Читать книгу The Cowboy's Twins - Tara Quinn Taylor - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

“JUSTIN! JUSSSTIIIIN! YOU come out of there right now.”

In the middle of spooning a batch of chocolate chip cookie dough onto a tray in one of the kitchens on her newly staged set, Natasha froze.

Her staff, including Angela, had all been dismissed to other tasks. At the moment, “staff” meant a handful of techies, two camera operators and her stage manager/right hand/assistant. All of whom—except for Angela, who’d driven back to Palm Desert—had been sent off to town to squeeze in what R & R they could before working almost around the clock for the next few days.

Filming the show on location was taking more out of all of them than they had expected. She had to make sure they enjoyed their lives, too.

Losing employees was not something she took lightly.

The Family Secrets crew were her family. And...

“Justin, I mean it. Come out now.”

The first command had come in the form of a stern whisper. The second in a more stern, loud whisper. The identity of the commander was a mystery.

Whoever Justin was, or wherever he was, remained unknown to her, as well.

But she had a theory.

She’d heard that Spencer Longfellow had a couple of children. And the whisperer was definitely of the child variety.

From what she’d understood—and she’d been pretty clear about gaining complete understanding on this point—the Longfellow children were the only human minors on the ranch. She’d have chosen to film elsewhere if that were not the case. And had almost chosen to move on down the road when she’d heard about the rancher’s kids.

While she had nothing against children, Natasha needed to be able to work undisturbed. And to have her contestants and staff able to do the same. A lot was at stake for the winner of the show. Her show offered external economic value to the winner, and to contestants as well, and it was paramount that she provide a fair competition environment.

Filming on location was already going to create certain levels of stress and inconvenience, and they couldn’t have added interruptions from little ones.

“Justinnn. I’m telling you.” The voice was just above a whisper now. And closer. “Daddy said to stay out of this barn. Period.”

Other than the voice, she heard nothing. No movement. Shuffling. Breathing. Or any other indication of life. Hair tied back, she wiped a hand on the full-body apron covering her jeans and black Lycra pullover. Thought about calling the children out, giving them a warning and sending them on their way.

A mental flash followed right on the heels of that thought. A picture of her mother all alone. She shook it away.

Hoping that if she ignored the interlopers, they’d mind their father and vacate the barn, she continued to scoop spoonfuls of batter from bowl to pan. She had a system. One pan’s worth of cookies was cooling on foil, one pan was baking, and she needed to have the third ready to go in the oven when the others came out. Efficient.

Technically, she was checking out the kitchens. Testing the equipment. Making certain that everything was in place, worked and was fully stocked so that each contestant had an equally fair chance.

Normally that meant something simple. Prepared by someone on staff. And it had been that day, as well. For the first six kitchens. The last two hadn’t been ready—some last-minute electrical hookups—and she’d sent her staff on to enjoy their free afternoon and evening.

That was technically the situation. And all true.

But also true was that today she’d needed comfort. And was taking it in the form of chocolate chip cookies.

With one eye on the timer and the rest of her attention on the bowl, Natasha figured she’d finish panning her cookie dough with about ten seconds to spare. More foil was laid out, ready for the cookies coming out. She could see it in her peripheral vision.

Except...something was wrong with the symmetry.

She gave the foil-covered counter a full-on glance.

And noticed a cookie missing from the far corner.

Only one.

Split between two children? Or had Justin glommed it all for himself?

She’d never had a brother. Wasn’t up on little-boy things.

But...she’d known two mothers with sons recently. Contestants on her last two series. And had been drawn to both the mothers and their sons.

Been personally touched by them. By their stories...

Shaking her head, Natasha finished spooning dough. In spite of her hurried efforts, the timer went off before the spoon was sitting in an emptied bowl. But only a second before.

Transitioning trays was easy. Mitts on both hands, one out, one in, close door, set timer. And then, with freshly baked tray still in hand, she faced the counter.

Two cookies were now missing.

* * *

“JUSTIN? TABITHA?” SPENCER hurried from the back door into the yard. He’d been later than he’d expected, coming in from checking on the calf. Fifty percent of calf deaths within the first forty-five days of life came from birthing difficulties. Getting enough colostrum from the mother’s milk—which provided the antibodies a calf needed to survive—had to happen within the first twenty-four hours. And Ellie’s calf wasn’t nursing enough. He’d left Bryant tube-feeding her colostrum.

“Justin!” He raised his voice as he ran into the yard. He’d missed the school bus dropping the kids off. They knew to leave their backpacks in the hall and go immediately to Betsy if he wasn’t there.

The backpacks were in the hall. “Tabitha?” He was on his way to the cabin Bryant and Betsy shared, but his number one man had already told him that the kids weren’t there. He’d called Betsy’s cell the second Spencer had noticed the time.

