Kitabı oku: «The Man From Montana», sayfa 2

Worth loving just a little?

The thought left a barb. Bill Brant had loved no one but his long-dead wife, Grace. Times like these, Rachel wished, wished her mother still lived. But she had died of cancer twenty-four years ago, on Rachel’s eighth birthday. A day branded in her mind. Not only had she lost her mother forever, but her daddy had set the blame at his daughter’s feet. Stupid, Rachel knew. But still.

She had to try. Had to. For her own sake as well as her father’s.

But, oh, she was tired. Of the lying, the pushing, the shoving. Of living in seven different backwater towns in seven states, soliciting local newspapers for a job—just so she could have the time to gain the trust of their wary resident Hells Field veteran. God, what she wouldn’t give to find her own niche and have Bill Brant be happy for her. Just once.

“You don’t give up, do you?”

She jerked around. Ashford McKee stood five feet away, big and tough as the land he owned. A pine and forest man.

Hands buried in a sheepskin jacket, Stetson pulled low as always, he stared down at her with dark, unfriendly eyes. Slowly he removed a cell phone from his pocket and lifted one smooth black brow. “We McKee’s keep in touch.”

She should have known. A fly speck couldn’t get past him without that speck becoming a mountain.

Rachel rose. At five-ten, she was no slouch, but beside him she felt gnome short. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but as I mentioned yesterday my issue is with your father—who I understand owns the Flying Bar T?”

Annoyance flickered in those dark eyes, then vanished. “Issue? The only issue I see here is you—harassing my family.”

“Making one phone call is hardly harassment, Mr. McKee.”

He studied her a moment with eyes that might have offered warmth because of their clear-tea color. Not today. Today they were frozen as the earth outside. “What do you want with him?”

“To ask about the guesthouse.” She pinched back her guilt at the omission of the story.

“And he told you to talk to me. What else?”

On a sustaining breath, she said, “I’m writing a freelance series about Vietnam’s Hells Field.” She let that settle. His eyes remained steady, unreadable. She pressed on, “I’ve been working on the story for several years. Your father is the last of seven surviving veterans and the key to the series. I’d like—” she swallowed when McKee’s eyes narrowed “—a chance to talk to him. Please.”

“Why? There’ve been three decades and two wars in the interim.”

“Because in an already controversial war, Hells Field was a battle that was undisclosed.”

His pupils pinpricked. He understood. A battle fought, facts swept by the wayside, one soldier the fall guy.

“Leave him alone, Ms. Brant.”

“I can’t. At least not until he tells me no.”

McKee stepped into her space. Crowding her. She smelled his skin and the soap he’d washed with this morning. And hay, a whiff of hay. “We don’t need old war wounds opened. Go back to reporting the weekly news.”

“Look,” she said, desperate. “You can read what I’ve written about the other vets so far. I’m a good reporter.”

His jaw remained inflexible. “Tom doesn’t want you hanging around him any more than I do.”

Except, the heat in those dark eyes when they settled on her mouth indicated differently. A zing shot through her belly.

“I understand,” she said slowly. And she did. Newspeople were too often an unwelcome lot. “You don’t like reporters.”

She turned back to her desk. Dismissing him, dismissing the entire conversation, her entire mission. God, why was she so needy when it came to pleasing her dad—oh, face it—when it came to men in general? Men like foreign correspondent Floyd Stephens, pontificating how a kid—his son!—would dump her career in the toilet. Men, valuing her according to some parameter.

Rats, all of them. Shuffling several pages of notes, she muttered, “If I had somewhere else to go I would.”

Which was, in itself, a paradox. If it hadn’t been for her need to make her father proud, to prove to him—and all men for that matter, maybe even to herself—that she was a capable and creditable career woman, she would not be in these sticks.

She would not be begging Ash McKee to understand.

A movement from behind reeled her around. He still stood by her cubicle.

“I thought you’d left,” she said, vexed. Why didn’t he just go?

Under the hat, his tea eyes were pekoe dark. “Where are you staying?”

A tiny hope-flame. “The Dream On Motel.” She thought of Charlie sleeping in that dingy room, the lumpy bed, inhaling smoke-stagnated air into his young lungs. When it came right down to it, his welfare was more important than any story. God, she should just get out of this town and go back to Arizona. At least there it was warm and Charlie had a little friend.

