Читать книгу The Bachelor's Homecoming - Karen Kirst - Страница 11

Chapter Three

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Hot, overwhelmed and running on an empty stomach—the tin of beans and handful of jerky they’d had for lunch long gone—Tom’s question came out more sharply than he’d intended. He’d come upon Jane and Clara at the creek with what looked to be the entire inventory of his kitchen laid out across the grass.

Bent over the water, Jane sat back, the cup in her hand dripping a trail of dark splotches on her navy skirt. “Clara and I are helping you.” With a significant glance at his niece, who was carefully drying a saucer, her tone carried a hint of reproof.

Slipping off his gloves and shoving them in his pocket, he removed his hat and fluffed his sweat-dampened locks. He motioned her farther down the line of shade trees. “Can I speak with you for a minute?”

She came hesitantly. He smoothed his expression. No matter his current mood, the near despair that had set in as he’d inventoried the seemingly endless list of repairs, he wouldn’t take it out on her. She’d endured the worst kind of humiliation yesterday, and he wasn’t about to add to her distress.

“I didn’t expect you to work while you’re here,” he said. “This is my problem. My responsibility.”

“You can’t do it all yourself.” Standing in a patch of light, she squinted, doing a slow inspection of the undulating fields and blue-toned mountain peaks rising to the sky. “How are you going to manage with Clara?”

Focusing on his niece, the familiar drive to provide for her settled in his chest. “I’ve no idea.” Life had delivered more than her fair share of harsh blows. She deserved a bit of happiness, deserved better than trailing him around the farm day and night while he worked. “Suppose I’ll have to find someone to watch her during the day.”

Jane stared at the ground, teeth worrying her lower lip. Sunlight glinted in her glossy locks pinned into a simple twist with short strands about her ears. Dainty pearl earbobs matched the line of pearl buttons on her bodice. A pleasing mint green, her blouse was crafted of the softest cotton, the hue a perfect foil for her flame-colored tresses, expressive eyes and sun-kissed skin.

This close, he could make out the faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the crest of her cheeks. In the past, he’d taken great pleasure in teasing her about those freckles. Now he experienced the strange urge to trace them with his fingers.

Tom shook off the unsettling thought. This was Jane, after all, the baby sister he’d never had.

“Thanks for befriending Clara.”

“She’s a delightful child.” Her smile was there and gone too quickly. “I’m still wondering how she was able to recognize me.”

“I don’t have any trouble.” Their eyes and mannerisms set them apart. Jane’s were soft, dreamy. Innocent. Jess’s contained a boldness, a yearning for adventure. And Jane’s voice was huskier than Jessica’s.

“That’s because you’ve known us your entire life.” One cinnamon brow inched up. “And we haven’t attempted to trick you.”

He kicked up a shoulder, fully confident. “You could try, but you’d fail. I’d know you anywhere, Janie girl.”

Something akin to anguish passed over her face, and he wondered what he’d said to cause it. Then it dawned on him. Here he was teasing her as if she wasn’t suffering from a broken heart, as if the man she was supposed to marry hadn’t deceived her in the most horrific way.

Taking her fine-boned hand in his larger one, he skimmed a thumb across her knuckles. “How are you holding up?”

Head bent, she seemed engrossed by their linked hands. “I’m fine.”

“You never did tell me who you were supposed to marry.”

“No one you know. He moved here last summer.”

She sounded lost. Dejected. Anger sparked and simmered in Tom’s gut. How could anyone willingly wound her like that?

Jane gestured toward the pile of dishes. “I should return to Clara before her interest wanes and she wanders away.”

His niece had indeed abandoned her task and was tossing pebbles into the water.

“You two have already made friends.” Jane was sensible and sweet natured. She’d treat Clara with kindness. The more he considered this potential solution to his dilemma, the more he warmed to it. “Would you be willing to be her caretaker?”

Her jaw sagged. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” He smiled at her astonishment. “You’re wonderful with her. And besides, I trust you wholeheartedly. I wouldn’t worry about her if she was with you.”

Her expression shuttered. “I can’t.”

Surprised by her vehement refusal and the lack of forthcoming reasons, he said, “It’s a paid position.”

“I wish that I could help you, but Jessica and I bake in the afternoons. The café owner, Mrs. Greene, has been ill and has cut back her hours. She hired us to provide the desserts.”

Something wasn’t right. Her words of regret didn’t ring true. The fact he couldn’t interpret her true state of mind drove home the fact she’d grown up. Changed.

“Are you still angry with me?” In the old days, he would’ve slung his arm about her shoulders and cajoled her out of the doldrums. He didn’t feel comfortable doing that now. He hated that his insensitivity had created this distance between them. Couldn’t have guessed his departure, and the cowardly way he’d gone about it, would trouble her to this extent. Oh, he’d surmised she’d be miffed at him for a month or so. But two years?

“I truly am sorry, Jane.”

* * *

Tom was holding her hand.

The soft-as-a-feather scrape of his thumb across her skin mesmerized her. Hot tingles arrowed up her arm and into her midsection. He was standing so near, wide shoulders filling her vision, his brilliant green eyes earnest.

“I...I’m not angry anymore.”

