Читать книгу A Rugged Ranchin' Dad - Kia Cochrane - Страница 10
ОглавлениеChapter One
Stone Tyler waited anxiously outside the hospital room while the doctor examined his wife. What in hell had he been thinking? Why had he spouted off about wanting to shoot Firelight? It wasn’t the horse’s fault that Brooke was dead.
He buried his face in his hands. If he hadn’t said all those things about killing Brooke’s golden palomino, then Dahlia wouldn’t have—
Guilt piled on top of guilt, like so many layers of dirt and grime.
He wouldn’t have shot Firelight. He wouldn’t have taken his rifle out to the corral and put a bullet in his daughter’s beloved horse.
He’d just been...frustrated. And angry.
At himself, mostly.
But why couldn’t Dahlia understand that the ranch was no place for Field? He didn’t want to lose his son, too. Why couldn’t she understand how much he needed to keep his surviving son safe—no matter the cost?
Why couldn’t she just let him do his job as a father? Sending their ten-year-old boy to a boarding school in San Antonio was not the end of the world. Stone hated the idea of not seeing his son every day, but Field could come home on weekends. Dahlia acted as though San Antonio was on the other side of the country, instead of only sixty miles from the ranch.
He glanced up when he heard footsteps. It was the nurse. “You may see your wife now,” she said. Her smile was reassuring.
He rushed to the door of Dahlia’s room, the past couple of days crowding his mind. The argument, Dahlia racing off blindly to save Firelight, the way he’d found her, unconscious, in the meadow, the coma she’d been in for the past thirty-six hours...
Relief crashed in on him, flooding him with memories. It hadn’t always been like this, Stone thought, as he hesitated outside the private room. Once there had been love and laughter.
Once he’d had a family. A whole family—with Dahlia, Field and Brooke.
Now it was breaking up all around him, and he didn’t know how to stop it from happening.
Stone entered the room, the scent of roses and carnations assaulting him from all sides, reminding him of the flowers at Brooke’s funeral.
And in the middle of the flowers, Dahlia lay still and silent in the white bed. But at least she was okay. The doctors had said so. All they’d been waiting for was Dahlia to wake up.
The doctor and nurse separated and let him pass between them, so he could bend over Dahlia’s bed. Stone swallowed slowly, taking her limp hand in his. “Dahlia,” he said quietly. “It’s okay. Everything will be okay now. I promise.”
He held his breath. He’d been talking to her for the past day and a half, hoping to get through to her. And then, a few minutes ago, she’d stirred and tried to open her eyes.
But what if she slipped back into a coma when she heard his voice this time? What if he was the reason she’d stayed unconscious for so long?
“Dahlia, open your eyes,” Stone said tightly, his fingers gripping her hand like a lifeline. That was exactly what she was to him. His lifeline.
The center of his universe.
But she was going to leave him if he sent their son away.
“Dahlia.” His voice was soft now, urging her to come back to him. “Dahlia, it’s Stone. Open your eyes and look at me.”
Her eyes opened and Stone looked into the violet-blue depths. The tip of her pink tongue slid out to lick her pale lips. “Stone,” she said as she felt around her shoulder area with her free hand, frowning up at him in bewilderment.
“What is it, sweetheart? Does it hurt?” The pounding of his heart seemed to reverberate until the floor shook beneath his feet.
“Didn’t I get my wings? Did they get crushed when I fell?”
There was a moment of hushed silence. Stone looked from his wife to the doctor.
“Your wife’s had a severe blow to the head, Mr. Tyler,” the doctor said quietly. “Give her some time.”
Stone swallowed nervously, his gaze moving raggedly over Dahlia’s face. Her head was bandaged, her blond hair spread out on the pillow. She was small anyway, but in the hospital bed she looked smaller and more helpless than he’d ever seen her.
“Stone.” Her voice was only half a whisper. “What happened to my ticket?”
“Your ticket?” he asked.
“The ticket for my wings and halo. Basil gave it to me before he sent me back to earth.” Her deep blue eyes, the color of the innermost part of a pansy, were fixed on him as she smiled. “He sent me back to help you,” she said clearly, and then her eyes fluttered closed.