She pushed a wing of hair behind her ear. “I have a child, Mr. McKee. A boy. That’s why I need a place. Somewhere clean and—and welcoming. I know,” she rushed on, “you said I’m not welcome on the Flying Bar T, but you won’t know I’m there. I won’t come near your house without permission. And if your father doesn’t want the interview, that’s fine. Scout’s honor.”

She hated pleading with him, this man with his invisible iron wall surrounding his people.

“How old is he?”

“My son? Seven.”

Again, those unyielding eyes. “I’ll talk to Tom.”

She couldn’t help sagging against her desk. “Thank you. Thank you so much. You won’t be sorry.”

He didn’t answer. Simply looked at her. Into her. Through her. Then turned and strode from the newsroom, out the squeaky door, into the street.

Chapter Two

Ash jaywalked to his truck. A light snow had begun to fall again, fat flakes that caught on his hat and shoulders.

What the hell happened back there in that newspaper office?

How could he even consider renting the cottage to her? She with the fine-boned cheeks that he damn near touched when she looked up at him with those cat eyes.

He climbed into the pickup, backed from the parking slot and drove out of town.

Of course, the kid had done it. Picturing her boy—with her July-blue eyes and burnt-brown hair, probably minus a front tooth—in that dump of a motel where Ash had sown his oats at eighteen, splintered the stone around his heart.

Why hadn’t she told him about the boy before? Was she using him to get closer to Tom? No, her eyes when she mentioned the boy’s name said different.

She loved her kid. The way he loved Daisy.

Shoving a hand through his hair, Ash sighed. Sucker, that’s what he was. Sucker for kids with sad stories.

He’d been one himself once. He and his sister, Meggie, living in that ramshackle house on the edge of town, their mom trying to put bread on the table and decent clothes on their backs. Until Tom entered their lives. Tom, changing lives with the Flying Bar T.

Ash had to give Rachel credit. She’d woven herself right under his skin in five blasted minutes, persuaded him to let her rent Susie’s cottage. Oh, the bit about talking to Tom was only a formality. He knew it, she knew it.

Hell. Here he was, managing nine hundred head of Black Angus and fifty-five hundred acres of land and he’d been bamboozled by a woman—and a seven-year-old kid he had yet to meet.

She’d been daydreaming about him striding across the street with snow on his big shoulders when her desk phone rang the next morning.

“Rachel?” His voice rumbled in her ear.

Her breath stopped. The way he said her name… “Yes?”

“You want to look at the cottage, it’ll be open Sunday.”

In two days. “Thank you for letting me know, Ash.”

“Welcome. What time?”

A civil conversation. “Can I come in the morning, say, ten?”

“See you then.” The phone clicked.

For the first time in forty-eight hours, she smiled. McKee hang-ups were becoming a tradition.

At nine-thirty on Sunday, she drove out with Charlie strapped into the backseat and hope in her heart. Snow continued to fall in intervals, spit flakes on a brisk, cold wind the wipers scraped up in narrow, inch-high drifts on each side of the windshield.

Ahead, the road lay in stainless splendor while behind, the car left a single pair of tracks. Beyond the barbed wire fences, field and hill faded to a duvet of white.

She’d be seeing him again. Ash McKee. You’re not there for him, Rachel. It’s the guesthouse, remember? And Tom.

Still, her heart quickened. She had to admit Ash was an attractive man—in a cowboy sort of way.

“Are we there yet?” Charlie fisted fog off his window.

“Five minutes, honey bun. After the turn ahead, we’ll be there.”

He sat straighter, trying to peer over the passenger seat, his eyes round blue discs behind his glasses. “I can’t see.”

“Trust me, it isn’t far. Warm enough back there?”

“Uh-huh.” He settled back and began vrooming his red Hot Wheels Corvette across his little thighs. The car had been one of her presents on his sixth birthday and his favorite, it seemed. Rarely did the toy escape his sight. Her little man, no different than most little boys his age and no different than an adult male salivating over the real machine.

You lost out, Floyd. You lost out when you walked away from our baby.

“Are we going to be living on a ranch with horses and cows and stuff?” Charlie asked.

