Ruth Herne - Winter's End

So why the sudden change to nice? Was he trying to smooth things over for his dad’s sake?

Possibly. He clearly loved his father.

Or maybe Jess’s presence inspired him. Perhaps he shelved rude behavior in the presence of impressionable teens.

More likely.

Kayla set down her mug and appraised him.

He met her gaze with no animosity. Different, in a nice way.

But Kayla had learned to study the motives behind behavior rather than accept actions at face value. She knew better than to trust the surface. She liked the more relaxed demeanor he offered, but wouldn’t be fooled by it.

As long as he put a lid on that “sit beside me” smile. The wattage alone was enough to ruin a girl’s resolve. Luckily, Kayla’s self-generated “I’m leaving in six months for places unknown” force field was firmly intact.

“Dinner was good.” Kayla shrugged into her coat with careless ease. “I know you were surprised to find me here. Your father didn’t mention he called me?”

Marc shook his head. “He was asleep this afternoon, and I ran errands before I picked up Jess.” He watched as she positioned her scarf, long fingers snugging the ends beneath the coat. “You wear open-toed beach shoes in the house and bundle up to walk thirty feet to your car.”

“They’re not beach shoes,” she argued. “They’re comfy shoes, with quiet soles that don’t disturb resting patients. And the car,” she nodded toward the drive, “has been sitting for over two hours. It’ll barely be warm by the time I get home.”

“Your heater doesn’t work?” Why did that bother him? A professional woman ought to have sense enough to service her car, shouldn’t she?

“It’s pokey,” she replied, pulling on her gloves, “and I’m not patient enough to wait for it to warm up.”

Because he did the same thing, he couldn’t say much. Still the thought that her windows might not fully defrost gave him a nudge of unease. He pushed it aside and cleared his throat. “You’ve got cookies?”

Her hands paused. She frowned, puzzled, her bright blue eyes shading darker.

“In case the dog’s out.”

She flushed, but didn’t lose her cool. “A good Scout is always prepared.”

“You were a Scout?”

The flush tinged deeper. “Just an expression.” Her voice toughened to a more pragmatic tone. “I was never in one place long enough to do things like scouting.”

“A gypsy,” he mused out loud. “Or an Army brat.”

“Neither applies.” Her closed expression said he’d get nothing more. She nodded toward the kitchen. “Thanks for giving me time with Jess. She’s a great kid. Does your dad always beat her in Scrabble?”

Marc acknowledged Jess’s losing groan with a wince. “Not always. The kid’s got a hefty vocabulary. She’s a reader,” he added. “And a loner.”

“Really? That’s surprising.”

“It’s true enough,” Marc rejoined. He stuck out a hand in what he hoped was a peace-making gesture. He didn’t like the reasons that brought the stylish nurse to his house, but he needn’t make her task tougher. “Thanks for coming.”

She slipped a glove off and grasped his hand. “I was glad to do it, Mr. DeHollander.”

Her skin felt soft between his work-roughened fingers. Nice. Warm. He dropped her hand with a minimum of finesse and stepped back. “Marc.”

Her eyes sparkled at his gesture of peace. “Then feel free to call me Kayla,” she told him, her voice low. She leaned forward as if sharing a secret. “Instead of ‘that nurse.’”

Her sassy smile reminded Marc why women like Kayla should be avoided. High-maintenance women didn’t belong in the North Country, much less on a farm.

There were good reasons why Marc avoided savvy women. His mother had been brilliant and beautiful. Arianna DeHollander reveled in the latest trends, a fashionista before the term became a buzz word.

Nope. No way would he repeat his father’s mistakes. Pete married a woman too worldly to be tied to the ruggedness of northern New York. She’d never learned to love the rock-strewn land and the simplicity of the population. She was destined for bigger and better, and let everyone know it. That made her desertion less a surprise, but still devastating. Throw a five-month-old baby into the mix, and you had an interesting family dynamic. Two men and a baby, one guy short of a movie title.

They’d made it work, treasuring the baby to lessen the trauma of her mother’s disappearance.

And Jess was just fine, Marc assured himself. A strong girl, an accelerated student, sure-seated on the back of a horse.

Marc pushed aside the signs he’d noted earlier. Her lack of friends, her singularity. Her anxiety over her appearance. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? Was that normal for girls going through puberty?

He had no idea, but he was rethinking the notion of having Kayla talk with Jess. Jess was a commonsense kind of girl, unafraid to put her hand to work, unlike Miss I-Think-I-Chipped-My-Nail Doherty.

The nurse was smart. And sure of herself. She maintained her equilibrium when challenged, and he’d seen that firsthand because he’d been the challenger.

But she was beautiful and knew it. Saucy and unapologetic. Self-composed, a quality that seemed achieved rather than intrinsic.

But too concerned with her mode of dress, style of hair. She was Reese Witherspoon pixie-pretty, not Julia Roberts gorgeous, but either aspiration was beyond Jess’s caring.

Wasn’t it?

As he headed for the shower, Marc tucked Kayla’s image aside. He’d be nice to her. That was the least he could do.

But that was as far as he’d go. He wouldn’t ask her help with Jess. That would be too personal. Allowing that intimacy could ingrain her. Better that she do her job, he’d do his and they’d face whatever happened as it came.

He nodded, satisfied, then frowned as he grabbed the water knob. Were there fourteen faint freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, or fifteen? He pictured her face and did a mental scan.

Sixteen. Evenly spaced and divided, right to left.

Not that he cared.

“How’s your dad doing?” Craig Macklin watched as Marc latched the stall door enclosing the spry but very pregnant horse.

“Like you’d expect. Some good days. Some bad.”

“Have they given you a time frame?”

Marc stared. “For?”

“His prognosis.”

Marc swore under his breath. Why was it that everyone else accepted Pete’s fate? Was his family last night’s feature on the late-breaking news?

“This just in: End-stage lung cancer patient Pete DeHollander has a short time to live. Let’s visit the family and see how they’re doing.

“Excuse me, Miss, you’re Jess DeHollander?”

“Yes.” Jess nodded to the man with the mic while a cameraman jostled for position.

“Tell me, Miss DeHollander, how do you feel knowing your dad is at death’s door?”

Jess’s smile revealed the gentle spirit within, a hint of pathos strengthened by faith. “I feel blessed to have been his daughter all these years. He raised me when my mother abandoned me. He fed me, clothed me and saw to my education at the highly rated local school. And he gave me a horse.”

Suddenly Rooster appeared, his head bobbing equine agreement. Jess cradled the paint’s neck and cuddled him, cheek to cheek, both facing the camera. “We’ll miss Dad dearly, but he’s going to a better place.”

The reporter nodded, then turned Marc’s way. “And you, sir? You’re Marcus DeHollander, Pete’s son and soon to be the sole proprietor of DeHollander Hereford Holdings and the De-Hollander Feed and Grain. How do you feel about your father’s impending demise? Will you be able to handle the work of two thriving businesses, raise your sister, keep a home and maintain the kind of social life a thirty-year-old man craves?”