“But you’re disappointed.”

She couldn’t lie. “Yes.”

“And hurt.”

“That, too.”

This close, his lips looked firm yet yielding. If Tom tried to kiss her, she wouldn’t shy away. She’d welcome his embrace. It hit her then that marrying Roy wouldn’t have accomplished anything. Laura’s arrival had saved her from a catastrophic mistake.

Pulling free, she adopted a casual air that was difficult to pull off. “Not sure why I expected you to write to me. I was just a silly kid with a bad case of hero worship.”

His forehead creased. “That’s not how I remember it. We were friends. I—”

“Uncle Tom?” Clara twisted her hem in both hands. “I’m hungry.”

Tom continued to stare at Jane, obviously conflicted. After a moment, he slowly nodded. “I am, too. Guess it’s time for a bite to eat.”

Glad for the interruption, Jane held out her hand to her. “My ma packed lots of goodies. Why don’t we go and see what all there is to choose from? We can finish the dishes when we’re done.”

Clara’s hand in hers was small and warm, her expression trusting but with a hint of sadness and uncertainty. Jane found herself pondering how to elicit a smile from Tom’s charge.

Her hope that he would busy himself with another chore fell flat when he stacked the already washed plates in his arms and followed them to the cabin. He even joined them in riffling through the foodstuffs, his excitement matching Clara’s over the jars of apple butter and assorted jams. They decided to appease their hunger with thick slices of bread smeared with butter and blackberry preserves. Jane insisted on scrubbing the tabletop beforehand, so while she tended that task, Tom readied the food.

A giggle caught her attention. Twisting, she saw them standing together at the long counter beside the cookstove. His hair was a shade darker than hers, but the family resemblance was strong. He dipped his finger in the jar and swiped a tiny bit of sweet jam on the tip of Clara’s nose. He grinned. “Try and lick it off.”

Clara stuck out her tongue. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t reach. “My tongue isn’t long enough.”

“Let me try,” he said, swiping some on his own nose.

Clara giggled again at his antics, and Jane couldn’t suppress her mirth. She’d forgotten how good he was at that. Making others laugh. Making them forget their problems, even if just for a little while.

He looked across the room at her and winked. She quickly resumed her task before she could act on the impulse to join them. She wasn’t part of their family.

And she couldn’t allow herself to be a part of their lives, no matter how much the idea appealed. When the surface was at last clean, Tom carried three plates over.

“You’re joining us, right?” He pulled out a chair for her.

Jane hadn’t planned to. She could use the time to wipe off the wall-mounted shelves above the counter or clean out the stove’s firebox. But she didn’t want to disappoint Clara, who was waiting expectantly.

“Sure.” Taking her seat beside him, she scooted the plate closer.

“I haven’t had a chance to purchase a milk cow. We’ll have to make do with water.” He angled his thumb toward the saddlebags in the corner. “Unless you’d prefer coffee. I could wash out the kettle and brew us some.”

“Water’s fine.”

“Do you even drink coffee? You didn’t use to like it.”

“Sometimes. I require lots of milk and sugar when I do.”

He nodded, the bread balanced in his large, work-roughened hand. “I’ll be sure to have those items on hand next time you visit. And this place spick-and-span.”

Jane didn’t mention she wasn’t planning on doing much of that. Quietly taking in the interaction between uncle and niece, her questions mounted. Tom was completely at ease with the child, his manner natural. He loved her. How had such a rapport between them built? How long had he been her sole caretaker?

By the time he’d gotten her settled on her pallet for a nap, Jane couldn’t resist questioning him. Pride be hanged.

They’d gone out onto the porch, the cloying heat hinting at an impending rain shower, and he’d tugged on his buckskin gloves and begun removing the remainder of the vines. Bit by bit, the sagging railing became visible.

She hung back, out of his way. “What happened to Clara’s mother?”

The muscles in his broad back rippling with effort, he ripped away a handful of vines and tossed them in a growing pile near the porch. Pushing his hat farther up his forehead, he met her gaze squarely, rioting emotions near the surface.

“Jenny died a year after I went to live with her and Charles. Pneumonia.”

“I’m so sorry.” Sympathy squeezed her heart. Poor Clara.

“Me, too. She was a fine woman.”

“How old was Clara?”

“Four.”

Lips pressed in a tight line, he attacked the last section. So he and his brother had been left to comfort the small girl. Cook for her. Do the wash. Mend clothes. Hard to fathom how they’d managed it in addition to ranch work.

“Where is Charles?”

Was it her imagination, or did he yank on the stubborn vegetation with greater force? He discarded another bunch before answering.

“I have no clue where my brother is,” he bit out.

Shock carried her forward. “I don’t understand.”

“Me, either.” He snorted. “It’s not a topic I like to dwell on.”

His rigid spine and closed-off expression warned her to abandon the topic. There was a mystery here, one she would’ve liked to unravel. Short of tying him up and forcing it out of him—something her bolder, braver twin wouldn’t have hesitated to try—she’d have to accept his silence on the subject.

Besides, the less she knew about his life, the less involved she’d be. Keeping her distance—emotionally and physically—was the only way to survive his homecoming.