“Doc—” Stone felt full-scale panic wash over him.
“Mrs. Tyler’s merely asleep.” The doctor’s voice was calm and reassuring.
But Stone felt anything but calm and reassured.
Apparently his wife believed she was an angel.
A week later, Stone signed all the necessary papers in order to take Dahlia out of the hospital and back to Lemon Falls and the ranch. According to the doctors, Dahlia was healthy enough to go home—even if she did still think she was an angel.
Stone turned as the nurse wheeled Dahlia out of her room. The woman smiled reassuringly at him. Different nurse, but the same smile of reassurance, he thought in exasperation.
“You ready?” he said to Dahlia, hoping she couldn’t see how uneasy he felt. “I put your suitcase in the car.”
She nodded, her blue gaze never leaving his.
He noticed how she sat quietly, without fidgeting. He wondered if Dahlia truly was strong enough to go home, or if her current demeanor was what the doctors meant by possible changes in her behavior.
As Stone guided his Ford Explorer through the heavy traffic in San Antonio, he kept stealing glances at his wife. Dahlia continued to sit quietly beside him, her hands folded primly in her lap. What was she thinking about? he wondered.
She’d always been so full of fire and energy and life, her excitement at the promise of each new day contagious to all those around her, and a positive influence even at the blackest of times.
But Stone barely recognized the subdued woman sitting beside him now, the woman she’d become this past week.
For days now, he had avoided the subject of angels with Dahlia. And he’d constantly reassured the rest of the family that all she needed was some rest. But this morning he had his doubts.
“You okay?” he asked her, as they drove out of the city. “We can stop—”
“I just want to go home and be with my baby.” Her voice was soft as it cut into his words. And his heart.
Stone’s breath caught in his throat. Had she forgotten? Didn’t she know that Brooke was—
“How is Field?” she asked slowly. “Really: How was he this morning?”
Stone was filled with sudden relief. She was talking about his son, not their daughter. Though Field was not Dahlia’s biological child, she’d been his mother for most of his life.
Stone stole another glance at her. The heavy bandages had been removed from her head this morning, replaced by a much smaller one. Dahlia’s hair, its shades of blond as varied as a Texas prairie, was pulled back in a ponytail, the soft bangs hiding most of the dressing.
But she looked so pale, he noticed with a sharp tug of guilt.
“He sounded okay when I talked to him on the phone,” Dahlia continued. “But Field keeps things bottled up inside.”
Like you.
That was one of the accusations she’d hurled at him before her accident, Stone remembered. And it was still between them, as solid and unrelenting as though the words had been carved in rock.
Dahlia turned in her seat and fixed him with her luminous, violet-blue gaze. “He told me you’d been reading and discussing The Three Musketeers with him before bed. That’s wonderful.”
“I always talk about books with him. What’s so wonderful about it?” Stone was more curious than defensive. He took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at her.
“You haven’t done that in a long time.”
Their gazes mingled.
Stone abruptly tore his gaze away. He inhaled and exhaled quickly. He’d been halfway hoping that Dahlia’s memory—the part that had to do with his so-called rejection of Field—wouldn’t return.
“He needs you, Stone.” Her voice was gentle. “He needs his father now more than ever.”
“He’s got me.”
“But for how long?”
Stone shook his head slightly. He had no intention of rehashing old arguments. This was one discussion that’d had most of the tread worn off it already.
“Have you changed your mind about sending Field away?”
“We don’t need to talk about this now.” Stone tightened his grip on the steering wheel and kept his eyes on the road ahead.
Dahlia’s hand stole over to touch his, and he felt the warmth, the softness, of her fingers. Slowly, carefully, some half-forgotten feelings stumbled to life. His heart started to race like a freight train, blood rushing through him, giving him life and energy and this fierce awareness of the woman sitting next to him.
He gently squeezed her hand and held it on the seat between them. If only...
“Have you changed your mind?” she repeated.