“If Mr. McKee will rent his guesthouse to us.”

“I don’t like living in that motel. It stinks.”

“Can’t agree with you more, champ. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that Mr. Ash will say yes.”

More vrooming. “Is he the guy for your soldier story?”

She glanced into the rearview mirror. “His daddy is. Which might cause a problem when it comes to renting from him.”

“Why?”

“Because Mr. Tom might not want me on his property when he finds out I also want to interview him.”

Another quarter mile passed. Charlie vroomed, then said, “Maybe he has nightmares about wars like Grandpa.”

Her jaw fell. “How do you know that?” Bill Brant would die before he admitted any weakness to his daughter.

“Sometimes he sleeps in the chair. Y’know that one that goes back like a bed? And once he started hollering about killing somebody. I think the guy had a gun.”

“That doesn’t mean he was dreaming about war, Charlie. Sometimes people dream about violence.”

“I asked him when he got awake. I asked him what a gook was.”

She cringed at the ancient epithet. “Son, that’s a very unkind word. Did Grandpa explain it to you?” Unbelievable.

“Well, kinda. And then he said I shouldn’t make up stories.”

She squinted into the mirror. “Were you?”

A hard head shake. “Grandpa was snoring, then he started yelling. And making faces like he was hurt or something.”

She kept her hands steady on the wheel. “When was that?”

“Last time we went to visit in the summer.”

Last August. They’d traveled to the coast of Maryland and stayed in the vacation cottage her father purchased fifteen years ago. Rachel loved the ocean—its smells and sounds, how the salt breeze tasted.

“Is that the only time he talked in his sleep?” She slowed for the last turn as the Flying Bar T came into view—and fancied Ash McKee thundering up the road on his Crusader steed.

“Uh-huh. He never slept in the chair again.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Not with an alert, intelligent little boy within hearing distance.

The weathered two-story Craftsman home she’d glimpsed over the backs of the cattle last Wednesday now loomed through the snow.

Driving closer, she noticed the house inhabited a timbered horseshoe with the corrals and outbuildings, including three massive barns, scattered several hundred yards westward. Today’s snowfall hid the Rockies from sight, but four days ago their great, hulking, cotton-capped shoulders were cloaked in a mantle of blue sky.

Ash McKee lived amidst poster-inspiring beauty.

Not Ash. Tom. She was here for Tom. And Charlie.

The black-and-white herding dogs rushed out from under the porch as she pulled up beside the green pickup Ash drove to town.

“Will they bite, Mom?” Charlie’s voice trembled.

“I don’t think so. They’re border collies and like to herd sheep and cows. They’re not mean.” She hoped. But who knew how Ash McKee trained his animals? The warhorse had ground at its bridle bit with long, strong teeth.

She shut off the car, grabbed her purse. Today she simply wanted introductions. No note taking. No pushy reporter manners. Just smiles and a possible welcome to rent.

“Come on. Let’s see if Mr. McKee is home.”

Snowflakes speckled her wool coat and Charlie’s blond hair. Cautious of the dogs, Rachel walked with her son up the steps next to a wheelchair ramp. The animals crept back under the wooden deck. So much for guarding the place. Quite possibly Ash, himself, had the watchdog scenario in hand.

The door swung open. The eager high school columnist and Ash’s companion from last Wednesday offered a smile full of braces. “Hey, Ms. Brant.” She winked when she spotted Charlie.

The boy ducked shyly behind Rachel.

“Hello, Daisy.”

Petite and red-haired, the teenager wore low-rise jeans and a bust-fitting knit top that exposed her navel. If Rachel had a daughter her age, such revealing clothes would not enter her closet. Oh, who was she kidding? Fifteen years ago, she wore tight tops and leggings, much to Bill Brant’s irritation. In the succeeding years, her tastes had tempered to conservatism, like the warm black dress slacks and aqua sweater she’d dug from the motel closet this morning. Bill would label the clothes plain classy, pun intended.

“I’m here to see your dad and your grandfather.”

“I know.” Daisy leaned forward and whispered, “Dad doesn’t know about my column, okay?”

Before Rachel could respond, Ash McKee stepped into the entryway. His dark eyes locked on her, then swept over Charlie. “Bringing reinforcements?”

