Читать книгу The Triplets' Cowboy Daddy - Patricia Johns - Страница 12

Chapter Four

That night Nora had managed to feed the babies without waking Easton, and when she got up again for their 6 a.m. feeding, Easton was gone, leaving behind percolated coffee cooling on the stove while he did his chores. She’d gone back to bed—her theory had been right and exhaustion made sleep possible—and when she opened her eyes at eight and got dressed, she’d found another pot of coffee freshly percolated on the stove. He’d been back, it seemed. And he’d be back for this pot, too, but she took a cup of coffee anyway—she desperately needed the caffeine kick.

The house felt more familiar without Easton around, and she stood in the kitchen, soaking in the rays of sunlight that slanted through the kitchen window, warming her toes. She sipped the coffee from a mug that said Save a Cow, Eat a Vegetarian. That was a sample of Easton’s humor, apparently. She let her gaze flow over the details of this kitchen that she’d always loved...like the curtains that she’d sewn as a kid with the flying bluebird–patterned fabric. She’d made them in home ec, and she’d been so proud of them, despite the wandering hemline and the fact that one side was shorter than the other.

He kept those.

It was strange, because Easton hadn’t kept much else of the original decor—not that she could blame him. The furniture and kitchenware had all been castoffs from the main house. Anything of value—sentimental or otherwise—had been distributed amongst the extended family when Great-Granny passed away. Easton’s furniture was all new, and the kitchen had gleaming pots and pans. The dishes in the cupboard were a simple set of four of each dish, but they had obviously been recently purchased except for a few well-worn mugs like the one she was using now. There had been some renovations, too—fresh paint, some added built-in benches in the mudroom. He’d taken pride in this place.

And yet the floor was the same—patches worn in the linoleum by the fridge and stove. Though freshly painted, the windowsills still had that worn dip in the centers from decades of elbows and scrubbing. Nora used to stand by those windows while her elderly great-grandmother baked in the sweltering kitchen. She used to scoot past the fridge, wondering if Granny would catch her if she snagged another creamsicle. This old place held so many childhood memories, so many family stories that started with “When Great-Granny and Great-Grandpa lived in the old house...”

It felt strangely right to come back to this place, or it would have if Easton didn’t live here. If her father had just done the normal thing and left everything to his wife, then she would be settling in here on her own—her future much easier to handle because of this family touchstone. But it wasn’t hers—it wasn’t theirs. Instead she felt like an interloper. She still felt like she needed permission to open the fridge.