“I’ve been all over the yard.” Betsy ran up to him. “Over to the tree house, and down by the creek.”

“Would you mind going up to the house?” he asked now, his chin tight as he fought back the thread of fear piercing his heart. If something happened to those two... “Just stay there in case they return? Or call or something?”

His kids didn’t have cell phones. But they were going to. Flip phones. With no data capability. Just so they could call him.

“I’m going to check the other barns,” he told her, knowing as he did so that the kids wouldn’t be there. Not together. The barns were off-limits unless they were with Spencer or Bryant, or had permission from one or the other.

Justin might get sidetracked by something and disobey him. Tabitha...never.

There were six big barns within walking distance of the main house. He headed toward the horse barn first. Tabitha wanted her own horse. Bad.

He was going to have to take care of that. Sometime. When she was big enough that the thought of her falling off didn’t choke the breath out of him. She’d asked him again that morning how old she had to be.

He’d given her his standard answer: “Older than you are now.”

Nodding at Will, the twenty-one-year-old who kept up the stables for him and fed the horses Spencer boarded to help make some extra cash, he walked up to the stall Will was mucking out. “You seen the kids?” he asked.

“Nope.” Will kept right on raking. “Not today. But I heard about a foal that’s going to be available for sale,” he said, giving Spencer an over-the-shoulder glance.

“I’m not in the market for a foal.”

“She won’t be ready to ride for at least another year,” Will said.

He had to find his kids. Not talk about horses. “If you see the kids, tell them to get back to the house, pronto,” he said on his way out.

“My grandpa says you were riding by the time you were five!” the young man called.

Spencer ignored him. Because he had his children’s safety on his mind. And because he was not ready to risk Tabitha’s life on a horse. No matter how good a trainer Will Sorrenson might be turning out to be.

The tractor barn was empty of human life. He took a turn from there and, at a jog now, went down the row of cottages—some empty, some occupied—that housed married cowboys. And on to the bunkhouse. Justin had been known to wander in there a time or two, in spite of Spencer’s strict instructions that he not do so.

If he’d taken his sister in there, he was going to get the first hiding of his young life.

The bunkhouse was empty, too. As it should have been. Most of his men were out on the range this week—their absence scheduled purposely to coincide with filming.

And that was when it hit him. He’d told the kids that absolutely, under no circumstances were they to go near the outer barn that had been changed into a television studio for the next six weeks.

But they were seven. And it was TV.

Not sure if he was praying that the kids were there or not, he sped up, his boots kicking up dust on the dry ground as he switched course.

“Today I’m giving you my best peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” Cocking his head, Spencer picked up his pace even more as he heard his daughter’s voice coming out loud and clear from a location that was still some distance away.

A mixture of stunning relief—they were safe!—and tense disappointment—they’d not only disobeyed him, they’d involved the one place on the farm he wanted them the least—flooded him. No one had prepared him for the emotional roller coaster of parenting.

“I have the best bread—white—and I have two pieces of it...” He’d always served his kids wheat bread because it was healthier, but Betsy had white bread at home, and when they ate there...

His step grew heavier, frustration growing right along with dread. He’d heard that the Family Secrets crew had gone into town for the afternoon and evening—and had been relieved to have the place to himself. If Tabitha had found a way to make a mic work, he could only imagine the damage Justin had done.

Was doing.

“I have peanut butter—just the butter part, no peanuts.”

She liked it smooth.

“And jelly—we use grape because Daddy likes it best, not jam with the lumps in it.” The note of authority in her childish voice was growing in leaps and bounds.

Spencer started to leap, too, or at least it felt that way as he took the last few yards at a dead run.

He couldn’t afford to repair an entire studio.

Nor did Family Secrets have time to build another one. Contestants were due to arrive the next day.

Rounding the corner in the barn, his worst imaginings became reality. There was Justin, sitting at what could only be some kind of sound board—or control center. His hands were on knobs. Turning.

“I take a knife, this kind, because I’m not allowed to use the sharp ones...” Tabitha’s voice was loud and clear—far too loud and clear—coming from somewhere on the other side of a temporary wall. He didn’t want to think of the mess she was making.

He’d seen her “cook.”

Justin hadn’t noticed him yet, and Spencer had to rein himself in before he approached his recalcitrant son. The boy had gone too far this time.

He was going to be meting out some serious discipline.

As soon as he trusted himself not to lash out first.

His good day had just gone really, really bad.

* * *

“JUSTIN GERALD LONGFELLOW, please take your hand off that board. Now.”