And the moment shattered like superfine crystal.
It left Stone with a broken, empty feeling inside, and a sense of having something so very close within his grasp sliding free. He wanted to give her the world. He’d lay down his own life for her. But he couldn’t give Dahlia anything close to what she wanted from him.
“Damn it, Dahlia.” His voice was low and rough with emotion. “You make it sound as though I’m sending him away as some sort of punishment. It’s a good school,” he insisted for perhaps the one millionth time.
“He loves it on the ranch.” Still the same gentle voice.
Stone jerked his head around and met her steady gaze. “But Field is isolated from other kids his own age.”
“Then you haven’t changed your mind?”
He hesitated. He wanted to give her what she wanted. He wanted to make things right between them. But not at the expense of Field’s safety. He couldn’t take the chance.
“No,” he said with deliberate gentleness. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Just you wait and see.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded, his voice suddenly rough with exasperation—and with intense longing for the way things used to be between them.
Dahlia merely shrugged and smiled that calm, smug little smile of hers while entwining her fingers through his. Her touch was warm and possessive, and all thought literally flew out of Stone’s mind.
All he knew was her touch.
Her velvety-soft fingertips. Her delicately shaped fingers. Her small hand with the square-cut diamond ring and matching white-gold wedding band.
He remembered the day he’d put those rings on her finger. The day he’d promised to love and cherish and protect her for all their days on earth. He’d meant every word of it, too.
Only...he hadn’t been able to protect her.
Or their daughter.
Stone grew pensive and uneasy. How could Dahlia sit beside him so calmly after what had happened between them? His wife was not a calm person. She was warm, intense, playful, intelligent, willful, obstinate, impulsive, beautiful and impatient. But she was not, by any stretch of the imagination, calm!
Until this week. This week she was not only calm, but positively serene.
Like an angel.
Oh, Lord, he was losing it, Stone groaned from somewhere deep inside. The result of too little sleep, no doubt. And too much worry. But Dahlia had always looked like an angel—and now she was behaving like one!
“Dahlia, do you feel up to talking?” He asked the question gently because he didn’t want to push her. But he had a lot on his mind, and some of it needed to be said as soon as possible.
“You want to talk to me?”
There was such bewildered surprise on her face and in her voice, that he cringed inside. He remembered the requests for conversation, for some kind of emotional connection these past twelve months. Requests that had slowly turned to angry demands and then to tearful begging.
Then they just...stopped.
“I think we should talk about what happened,” Stone said slowly.
“About what happened?”
Stone kept his gaze fastened on the road ahead. “I wouldn’t have shot Firelight,” he told her quietly. “I was angry and frustrated, and said a lot of stupid things I didn’t mean. And I’m sorry. It’s my fault you got hurt.”
“I shouldn’t have ridden off that way, without even waiting to saddle her first.”
Stone felt her fingers curl up in his hand, the light scraping of fingernails against his flesh. He wanted so much to tell her how scared he’d been of losing her, how this week had been, to him, like stumbling clumsily out into the light after a year of sleepwalking through the darkness.
But he could wait and tell her that.
Right now he was enjoying the profound relief that she had forgiven him. The rest could come later.
He was especially enjoying the feel of her hand close and warm inside his. It had been a long time since she’d allowed him to touch her, to get this close, even for a moment or two. It had been months since they’d connected physically, in any way, shape or form.
That was mostly his fault, too.
Stone’s mind skated back through the years. He’d been thinking a lot about their marriage this week. He’d taken a huge personal risk by letting himself fall in love with Dahlia nine years ago. Devastated by the way his ex-wife had abandoned him, with no warning, no explanation, just cold, calculated betrayal, he had been unable to see love and marriage in his future ever again.
Until he met Dahlia.
A warm, beautiful free spirit who’d been content to gloriously take each day as it came.
She’d been the healing balm to his wounded pride and broken heart. She’d taken him and his abandoned son and turned them into a family. Strong, loving and patient, Dahlia had guided him through a bad time in his life.
