DONNA ALWARD - The Rebel Rancher

His explanation—his apology—touched her, though she would rather not let it show. It was better for everyone if they really did forget that stupid dance had ever happened.

“Yes, I think that’s best.” Thank goodness he was being sensible about it all. “I’m pretty focused on what I want, Tyson. I’m not interested in distractions. And right now my job is to help your father get well.”

“I’ll stay out of your way,” he replied.

He’d been absent during the long weeks when his father was sick. He hadn’t come home even when they’d asked him to. But he was here now, and she didn’t like the idea that she might be standing in the way of him settling in. Of mending fences. Virgil had a habit of talking to himself and Clara had heard snatches of mutterings and grumblings. Virgil was not happy with his younger son. It wasn’t good for him to be stressed. He and Ty needed to sort things out.

“You need to be with your father. I know you stayed away a long time, Tyson. He needs you. As long as we’re clear, there’s no need to avoid each other, right?”

She bent to get a cooling rack out of the cupboard and started piling the biscuits on the top.

Tyson’s gaze caught on the golden-brown biscuits as the warm scent filled the air. She brushed her hands on her apron and stood back. Good God, she was pretty. The dark ringlets from the wedding were gone but now her hair fell in gentle waves to her shoulders. And her eyes … They were the same blue as a September sky over the golden prairie. Her plain apron covered the soft curves of her hips. He was shocked to realize he wanted to put his hands on them and pull her close to see if her lips tasted as sweet as they looked.

But she was sweet, and off-limits. Never mind that he had no idea how to really talk to her. The past ten minutes had been torturous, second-guessing his words and meaning. All his normal self-assurance evaporated when faced with a woman like Clara Ferguson.

He pushed the thoughts aside and nodded at the rack of biscuits. “Mind if I try one?”

“Sure. Here.” She gave him a paper napkin and one of the round golden discs. He went to the cupboard and found the carton of molasses. Moments later he’d split the biscuit open and slathered it with butter and the sticky spread.

It was like biting into a buttery cloud. Better than his mother’s, if that were possible. In four bites it was gone. Wordlessly she held out another.

“These are delicious, Clara.”

“My mother’s recipe.”

He chewed and swallowed. He had a fair amount of experience dealing with whispers and gossip, and most of the time it ran off him like water off a duck’s back. He didn’t give a good damn about what Cadence Creek thought. But he found he cared what she thought. In some ways she was right. He did need more time with Virgil. He just had no idea how to go about it without starting an argument.

“The reason I stayed away, well, it’s complicated.”

She nodded. “It usually is. Molly said you didn’t even come for his seventieth birthday a few years back. They had a big party I guess. But you wouldn’t come.”

“I couldn’t come,” he said.

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

He wanted her to know why, but telling her could be a huge mistake. He’d had a good reason, but spending a few nights in lockup sounded bad no matter how he spun it. With her history he just couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Do you think it was the right thing for me to come home now?” he asked. He shifted his gaze to look at Virgil, still sleeping in his chair. Virgil had aged so much. He was smaller now than Ty ever remembered, and looked so vulnerable. Ty hated that. Hated that he might have been part of the cause of his father aging, too, by leaving Virgil more of the ranch to handle than he should have.

“Yes,” Clara said firmly. “Yes, I do. For your brother, who needed you, and for your mom. Molly missed you and talked about you often. She felt terrible about the rift between you and your dad. And for Virgil, too, of course.”

“He criticizes everything I do. He’d be happier if I’d stayed on the circuit and never come home.” Even as he said it, he heard how childish it sounded, and he wasn’t sure it was true. Virgil had always insisted that it was Ty’s place to be at Diamondback pulling his weight. But it was always Virgil’s way or no way at all. Ty had chafed against all that authority.

Clara put down the mug she was holding and peered up into Tyson’s face. He didn’t like that she seemed to see what he took great care to keep hidden. He’d excelled at his chosen path and had the trophies and accolades to prove it. But inside was a boy who always felt second-best.

“You need to patch things up,” she reiterated. “What are you waiting for?”

Virgil shifted in his chair and let out a moan as he woke from his nap. What was Ty waiting for? He was excited about his new idea but he knew Virgil would think it was stupid. He wanted to say he was sorry but knew he’d just be told he was being weak.

If he was waiting for unconditional love, he’d be waiting a long time, and it was too hard to take the first step.

Ty reached for his hat, putting it back on his head. “I’d better get back to work.”

Clara sighed as the door closed behind him and he passed by the kitchen window, his long legs eating up the ground. “I think the person who needed you to come home the most was you, Ty,” she murmured at his retreating back. And she had no idea how to help either one of them meet in the middle.

AS MUCH AS CLARA LOVED her job at Diamondback, Virgil’s care was not enough for the full-time hours she was paid. Sometimes she felt like a glorified housekeeper. Not that it was a problem, but one of these days Molly was going to let her go and she’d have to find a new job. She would probably have to leave Cadence Creek; her stay at Butterfly House was only temporary until she could get on her feet. She’d been squirreling away money, but it cost a lot for an apartment and all the furniture she’d need.

She needed this job for as long as it held out and she was going to wring every drop out of the opportunity.

But for now she was sitting in one of the spare rooms, needle and thimble in hand, making tiny, even stitches in Molly’s latest quilt.

She enjoyed doing things with her hands. As a girl she’d learned to cross-stitch and knit; she and her mother had spent evenings in front of the television working on little projects. It had been her mom’s way of unwinding after working all day in an office, and it had been Clara’s way of spending time with her mom.

She’d spent a lot of time thinking about her mom lately. She’d learned so much from her mother, but the lesson that Clara carried now was how she had always insisted that a woman needed a way to support herself. No matter what, Wendy Ferguson had put in a good day’s work and still had time for her kids. As Clara fed the needle through the fabric, she missed her mother something terrible. She talked to Ty about mending fences, so maybe once she was settled she’d reach out to Wendy, too. Maybe they could be a part of each other’s lives again.

But for now Molly sat across from Clara, her own needle flashing in and out as she made stitches on the patterned lines of fabric.

“It’s almost ready to roll,” Molly remarked, tying off her thread and moving to cut a new piece.

The quilt was tied onto old-fashioned wood frames with metal brackets holding the corners. Once they’d quilted as far as they could reach comfortably, the frame would be rolled in and clamped tight. When it was all done Molly would bind the perimeter. But that was weeks away yet, especially since they only sneaked the occasional hour to work on it.