Linda Miller - At Home in Stone Creek

“I’ll explain later, Ash,” Olivia said. “Right now, I’m beat. You’ll call Brad and Melissa?”

“Right away,” Ashley promised. Happiness for her sister and brother-in-law welled up into her throat, a peculiar combination of pain and pleasure. “Just one more thing—have you named the babies?”

“Not yet. We’ll probably call one John Mitchell, for Big John and Dad, and the other Sam. Even though Tanner and I knew we were having two babies—our secret—we need to give it some thought.”

Practically every generation of the O’Ballivan family boasted at least one Sam, all the way back to the founder of Stone Creek Ranch. For all her delight over the twins’ birth, Ashley felt a little pang. She’d always planned to name her own son Sam.

Not that she was in any danger of having children.

“C-Congratulations, Livie. Hug Tanner for me, too.”

“Consider it done,” Olivia said.

Good-byes were said, and Ashley had to try three times before she managed to hang up the receiver.

After drawing a few deep breaths and wiping away mostly happy tears, Ashley regained her composure, remembered that she’d promised to pass the news along to the rest of her family.

Brad answered the telephone out at the ranch, sounding wide-awake. The sun couldn’t have been up for long, but by then, he’d probably fed all the dogs, horses and cattle on the place and started breakfast for Meg, Carly, Mac and himself. “That’s great,” he said, once Ashley had assured him that both Olivia and the babies were doing well. “But what are they doing in Indian Rock?”

“Olivia said she’d explain later,” Ashley answered.

The next call she placed was to her own twin, Melissa, who lived on the other side of town. A lawyer and an absolute genius with money, Melissa owned the spacious two-family home, renting out one side and thereby making the mortgage payment without touching her salary.

A man answered, and the voice wasn’t familiar.

A little alarmed—reruns of City Confidential and Forensic Files were Ashley’s secret addiction—she sat up a little straighter and asked, “Is this 555-2293?”

“I think so,” he said. “Melissa?”

Melissa came on the line, sounding breathless. “Olivia?”

“Your other sister,” Ashley said. “Livie asked me to call you. The babies were born this morning—”

“Babies?” Melissa interrupted. “Plural?”

“Twins,” Ashley answered.

“Nobody said anything about twins!” Being something of a control freak, Melissa didn’t like surprises—even good ones.

Ashley smiled. “They do run in the family, you know,” she reminded her sister. “And apparently Tanner and Olivia wanted to surprise us. She says all is well, and she’s going to catch some sleep before visiting hours.”

“Boys? Girls? One of each?” Melissa asked, rapid-fire.

“Both boys,” Ashley said. “No for-sure names yet. And who is that man who just answered your phone?”

“Later,” Melissa said, lowering her voice.

Ashley’s imagination spiked again. “Just tell me you’re all right,” she said. “That some stranger isn’t forcing you to pretend—”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Melissa broke in, sounding almost snappish. She’d been worried about Olivia, too, Ashley reasoned, calming down a little, but still unsettled. “I’m not bound with duct tape and being held captive in a closet. You’re watching too much crime-TV again.”

“Say the code word,” Ashley said, just to be absolutely sure Melissa was safe.

“You are so paranoid,” Melissa griped. Ashley could just see her, pushing back her hair, which fell to her shoulders in dark, gleaming spirals, picture her eyes flashing with irritation.

“Say it, and I’ll leave you alone.”

Melissa sighed. “Buttercup,” she said.

Ashley smiled. After a rash of child abductions when they were small, Big John had helped them choose the secret word and instructed them never to reveal it to anyone outside the family. Ashley never had, and she was sure Melissa hadn’t, either.

They’d liked the idea of speaking in code—their version of the twin-language phenomenon, Ashley supposed. Between the ages of three and seven, they’d driven everyone crazy, chattering away in a dialect made up of otherwise ordinary words and phrases.

If Melissa had said, “I plan to spend the afternoon sewing,” for instance, Ashley would have called out the National Guard. Ashley’s signal, considerably less autobiographical, was, “I saw three crows sitting on the mailbox this morning.”

“Are you satisfied?” Melissa asked.

“Are you PMS-ing?” Ashley countered.

“I wish,” Melissa said.

Before Ashley could ask what she’d meant by that, Melissa hung up.

“She’s PMS-ing,” Ashley told Mrs. Wiggins, who was curling around her ankles and mewing, probably ready for her kitty kibble.

Hastily, Ashley took a shower, donned trim black woolen slacks and an ice-blue silk blouse, brushed and braided her hair, and went out into the hallway.

Jack’s door was closed—she was sure she’d left it open a crack the night before, in case he called out—so she rapped lightly with her knuckles.

“In,” he responded.

Ashley rolled her eyes and opened the door to peek inside the room. Jack was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back very straight. He needed a shave, and his eyes were clear when he turned his head to look at her.

“You’re better,” she said, surprised.

He gave a slanted grin. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Ashley felt her temper surge, but she wasn’t about to give Jack McCall the satisfaction of getting under her skin. Not today, when she’d just learned that she had twin nephews. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Bacon and eggs would be good.”

Ashley raised one eyebrow. He’d barely managed chicken soup the night before, and now he wanted a trucker’s breakfast? “You’ll make yourself sick,” she told him, hiking her chin up a notch.

“I’m already sick,” he pointed out. “And I still want bacon and eggs.”

“Well,” Ashley said, “there aren’t any. I usually have grapefruit or granola.”

“You serve paying guests health food?”

Ashley sucked in a breath, let it out slowly. She wasn’t about to admit, not to Jack McCall, at least, that she hadn’t had a guest, paying or otherwise, in way too long. “Some people,” she told him carefully, “care about good nutrition.”

“And some people want bacon and eggs.”

She sighed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“It’s the least you can do,” Jack wheedled, “since I’m paying triple for this room and the breakfast that’s supposed to come with the bed.”

“All right,” she said. “But I’ll have to go to the store, and that means you’ll have to wait.”

“Fine by me,” Jack replied lightly, extending his feet and wriggling his toes, his expression curious, as though he wasn’t sure they still worked. “I’ll be right here.” The wicked grin flashed again. “Get a move on, will you? I need to get my strength back.”

Ashley shut the door hard, drew another deep breath in the hallway, and started downstairs, careful not to trip over the gamboling Mrs. Wiggins.

Reaching the kitchen, she poured kibble for the kitten, cleaned and refilled the tiny water bowl, and gathered her coat, purse and car keys.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she told the cat.

The temperature had dropped below freezing during the night, and the roads were sheeted in ice. Ashley’s trip to the supermarket took nearly forty-five minutes, the store was jammed, and by the time she got home, she was in a skillet-banging mood. She was an innkeeper, not a nurse. Why hadn’t she insisted that Tanner and Jeff take Jack to one of the hospitals in Flagstaff?