Now it was his turn. His turn to be strong. His turn to guide them past the tragedy of Brooke’s death to begin again. Only...how?
“Remember the first time I brought you to the ranch?” Stone tightened his grip on her hand.
A sweet, fleeting smile drifted over her face as she gazed up at him. “I was so scared, wondering if Blade and Rocky would like me.”
“My brothers know a good thing when they see it.” Stone grinned at her. “Wasn’t it one of my brothers who played matchmaker and got us together in the first place?”
“Flint kept telling me about his big brother Stone—”
“For months he kept telling me about this new girl at college that he’d met and how he thought I’d like her—”
“And you kept stalling, not wanting to meet another female again for as long as you lived.” Dahlia laughed.
Stone laughed, too. They’d done this countless times before, each giving their version of his brother Flint’s one and only attempt at matchmaking.
“I was still scared when it came time to meet the rest of your family, though.” Dahlia shifted slightly in her seat and leaned her head back. “I took classes with Flint, but meeting your other two brothers—and especially your baby boy—was a big day in my life.”
“And meeting you was a big day in mine,” Stone told her softly, taking his eyes off the road long enough to look at her. Dahlia’s eyes were a startling, dazzling shade of blue, a dark, velvety contrast to her pale gold skin and sunny blond hair. “The most important day in my life.”
He watched for a second or two as her blue eyes darkened and deepened in wonder, and shock waves of longing splintered through him.
“Was it, Stone?”
The wistful note in her voice wrenched at something hidden far back in the boarded-up places of his heart. How long had it been, he wondered uneasily, since he’d said anything even remotely reassuring to her?
“You know it was,” he answered, suddenly feeling too much, needing too much from her.
Taking several deep, steady breaths, he concentrated on the traffic, unable to trust his tenuous self-control. They were on a two-lane, paved country road now, and the light, morning traffic was a welcome distraction.
So were her fingers, snuggled deep inside his hand. Her closeness eased the ache of emptiness that had tormented him the past year. It had been so long since she’d wanted anything to do with him, either physically or emotionally.
Grief over Brooke’s death had taken its toll.
Stone grew still as he remembered the one exception. Nine months ago, Dahlia had decided she wanted another baby—but he’d had to refuse.
Something else she’d wanted that he couldn’t, in good conscience, give to her. Because there was no way in hell that he’d bring another child into this world, to love it, care for it...
And then lose it.
The melting ice around Stone’s heart slowly hardened.
Dahlia watched as Stone drove the rest of the way to the ranch, both hands now gripping the steering wheel. Watched the way he’d withdrawn, once again, into that lonely, private place deep inside himself.
Brooke’s death had absolutely destroyed him, she acknowledged, as fear and doubt swept through her. He wasn’t going to let her help him. And here she was, with only two weeks left to complete her mission!
Two weeks—when she’d been trying to get through to him for twelve long, painful months.
But Stone’s will, as always, was one of pure steel.
How could she possibly make him believe in anything ever again? How could she make him see what a terrific father he was? And that what he needed to do now, most of all, was to trust his feelings when dealing with Field. How could she hope to restore his faith in himself, to trust his own good judgment again?
But that was her mission from Basil.
Oh, dear, how was she to accomplish this particular miracle all by herself?
Dahlia knew how hard it was to let Field be a normal little boy, to protect him without controlling his every move, to love him without smothering him—but Stone wasn’t even trying.
He was so wrapped up in grief and guilt over Brooke’s death, and fear over losing Field, that he wasn’t listening to anyone.
She straightened her shoulders. She wanted so much to be a good angel, to live up to the trust that Basil had placed in her. But Stone—he wasn’t the same man she’d married. He’d always wanted more, craved more, fought for more than anyone she’d ever met. But the fight had gone out of him.
And so had all the love.
Dahlia could still feel the warmth of his fingers around hers, even though he was no longer holding her hand. But his touch lingered in her mind far longer than she cared to admit.
Memories tapped at her heart.