Without the Stetson, she saw he had beautiful hair. Thick and black and linear and scraped back in a style that pronounced his weather-toughened cheekbones, his long, graceful nose.

“Hello again, Ash.” She set a hand on her child for comfort. “This is my son, Charlie. I couldn’t get a babysitter so he’s with me today.” She tried a smile, failed as those eyes riveted on her face.

Daisy saved the moment. “Dad says you’ll be renting the guest cottage.”

“We haven’t decided yet, Daiz,” Ash interjected, shutting the door behind Rachel.

“But I thought you said—”

“Not yet.” While his eyes gentled on his daughter, his tone was resolute.

“What’s to decide?” she argued.

“So. Our company’s arrived.” A gray-haired, craggy-faced cowboy in a pearl-buttoned shirt rode around a corner in a motorized chair.

Tom McKee. The key to Rachel’s series.

A second, a blink, then his pale blue eyes widened, as if he recognized her, his pupils rounding to the outer edges of their irises before his surprise vanished. Puzzled and certain they had never met, Rachel stepped forward, held out her hand. She was here for the guesthouse.

“Rachel Brant, Mr. McKee. Pleased to meet you.”

“You the one phoned the other day?” he asked, giving her hand a light shake.

“Yes.” A knot formed in her throat at the sight of the strong, brave man. In that instant, she vowed to make him proud with her words.

“What story you digging for, Ms. Brant?”

Her cheeks warmed. “Today, we’re just looking for a place to live, sir.”

The old man stared at her with an intensity that had her shifting on her feet. Then he nodded. “Ash will show you around back of the house.” Decision settled, he glanced at his son, though Rachel knew it wasn’t, not entirely. Not from the line of the younger man’s shoulders beneath that denim shirt. She could have skipped pebbles across them.

“Come with me,” Ash ordered, and left the room without checking to see if she followed.

With a smile for Tom McKee, she and Charlie followed Daisy through the house to the kitchen. The girl murmured, “I’m so glad you’ll be staying here.”

Rachel wanted to ask about the whisper at the front door. About Ash not knowing of Daisy’s column.

They entered a deep kitchen sporting a horde of knotty pine cupboards, an ample work island in its center and a Sub-Zero refrigerator. To the right, a rectangular oak table stood gleaming with light flooding in from floor-to-ceiling windows that faced snowy evergreens. And everywhere, photographs of a red-haired woman. Upon the antique phone table, upon whatever wall space remained unclaimed by cupboards.

Susie, the wife who left Ash McKee widowed.

Without a coat or hat, he waited by a back door sheltered in a small alcove next to the pantry. On his feet, his work boots remained unlaced.

He held open the door as Rachel and Charlie stepped into the cold morning. The wind stung their faces while they followed Ash down a wooden walkway toward a tiny cottage looming thirty yards ahead amidst a snowy stand of pine and birch.

Opening the guesthouse door, Ash waited for her and Charlie to step inside.

It was a dollhouse. Three miniature rooms with lace curtains pulled back with bows, a tiny state-of-the-art kitchen. Cozy living room with a round rug and cushiony furniture in earthy tones. Santa Fe prints on the walls. Dried hydrangeas in a tall vase on the coffee table. Above the stone fireplace hung a wooden, hand-painted sign: Welcome to Flying Bar T Ranch.

No portraits of red-haired women.

Ash wiped his boots on the welcome mat, then walked toward the kitchen situated in the far right corner. “The stove is gas.” He slanted her a look. “Ever cooked with gas?”

“Yes. The place is lovely, Ash. Thank you.” She meant it.

“Not me you should thank, it’s Tom.”

She understood. It was Tom’s ranch, after all. If Ash had his way, she wouldn’t be here. “I will. And thank you for not mentioning the series I’m writing.”

“How do you know I haven’t?”

“Because I doubt he would’ve let us in the door, and he wouldn’t have invited me to see this house.”

“You’re right. He wouldn’t.”

Ruefully, she turned away, surveyed the room again. No matter that the McKees lived solitary lives. They were good people. She did not want to hurt them, if she could help it in any way. Her father was wrong when he’d told her to “do anything to get a story.”

