She dragged the dishtowel over another area, this one clean and dry, but activity was good. Activity would distract both of them. Or so she prayed.

But the silence in the kitchen was intolerable. It seemed to stretch on forever.

Finally he spoke. “So you’re here for the rest of the week.”

“Yes.”

“You can handle that?”

“Yes,” she said lowly.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He turned to leave but stopped in the doorway. “Not that it makes a difference, but they won’t require much from you. Just meals, laundry, that sort of thing. I’ll keep them out of your way. That should help.”

She couldn’t look at him. She turned away, feeling naked, and bereft. Harley didn’t even know this family and yet she liked them... cared for them. How could she not?

Two freckle-faced eleven-year-olds who’d grown up without a mom.

A darkly handsome rancher who’d become Marietta’s recluse.

This big, handsome log cabin house that lacked the tenderness that would make it a home.

“You don’t have to tell them to stay out of my way,” she said hoarsely, keeping her face averted. “They’re fine. It’ll be fine. I promise.”

 

Brock nodded shortly and walked out, allowing the kitchen door to slam behind him, glad to escape the kitchen and the grief he’d seen in Harley’s face before she’d turned away from him.

He wished he hadn’t seen it. He didn’t like it, uncomfortable with sorrow and emotions, and already overwhelmed by the twins’ sudden arrival home.

The twins weren’t supposed to be here, and he was furious with the school and his kids and Harley Diekerhoff for stating the obvious last night—he was not paying his kids enough attention.

But his kids wanted the wrong kind of attention and he wasn’t about to reward them for bad behavior.

He grabbed his heavy coat from the hook outside the door, and his dogs came bounding through the snow, the Australian shepherds having deserted him earlier to trail after the kids.

The kids.

Brock’s jaw jutted, furious and frustrated. His kids were in so much trouble. Not only had they cut out of school a week early before the school holiday had officially begun, they’d taken two different Amtrak trains and a Greyhound bus to get back to Marietta.

He couldn’t even fathom the risks they’d taken, getting home.

He’d taught them to be smart and self-reliant so he wasn’t surprised that they could find their way home from New York—after all, they’d all traveled together to the school by train last August, taking the train from Malta to Chicago and then connecting to the Lake Shore Limited, with its daily service between Chicago and New York—but running away from school wasn’t smart, or self-reliant. It was stupid. Foolish. Dangerous.

Heading toward the barn, dogs at his heels, Brock shied away from thinking about all the different things that could have gone wrong. There were bad people in this world, people Mack and Molly had never been exposed to, and for all the twins’ confidence, they were hopelessly naïve.

Pushing open the barn door, Brock heard the scrape of shovel and rake. Good. The twins were working. He’d told them they couldn’t play until they’d mucked out the stalls, a job that would take a couple of hours, and when he’d checked on them twenty minutes ago, he’d discovered they’d cut out to go sledding.

Now they had to muck the stalls and clean and oil the leather bridles… and there were a lot of bridles.

Mack glanced up glumly as Brock came around the corner.

Molly didn’t even look at her dad.

“Looks good,” Brock said, inspecting the completed stalls. “Just the bridles and you’ll be free for the day.”

“We really have to take all the bridles, all apart?” Mack asked, groaning. “We just can’t wipe them down with leather cleaner?”

“We already talked about this,” Brock answered. “I want every buckle undone, all leather pieces shiny with oil and then rubbed down so you get the old wax and dirt off. With a clean cloth, polish the leather up, use an old toothbrush on the bit, cleaning that too, and then put it back together... the right way. If you have to draw a sketch, or take a picture to help you remember how each bridle goes together, then do it, because the job’s not finished until the bridles are back hanging in the tack room.”

Molly glared at him. “That’s going to take all day.”

“You’re not on vacation, Molly. You were supposed to be in school.”

“I hate the Academy.”

“Then you should enjoy helping out around here. You’ll be working all week.”

 

 

 

Harley didn’t see the kids again until just an hour before dinner. It was dark outside when they opened the back door to troop dispiritedly through the kitchen. They’d forgotten to take their boots off and they left icy, mucky footprints across the hardwood floor before disappearing upstairs.

Harley paused from mashing the potatoes to run a mop across the floor. She was just finishing by the back door when it opened again and Brock stood there.

“Careful,” she said. “It’s wet. You don’t want to slip.”

“Why are you mopping now?” he asked, easing off his boots and leaving them outside.

“It’d gotten dirty and I didn’t want everyone walking through it, tracking mud through the rest of the house.”

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “The kids?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. They know to take their boots off. That’s one of Maxine’s big rules. She’d throw them out if they tramped mud and snow through the house.” He walked into the laundry, flipping on the light. “Where are their dirty clothes?”

Harley straightened. “I don’t know.”

“They haven’t brought them down yet?”

“I haven’t seen them, no.”

“They’re testing you, Miss Diekerhoff.