The gentleness that had an unexpected way of peeking through Stone’s oh-so-tough outdoorsy personality. The startling chemistry that had sprung to life upon meeting face-to-face the first time. And the way the sexual attraction had grown and deepened through the years.
Stone was more than her husband. He was her best friend.
Which made his...his almost studied emotional distance doubly hard to take. Stone had preferred to live in an emotional vacuum since Brooke’s death, to become isolated from pain—but he was forcing the rest of them to live that way, as well.
Dahlia’s gaze repeatedly strayed toward Stone’s side of the car. It was hard to believe that the man who had once made her nerve endings sing with joy could cause her heart to ache so much. But when Brooke died, he’d closed off the part of his life that had to do with being happy. He’d also, by all appearances, closed and locked the part of his heart that had to do with love. And he had no desire to open either one.
Her sigh was soft, and with an effort she pulled herself out of her thoughts. She had work to do, and she was going to do it. But where was she to start?
“I remember the morning we brought Brooke home from the hospital,” she said brightly. She desperately wanted to gain back some of the closeness that had vanished when Stone had retreated behind one of his moods. “She was wearing that little denim dress embroidered with little red hearts on the collar...”
“And you tied a red ribbon around her little bald head.”
Dahlia was surprised at the way he joined in. She wasn’t used to talking about Brooke and having him respond. Usually he tried to change the subject.
“She wasn’t bald,” Dahlia protested, laughing. “She had hair in the back almost long enough to put into a ponytail.”
Stone hesitated and then his words came out sort of gruff and tender. “She was the prettiest little thing I’d ever seen in my life.”
Tears backed up in her throat. Especially when Stone reached out and took her hand in his again. “Was she as pretty as Field?”
“Guys aren’t pretty.” But he sent her a fleeting grin. “Field was a rugged little guy even on his first day of life.” Then his grin broadened. “All six pounds of him.”
Dahlia saw the light in his gray eyes just seconds before he turned his attention back to the road ahead. But he squeezed her hand in his, and she squeezed back. And then she had a thought.
“Why don’t you have any pictures of Field during his first year?”
“What do you mean?” Stone sped up to pass a car.
“You only have four or five pictures of him—”
“We’ve got dozens of albums, crammed full of pictures of both kids.” Stone was back in his own lane now and flashed her a puzzled, questioning look.
“But all those were taken after we met. After we were married,” Dahlia explained. “I meant pictures of Field coming home from the hospital. Do you realize there are no pictures of your son with his mother?”
He looked at her. “You’re his mother.”
She smiled gently at him, touched by the statement. For Stone, his first wife and the mother of his child just... no longer existed. Not in his mind. And certainly not in his heart. “But why didn’t you take more?” she asked him. “Field was your firstborn son. I would have thought you’d have taken tons of pictures.”
Stone shrugged and turned his attention back to the road. But he didn’t evade the question. “I don’t have a reason. I guess I was just too busy taking care of him to bother with taking pictures.”
And too hurt.
Dahlia suddenly cringed inside at the thought of what her completing her mission would mean for Stone. He’d already been abandoned by one woman, and he’d never understood her reason.
And now, if things worked out, Dahlia would also abandon him. Would he understand? Would he understand she just had to be with Brooke? No matter what the cost?
And Field...oh, that poor, poor child. Dahlia’s heart wrenched with guilt at just the thought of leaving him. He’d already been abandoned by one mother. What would her leaving do to his ability to trust?
That was why she had to get Stone and Field’s relationship on solid ground. Before it was time for her to leave.
“I’m sorry now that I didn’t take more pictures of Field his first year,” Stone was saying, and she struggled to pay attention. “Kids grow up so fast and then they’re...gone,” he ended quietly.
Dahlia watched as he struggled with some painful memory. She said gently, “Field’s growing every day. It’s hard to believe he’s already ten years old.”
“Yeah.”
“Soon he’ll be in high school and dating some cute little cheerleader.”
Stone cleared his throat. “More than likely some little cowgirl in a rodeo.”
“All he talks about is entering rodeo roughstock events when he’s old enough.” Dahlia saw the life drain from his eyes and added softly, “He wants so very much to be like you when he grows up.”
