order.