Karen Kirst - The Bachelor's Homecoming

He was both surprised and pleased that she hadn’t removed her hand.

“The situation in Kansas...” His fingers subconsciously tensed on hers. “It deteriorated quickly after Jenny’s death. I found myself in charge of a very sad, confused little girl. Whenever I neared the end of my rope, tempted to give up, I’d think of you.”

Head tipping toward his, her fine brows crashed together. “Why?”

“You said it yourself. You finish what you start. You’re so strong, Jane. You handle difficulties with a grace I could only hope to mimic.”

“I would’ve given anything for one letter from you.”

She looked incredibly sad, and a little surprised she’d admitted it.

“That’s how I feel about Charles. He’s doing to me what I did to you. I’m not sure I’d forgive me if I were you.”

The wagon dipped to the side as the right front wheel hit a shallow depression. She didn’t flinch, didn’t remove her tumultuous gaze from his. “Our situations are vastly different. You didn’t owe me anything. Not really.”

“Our friendship mattered to me. You mattered. And I made you feel like you didn’t.”

He regretted that more than he could express.

Emotion slid behind her eyes. Mercy? Understanding?

Her mouth softened. “You’re home now. Let’s put the past to rest.”

She took her hand back then, and he stifled a protest.

Reins firmly in his grip, he glanced into the wagon bed to check on Clara, who’d been quiet the entire ride. Propped against the far side, she observed the passing scenery. Her springy curls were freshly washed—he winced at the memory of her protests as he’d tried to untangle them with a comb—but her yellow dress was too short, the puff sleeves a little too snug about her small arms. He was going to have to hire someone to fashion her a couple of new dresses. Maybe nightgowns, too. Even if he knew how to sew, there simply weren’t enough hours in the day.

Returning his attention to the rutted road, he said, “Something smells delicious. What’s in the basket?”

“Rhubarb pie.”

Tom groaned, his mouth watering at the prospect of sampling Jane’s cooking after so long a drought. “I sure hope your sister is in a sharing mood.”

At that, she stiffened. He wondered at the cause.

She twisted around to address his niece. “Do you like rhubarb, Clara?”

“I don’t know.”

He felt Jane’s speculative regard. “Did your sister-in-law not like to bake?”

“She did.” He lowered his voice. “Clara was only four when she passed and probably doesn’t remember a whole lot. And neither Charles nor I are that handy in the kitchen. We managed to get simple meals on the table. Nothing fancy.”

Lots of beans and corn bread. Slabs of pork fried in hog fat. Fried chicken. Sometimes vegetables made an appearance on their plates. Greens from the yard. Potatoes or carrots he’d purchased from a neighbor. After Charles lost himself in the bottle, preparing breakfast, lunch and dinner fell to Tom. The entire situation had exhausted him, mentally and physically. That wasn’t the kind of life he wished for Clara.

Not for the first time since he’d received guardianship, he considered the prospect of a wife. Clara would benefit from a woman’s presence. There were things he simply couldn’t teach her. With all the upheaval in their lives, however, he lacked the time and inclination to search for a suitable bride.

Admit it, marriage for convenience’s sake doesn’t appeal. You want the real deal. Like what Charles and Jenny had shared. Love. Mutual respect and affection. A true partnership.

As if she’d read his mind, Jane said haltingly, “Perhaps she could spend some afternoons with me and Jessica. I’d be happy to teach her the basics. She’s not too young to learn how to make dough for biscuits and bread. You’d have to tend the stove, of course.”

“I think that’s a fine idea.”

“Have you found a caretaker for her yet?”

Spying the turnoff to the Beaumont home, he shook his head as he urged the team onto the shaded lane. “Getting the farm into working order has dominated my time. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

“I wish I could help you.” She bit her lip. “I can’t.”

He didn’t speak as the trees thinned out and there atop a gentle incline sat the grand yellow Victorian. A ribbon of colorful blooms hugged the front of the house. More formal flower gardens were laid out behind the two-story home, with winding walkways and hidden benches and fountains. This place had once belonged to Lucian Beaumont’s grandfather. Lucian had come to Gatlinburg with the intention of selling it. Meeting Megan had changed his mind.

They stopped beside the barn. Setting the brake, he rested the reins in his lap and angled toward Jane. The light freckles stood out in sharp contrast to her skin. Even her lips had gone pale.

“Are you all right? You’re not ill, are you?”

“Ill?” She plucked at her stiff collar. “No.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“I had a restless night, that’s all.”

Her smile had a brittleness to it that troubled him. This was more than merely being upset with him. Was she hurting because of her deceitful fiancé? Was it the humiliation of the public revelation keeping her up at night?

“Is it Roy? Did he come to see you?”

“He has no reason to.”

Curving a rogue strand behind her ear, she adjusted one of the pins supporting her elegant hair arrangement, swoops and twists and miniature braids that made her appear older than her years.

She gathered up her skirts and made to descend on her side. He thought he heard her mumble, “Let’s get this over with.”

“Wait.” He left his gloves under the seat. “I’ll assist you.”

His boots met the ground and, after swinging Clara free of the bed and making her giggle with how high he swung her, he reached up to grip Jane’s waist. She balanced herself against his shoulders. Once she was on the ground, Tom discovered he was reluctant to release her. She was warm and supple beneath his hands, the raised design on her bodice rubbing against his palms. A tiny gold cross suspended from a thin gold chain nestled in the hollow of her collarbone. It was the only piece of jewelry she wore, and he recognized it as a gift from her deceased father.

Quickly moving out of his reach, she held out a hand to his niece. “My sister has a little girl about the same age as you. Her name is Rose, and she has a beautiful, handcrafted doll house and a number of dolls that I’m sure she’d let you play with. Would you like that?”

Clara’s eyes grew large. Slipping her hand in Jane’s, she nodded, contemplative as they headed through the short grass to the sweeping front porch. Having retrieved the basket containing the pie, Tom walked behind the pair, thoughts in turmoil. He had to get a grip. If Jane guessed these strange notions bombarding him, she’d be deeply disturbed. Josh would throttle him.

Tom rationalized with generic facts. It was natural for him to notice the physical changes in her. Any man would be thrilled to be near her.

His mind was on Jane as they ascended the wide steps, crossed the porch boards painted white and rang the bell on the fancy, carved wooden door. As a result, he wasn’t prepared for the sight of his former love standing in the open doorway. All social graces abandoned him, and he stood gaping at Megan like a nervous young buck.

“Tom.” She blinked. “Jane.”

She hadn’t changed at all. Petite, shorter than him by several inches, Megan possessed an ethereal beauty that ought to be preserved in a painting. Ringlets the color of moonlight framed a face unblemished by the sun, her peaches-and-cream complexion in contrast to large sea-blue eyes.