“I know.” Profound weariness settled over his lean features.
“It’s natural for a son to want to be like his dad,” she continued.
“Then I wish I’d been a lawyer or something like that,” Stone snapped, his pain and frustration close to the surface.
Dahlia drew in a fast, agonized breath and said nothing. What was the use? Everything she said to him came out wrong. Everything she did only made him feel worse.
“Dahlia...honey, I’m sorry.” He turned to her and tried to smile. “I didn’t mean to take your head off. I just wish I hadn’t told Field all those wild and wonderful stories about my rodeo days. It put ideas in his head.”
She laughed soft and low. “It’ll be years before he’s old enough to compete. Field’s exploring his options, that’s all. He’ll go through weeks of wanting to be a rodeo champion and then a concert pianist or a great painter—”
Stone hooted with laughter. “A concert pianist? Field? A rock musician, maybe, but give me a break. Field’s about as likely to play classical music as I am to sprout wings and fly.”
Dahlia grinned happily. Somehow she’d gotten him to laugh and that was a good feeling. And a good start.
She glanced out the window at the passing countryside, with its bluestem and buffalo grass. They were in the hill country now, driving along the Medina River, so they were almost at the ranch.
Stone turned onto a dirt road, lined with mountain cedar trees, and she breathed in the characteristic fragrance of the hill country. Stone took the bridge across the river and moments later they drove under the large sign, proclaiming: Tyler Ranch. Established 1900.
Field was the fourth generation of Tylers to live on the 750-acre spread. Dahlia knew it would break his heart not to grow up here like his father and uncles.
And it would break Stone’s heart, too, even if he was too stubborn to admit it.
She propped her elbow in the open window, her chin in her hand, and gazed out at the miles of whitewashed fencing crisscrossing the range. She stared longingly out at the herds of sheep grazing in the foothills, the young lambs frolicking after their mothers. She sighed heavily.
A big, white three-story Victorian house, nestled in a grove of very old oak and pecan trees, came into view. An enormous red barn stood behind it, off to one side. As always, she felt a flash of pride when she saw the place where she had come to live as a bride of twenty-one.
That had been nine years ago, she thought, as Stone parked in the circular driveway.
A lifetime ago.
The car door on her side was yanked open. Stone’s youngest brother, Rocky, escorted her gently across the driveway and up the porch steps. “We’re glad you’re home,” he said with a grin. “Gives us an excuse to throw you a welcome-home barbecue tonight.”
Dahlia smiled up at him, wondering where Field was hiding. “You Texas boys certainly do love to eat, don’t you?” she teased back.
“How did you ever guess that?” Rocky’s grin widened as he settled her on the porch swing. Rocky had a huge appetite for barbecued ribs and hot Texas chili, but he was cowboy-lean, and had women chasing him from three counties. “Field made you a pitcher of lemonade, all by himself,” her brother-in-law said, his voice low for her ears alone. “So pretend you like it.”
Rocky never changed, Dahlia thought gratefully, her gaze following Stone as he came up the front steps, carrying her suitcase. Just then the screen door flew open and Dahlia’s ten-year-old stepson rushed out onto the porch, carrying a glass of lemonade. He headed straight for the porch swing and thrust it toward Dahlia. “I made it myself. All by myself,” he added with a sidelong look at his father.
Dahlia took a sip, announced it was perfect and drank up as the little boy she’d raised almost from birth watched with anticipation. He was slender and dark like his dad, with Stone’s gunmetal gray eyes.
“Don’t I get a hug?” she asked the child she loved with all that was left of her heart.
Field hesitated. “Uncle Rocky said to be careful and let you hug me.”
Dahlia smiled and reached out with one hand to draw the little boy closer. “Thank you for being so thoughtful, sweetie,” she said, kissing his cheek. “And thank you for the lemonade. It’s delicious.”
Rocky returned to the porch, carrying a tray with the pitcher of lemonade and three glasses. There were also three different kinds of cookies. “Field went with me to the store this morning,” Rocky said with a wink.
