Mary Forbes - A Forever Family

A glance at the closed study. Men like that…

Like Wade. Charming in face, honed in body. Women drooling with one look of his sinful eyes and one flash of his sexy smile.

Still, standing where she was, a sense of homecoming seeped into her blood, warm and favorable. She thought of Caleb and Estelle’s farmhouse where she’d spent most of her adolescence. Where she’d come to realize Brent—her father—would forever be a rodeo hound. Loving her and Jase, in his own skewed way, from miles down the road.

What she felt here couldn’t compare to those days.

Why this strange house?

She saw herself curled on one of the two love seats bracketing the octagon coffee table. Browsing one of the magazines scattered there. Dreamily admiring the big African violet. Touching the child’s tea set…

Her heart sank into its battered furrows. Had fate been kinder, had life taken a different route, toy trucks and trains might have covered her coffee table….

Oh, Timmy, my sweet little baby.

Fool. You’ve got to stop dreaming.

Ah, but she’d always been a dreamer. Marriage, kids, a house with a garden… But not in this house. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling of rightness.

An illusion, that’s all. A lovely, horrible illusion.

She had to get away before the fantasies overwhelmed her. She could not work here. Not for Michael Rowan, who muddled her common sense. And not in a place that had home written everywhere she looked. No matter how, she’d find an office job—or wash dishes, scrub floors, flip burgers—anything but milk cows for a man who had the capability of holding her elusive hopes in the palm of his hand.

Shouldering regret, she walked into the kitchen and set the check on the corner of the oak table. Seconds later she stood outside, shoving her feet into her wearied sandals. Already, she could feel the jerk of the old Chevy’s tires rumbling off Rowan land.

She jogged down the stoop.

His leather loafers waited in the grass.

She walked past them.

Halfway down the flagstone walk, she stopped, looked back, sighed.

Ah, shoot.

She’d always been a mark for brooding men.

Michael dialed Cliff Barnette’s number. Prayed his Realtor had what he wanted. He wasn’t crazy about Cliff handling the sale of the estate, but the man was Blue Springs’ best.

Barnette picked up on the first ring.

“It’s Michael Rowan.”

“Hey there, Doctor Michael,” the Realtor crooned—as if he and Michael were beer-chugging buddies. “We got some bad news. That fellow who was ready to sign the deal this morning backed out a half hour ago. Couldn’t get the loan, apparently. Sorry, guy, but it looks like we’re back to the drawing board. Don’t be disgruntled, though, it’s only been a few months. Big place like yours takes a little doing.”

“Yeah.” Michael rested an elbow on the desk and massaged his forehead. Just what he needed. Another dose of the long haul. He was so tired of this selling business.

Oh, Leigh. Why’d you have to go and die?

He jerked upright. It wasn’t his sister’s fault that rig had lost its brakes on a corner and catapulted into her husband’s rattletrap pickup. It had been Michael’s inadequacy that didn’t save her.

And the limitations of a small-town hospital.

“You there, pal?” the voice in his ear boomed.

“Yeah.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Do what you can, Cliff. Maybe something will come up in the next week or so.”

“I plan on zipping a couple ads into the southern regions. Los Angeles and the like.” He chuckled. “See if we can draw some interest from those rich gentlemen around Tinseltown who think farming is a hobby or a lark.”

“Fine. Let me know if anything looks favorable.”

“Will do.”

Michael set the receiver back in its cradle. What if it took years to sell the place? He wasn’t cut out to milk cows, plow fields, or ride fence lines. That had been his twin’s niche, her dream. Like a point of proof, she’d chosen to live on the land where they’d been raised by their grandparents. When their grandmother retired, Leigh had gone after her second goal and married Bob, a local man. She’d settled in this very house and had attained a stalwart status in the dairy industry.

They had been a threesome of heirs to the land, with Michael as the silent partner.

He wanted to laugh at the appalling irony. Now, Leigh and Bob were the silent ones. Eternally.

And Jenni. God, what to do about their six-year-old daughter? How to resume his career, run this place, and raise her? He knew nothing of kids. Hell, he could barely face the tyke most days. When her whimpers came in the night…

He set a thumb and forefinger against his tired eyes. He had to get rid of Rowan Dairy. Get rid of the memories. Take Jen away—away from the only home she knew.

Forget about easing her into her loss. He wanted to simply move them both back to his town house in Blue Springs—like he’d done right after Leigh’s death.

“Why can’t we live at the farm, Uncle M.? Why do we have to stay in your town house?”

Okay, so he’d keep them here. But, dammit, the longer they stayed in this house, the harder it would be to leave later.

Still, Jenni required adjustment time. Before he removed her from the community—a hundred miles south—to Seattle. Where he had a chance as partner in a flourishing clinic, and where, God help him, first-class E.R.s could handle the worst possible cases. Like Leigh’s.

He would not chance Jenni’s future to the strictures of Blue Springs General.

He kneaded the kink at his nape.

He owed the tyke a few more weeks.

Here.

Until he found the courage to explain his plans.

If the farm fell into a non-productive state in the meantime, so be it. Jen needed this place. And someone holding her in the night when the scary dreams invaded. She needed coddling.

Mothering.

Michael opened the door and looked through the archway. The house was empty. She was gone, the woman. Wearily, he stood. Could he blame her if she ran off with his money, never to return? He’d been rude, blunt and downright miserable.

Walking through the house, he snorted softly. He could well imagine her manipulating those “cud-chewers,” and her about as big around as his thumb. A little scrawny, but…pretty, in an artsy, folksy sort of style. Pretty legs, pretty lips.

On the kitchen table he found his check. Damn. She had run out, but not with his money. Sighing, he tucked the paper in a pocket. In the mudroom, he pulled on a pair of fatigued Apaches. Might as well check the barnyard before he headed back into town.

The screen door squawked when he pushed it open. He stepped onto the stoop and stared straight down at her squatted form a few feet away—cleaning his loafers with a tissue. Near her elbow, the garden hose leaked into the grass.

“Don’t get used to this, Doc,” she said without looking up. “I had nothing to do at the moment.”

Michael came down the steps. Her ridiculously long earrings swayed with each stroke of her fine-fingered hands.

“Great footwear,” she said, checking out his boots. “Next time you’re down around the barns I’d suggest you wear them instead. They’re more suited to what’s left behind.”

He combated a grin. He had to admit she was a delightful little thing. “Behind what?”

“Cows. Horses. Any critter on four legs.”

This time he gruffed a chuckle.

“Oops, that’s not a sense of humor I hear, is it?” She gave him a scamplike look, reached for the hose, and washed her hands. Done, she climbed to her feet.

“Now,” she said, shaking wet hands like a cat with dripping paws. “You asked me to wait. Why?”