Natasha froze. And watched as seven-year-old Tabitha, with a rather large glob of peanut butter dangling from her table knife, stopped moving, as well. Rising from her seat in the middle row of the bleachers in their makeshift studio, Natasha kept her eye on the child but spoke into the headset she was wearing.

“Justin, are you okay?” She hadn’t recognized the voice she’d just heard issuing an order to the boy in what could only be termed a threatening tone.

But then, the only men she’d spoken to on the farm, other than her own crew members, were Spencer Longfellow and the cowboy, Bryant.

“No, ma’am.” She’d known the child only for about an hour, but long enough to tell her that the vulnerable tone in his voice was not common.

“Who are you talking to?” The male voice came again. But Natasha recognized it that time.

“Spencer?” she called as she rounded the corner of the wall in back of the stage. Locating the control booth behind the stage had not been anyone’s first choice, but for remodeling cost effectiveness and electric concerns, they’d made the decision to put it there. Monitors allowed views of the stage from every angle. Monitors that were not currently turned on.

“Natasha?” The cowboy in dusty, faded jeans, a red plaid shirt and the inevitable boots stood there, his gaze piercing as he looked between her and his son.

“I’m so sorry...” Words came tumbling out of her mouth. “It didn’t occur to me that I should have told you I was keeping them awhile,” she said. “It should have. I apologize.”

His frown deepened. The opposite of the effect for which she’d been aiming.

“Tabitha? You can join us.” Spencer’s tone, though not as fierce, still remained unrelenting.

The little girl, knife still in hand, though free of peanut butter, came around the corner of the stage. She didn’t walk down the steps.

And Natasha’s heart gave a little twitch. She’d told both children they weren’t to climb those stairs unattended because the safety rail had been defective—the wrong size had been sent—and the new one wasn’t being installed until the morning.

Moving forward, she took Tabitha’s hand and held on while the girl slowly descended the four steps to the linoleum laid temporarily on the barn’s dirt floor.

“I’m sorry, too, Daddy,” Tabitha said. But while Justin’s face was pointed at the floor, his sister’s nose pointed straight at their father. Natasha’s heart noted that, too.

What in the heck was wrong with her, getting emotional all of a sudden? These children were interlopers who’d interrupted her only afternoon with solo access to the studio. She had much to do to satisfy herself that the set was ready to welcome contestants the next day.

And...

“I’m disappointed in you,” Spencer said, the words clearly delivered to his daughter. Her lower lip quivered.

“Wait.” Natasha couldn’t stand back, in spite of her self-admonition to do so. “It’s not her fault...”

She knew she’d made a mistake before his gaze landed on her.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What did I tell you two about this barn?” he asked.

“Not to go here,” Tabitha answered, still looking right at him.

“Justin?”

With his chin to his chest, the boy mumbled, “Stay away.”

“You have Ms. Stevens apologizing for you, but I’m fairly certain that she didn’t pick you up and carry you to this barn, did she?”

“No.” Justin spoke, though he didn’t look up to see that his father was pinning him with that stare.

“You walked here.”

“Yes.”

“Even though I told you not to.” He glanced at Tabitha then, too.

“We didn’t walk, Daddy,” she said, her big brown eyes solemn as she shook her head of long, tangled hair.

“You didn’t.”

“No, Daddy, we ran.”

“You ran over here?” The little girl had his full attention. “Even though you know I expressly forbade you to be here?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

In that second, Natasha’s feelings of protectiveness toward the children changed to sympathy for the man standing there in front of them. He was clearly perplexed.

And alone in his parenting responsibilities.

She could only imagine... No, she couldn’t even imagine trying to run a ranch and be the sole parent of two hooligans with acres and acres spread before them...tempting them...

“Because I was chasing Justin.”

Spencer’s brow cleared. For the second it took him to face his son. Down on his haunches, he placed his face within inches of the boy’s.

“Is this true, Justin?” Spencer’s tone was soft now but, Natasha imagined, no less menacing to his seven-year-old son.

“Course. Tabitha doesn’t lie...”

Implying that the boy did?

“You deliberately disobeyed me,” Spencer reiterated.

The boy nodded.

“You weren’t chasing a butterfly...there was no frog hopping in this direction...you didn’t think you’d heard a cow...you weren’t lost...”

The ease with which the words came gave Natasha the idea they were all excuses Spencer had heard before.

“No.”

“Then why?”

She supposed he had to do this. Had to call the boy out in front of her so he’d learn his lesson. Still, she wished he’d take his disciplining home.

“I smelled the cookies.”

Spencer’s gaze turned unexpectedly in her direction, catching the grin that had sprung to her face. She wiped it away. Immediately. But suspected she hadn’t been quick enough.

“You were baking cookies?” he asked. And the twinkle in his eye made her heart twitch again.