Ruth Herne - Winter's End

“Dairy cattle give milk,” he continued, his stance rigid.

“They’re mammals,” she corrected. “They all give milk. Those of the female gender, that is.”

His expression toughened another shade. “Not for commercial purposes.”

“I see.” She slid her gaze to the pot. “Would you like coffee, Mr. DeHollander?”

The formal name tightened the hard set of his eyes, but his lips twitched. Either he’d actually considered gracing her with a smile or he had some mild form of palsy.

Kayla put her money on the palsy.

“I’ll get it.” He moved through the room with the outdoor elegance of a man comfortable with himself. He’d left his boots at the door and his socks were a heathered blend of brown, ivory and gray. They looked warm. Kayla eyed them with a hint of envy, then glanced up. “Excuse me.”

Marc didn’t bring his cup to the table. He stood with his back to the sink, arms folded, waiting for the coffee to cool. He frowned, then glanced around. “Who? Me?”

Difficult man. Could you try being nice? Kayla nodded. “Your socks.” She pointed down.

“Yes?”

He drew the word out deliberately, his voice tinged with dis-belief. She ignored the cool bite. “They look warm.”

He paused too long, stretching his response to make her feel awkward. No way would she let him see his strategy worked. She held her ground and her tongue until he answered. “They are.”

“Where did you get them?”

He swept her feet a glance. “Your toes cold?”

She fought back a retort and counted to five. Why were her sassy clogs such an issue? Couldn’t he answer a simple question without being a jerk?

“I walk for exercise,” she answered. She didn’t mention she needed the socks to keep her feet warm at home. That would give him an opening to make some schlocky remark about her shoes. “Warm socks would be nice.”

“Ostrander’s.”

“The bed and breakfast?” Marc DeHollander didn’t seem like the B and B type.

“They have a wool shop beneath the house.”

“Really?” Kayla pictured the farm’s bucolic setting. Tourists spoke highly of the accommodations. “Thanks.” She nodded. “I’ll stop by.”

“Better check the hours,” Pete warned. Kayla turned his way. “During winter, the family might not be around as much.”

“Good point. I’ll call first. Were they expensive?” She turned back to Marc.

He looked as though he wasn’t sure what to make of her or the discussion. “Quality has its price. They do the job.”

And the award for warm and fuzzy personality goes to…anyone but you, Farmer Boy.

Kayla swallowed words she would have voiced short years past and nodded. “That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

His eyes pierced, the gray-green color flint and flat. Long seconds ticked by before he switched his attention to his father, the move dismissive. “I’m picking Jess up from Nan’s later. Anything you need from town?”

Pete patted the small package. “I had a hankering for some of them filled wafery things. Kayla got some for me.”

“Wasn’t that nice?” The edge in Marc’s voice told Kayla she’d stepped on his toes again.

She bit back a groan. What was it with this guy? Wasn’t anything easy? Did bringing his sick father a box of Napoleons constitute war?

Marc rolled his shoulders. With one long swig, he drained his cup and plunked it onto the scarred counter. “Anything special you’d like for supper, Dad? I can defrost the meat.”

Pete mulled, then said, “Stew.”

Marc smiled.

Whoa. Secret weapon, highly effective. Definitely part of his arsenal that should be kept sheathed, only to be revealed with a mandatory warning to all females within relative proximity. Kayla’s heart beat a rat-a-tat-tat against her breastbone, a totally adolescent reaction. Stop. Stay cool. Distant. Step away from the smile. Avert your eyes. Whatever it takes.

The grin held a high-amp flash of teeth and a dimple that should have made him look soft, but didn’t. Just the opposite. The man looked good. Self-assured. Confident and happy.

His father grinned in response. Kayla looked from one to the other, mystified. “Is there something I’m missing? A private joke?”

Marc shifted his weight. “Family stuff.”

Her spine tightened. The rebuff was meant to keep her in her place. He’d drawn a line in the sand, a marker of domination.

She didn’t need his marker. She knew her place. Always had. With an audible intake of breath, she reached into her laptop bag and withdrew papers. “Are you up to doing paperwork, Mr. D.?”

He nodded. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” She smiled at him and worked to focus on the more rudimentary aspects of her job. Sparring with Marc would get her nothing but aggravation. She didn’t need that. With his father’s terminal condition, Marc didn’t either. The guy was spoiling for a fight, and she refused to give him the satisfaction. Maybe she could suggest a night at the gym, a bout with a punching bag. Did gyms still have punching bags?

She didn’t know, but figured Marc might feel better after an evening-long session with one. Hours of repetitive thrashing could release his anger at a situation beyond his control. And beyond hers, for that matter. She’d been assigned to do a job, and had every intention of performing her task to the best of her ability.

With or without Marc DeHollander’s approval.

Marc pulled into Nan Bedlow’s at 5:40 p.m. He’d spent the better part of the day moving rotational fencing, allowing the herd new winter grazing on old cornstalks. His shoulders ached and his back knew the strain of bending and shifting, but he’d finished the job.

The task wasn’t rhythmic like when he partnered with his dad. Then, one would drive, one would stake and unspool the wire to the plastic insulators, and they’d leapfrog one another to keep the installation moving. They could encircle a cornfield in a few hours time.

Quick compared to today, anyway. Setting fence was a two-man job.

He’d hired help for the feed store so he could have more time with his father. Even with the midwinter slump in business, he couldn’t be in the store, the barn and the house at the same time. Superman, he wasn’t. But he couldn’t justify paying two hands with the decreased work, so the store got the extra hands and Marc got the farm labor.

He smiled as Jess swung open the passenger door.

“Cold?”

Jess tugged off her gloves. “Oh, yeah.” She placed her hands palms down over the dashboard vents. “Thanks for having the truck warm.”

“It’s all right. Good session today?” Jess worked Rooster several times a week. The saucy paint had been a relatively inexpensive purchase five years past. He’d proven to be a good horse, with instinctive showmanship. The gelding loved an audience.

That made him perfect for Jess’s needs. Rooster defied the laws of gravity with his leans and Jess had no problem eyeing the arena’s dirt floor with him. They made a team, with the show ribbons and acclaim to prove it.

Jess kept her eyes trained ahead. “Good enough.”

Uh-oh. “But?”

“He needs to work.”

Ah. January doldrums. Working horses didn’t like being put to rest. They’d stabled Rooster with Nan so they wouldn’t have to trailer him. Jess worked off his feed by helping Nan. It seemed a good plan, but Rooster was a “go” horse. Hanging out with the pampered babies of weekend riders wasn’t his cup of tea. Marc understood that. “You’re probably right.”

“But trailering him here takes a lot of time.”

“Not so much.”

Jess started to object. Marc raised a hand. “We want to do what’s best for him, right?”