“Don’t you like your lemonade, Dad?” Field asked, staring up at his father. Stone leaned against the porch railing, absently rubbing his fingertip along the rim of the glass he held. “I made it,” the little boy announced, a slight trace of defiance in his voice. “All by myself.”
“It’s good,” Stone said after taking a hasty sip. “Excellent.”
“I cut the lemons in half with a knife.” Field was eyeing Stone carefully. “And, boy, was it sharp!”
Dahlia’s breath caught in her throat. She saw Stone dart a swift glance in his brother’s direction.
“I was in there watching him,” Rocky said hurriedly, shifting uneasily on the porch railing where he was perched.
“But even if he wasn’t,” Field chimed in, “I could’ve done it. Because I’m not a baby.” That last statement came out as if he dared someone, anyone—especially Stone—to disagree with him.
Stone must have realized it, too, because he stated quietly, “No, you’re not a baby. And knives aren’t dangerous as long as you know how to use them.”
“I know how. Uncle Rocky taught me,” Field added helpfully, his gray eyes brightening.
Nearby, Dahlia heard Rocky’s low, rueful groan. Her gaze darted to her husband. Stone had practically raised his youngest brother, and now he fixed him with a long, level look of reproach.
“Uncle Rocky said you gave him a knife when he was my age,” Field piped up, making matters worse.
Dahlia saw the startled look in Stone’s gray eyes. He slowly set his glass of lemonade down on the porch railing. “Did Uncle Rocky give you a knife?” he asked gently.
Field hesitated, then darted a sudden sheepish look at Rocky. The little boy looked back at his father and slowly nodded. Pulling a small leather pouch out of the back pocket of his jeans, Field said, “He gave me the one that you gave to him.”
Instead of taking the knife away from his son, Stone merely asked, “And Rocky taught you how to use it?”
Field nodded. “This morning while we waited for the lemonade to get done.”
“After you finish drinking your lemonade, why don’t you ask your uncle Rocky to give you some more lessons?” Stone surprised everyone by saying.
Dahlia’s heart surged with hope as she saw the look of pure joy enter Field’s eyes.
Field and Rocky finished their cookies and lemonade in record time, and headed toward the barn. If she turned around, Dahlia would be able to see them. And she could certainly hear them as Rocky patiently taught the little boy how to handle the pearl-handled knife. She smiled at the laughter that drifted up to the porch.
“That was a wonderful thing you did, letting Field keep the knife,” Dahlia said, smiling cheerfully.
Stone shrugged. “A boy needs to learn how to handle himself. That includes weapons.”
“It means more than learning how to handle himself, Stone,” she said earnestly. “Letting him have the knife means you trust him.”
Stone drained the last of his lemonade and set the glass down on the tray. “It means I think he’s old enough to go away to school.” His voice was carefully low and even. “He’s right. He isn’t a baby. And he’ll do just fine at boarding school.”
“But, Stone—”
His gray eyes leveled on her. “He leaves two weeks from today.” Then he scooped up her suitcase and headed for the screen door. “I’ll put this in your room.”
Stone entered the house and shut the screen door behind him. It was more gentle than a slam, but much harder than merely closing the door, Dahlia noticed wryly.
Two weeks. In two weeks Field would be sent away.
Dahlia turned around in the swing, fixing her gaze on Field, out by the barn. Basil said if she didn’t return within three weeks, then she couldn’t return. One week had already passed. In the hospital.
So she had two weeks left.
She took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. If she could only stop Stone from sending Field to that boarding school in San Antonio, if she could convince him that living on the ranch would not put Field in danger—then maybe he’d regain his faith that he could protect his son.
She sighed, watching Stone’s little boy practice throwing his knife at the barn door, over and over and over again, determined to make his mark on the paper target. And Dahlia knew that keeping Field on the ranch wouldn’t alone solve the problem.
It was a start, but she now clearly understood the mission Basil had entrusted to her. She had to restore Stone’s faith in himself, and in his ability to take care of his family—even if it meant letting go herself.