Ash said, “Upstairs are a couple bedrooms and the bathroom. If you want to use the fireplace I’ll haul in a few logs from the main house.”

“Thanks. This is…fine. We won’t need the fireplace.” She didn’t want him doing anything extra, not when his cold eyes and implacable jaw said he would rather she lived someplace else. Like the North Pole. Still, she couldn’t help wondering, “Do you usually rent out the guesthouse in the winter months?”

In town, she’d heard about his wife’s trail riding business—the one he’d packed away after she died.

Suddenly, his eyes changed, gentled, and she wondered how it would feel to see them soften because of her. Then the emotion retreated and the dark, icy stare settled back in place. “This is a working ranch. We don’t have time for tourists and the like during our busy months.”

And the like. City folk, out for a quick joyride on a ranch. Curiosity seekers. People of her ilk.

She tried blunt honesty. “Ash…I know you wish I hadn’t come into your life, but—”

“You know nothing of what I wish, lady.”

“Rachel,” she said quietly. “My name is Rachel. Can we call a truce? At least until I talk to Tom again about the interviews?”

“When do you plan on telling him? Or are you hoping to move in here first?”

In other words, execute a con job.

She lifted her chin. She may be a newswoman but, whether he believed it or not, she had a smidgen of propriety, of decency. She was not entirely her father’s daughter, but her mother’s child. “I’ll explain the minute we return to the main house.”

“It’s cold in here, Mom,” Charlie whispered, swinging her attention away from the man across the room. “Is it gonna be freezing when we live here?”

“No, baby.” She righted his eyewear perched at the end of his pug nose. “There’s a heating system same as in the other places we’ve lived.”

Ash strode to a gauge on the wall beside the coat closet. A flick of his finger and she heard the furnace kick in. A couple more adjustments and he’d set the daily program. Done, he walked back to where she and Charlie stood on the welcome mat.

“Trail riding,” he said, “was my wife’s business.”

In other words, apart from the ranch.

“She decorated this building, did the booking.” He looked around. “No one’s stayed here in fifty-five months.”

Since she died. Rachel would be the first. A woman he didn’t want on his ranch, a woman he certainly didn’t want sleeping in his wife’s dollhouse.

Rachel wanted to say “I’m sorry” but in light of why she was here, the words felt phony. Story be damned, this cottage was exactly what her son needed. “Charlie,” she said, “wait for me at the main house, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because I need to speak with Mr. Ash a moment.”

Her son darted a look at the man, worry in his blue eyes. “You gonna be long?”

“No.” She fiddled with his wool hat, tucked the tiny ’Vette into his pocket. “A minute. Now go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

She waited until her son slipped out the door, then turned to the man with his hands on his hips. “I don’t know what happened in the accident that took your wife’s life and I can only imagine the loss you suffered. But I assure you I won’t change or damage anything in this building or on your ranch. And I will continue looking in town for a more permanent place. As soon as I find one, we’ll be gone.”

“Don’t you mean once you’ve finished interviewing Tom?”

For a moment, silence. “Why didn’t you warn him?”

“That you’re here because of a Vietnam kick?”

“I’m here because my son needs a decent place to live.”

One brow rose slowly. “You going maternal on me, Ms. Brant?”

“It’s the truth.”

He laughed softly. “Now there’s an interesting word coming from a reporter.”

She wouldn’t back down. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Tom handles his own battles.”

In other words, handicaps did not make a man less a man.

She sighed. “I’m unsure why you dislike me so much. Is it because I work for a newspaper, or is it me personally?”

“Who said I dislike you?”

His hot tea eyes speared her heart, ran a current down her thighs. She saw his desire, saw him fight the emotion.

Her nerves smoothed. Whether he liked it or not, his attraction to her was as true as the air they breathed.

Linear brows lowering, he moved closer. “Cat got your tongue?”

She stepped back. “I think I should go.”

Remaining alone with him hadn’t been a good idea. Rough Montana terrain, fifteen-hundred-pound horses and thousand-pound cows had crafted his body.

But she had observed his expression with his daughter, when he thought of his wife.

Something in her eyes had him suddenly turning for the door. “Inez, our housekeeper, will clean the place over the next few days. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

“Ash…”

Head down, back to her, he waited. In that second, she wanted to touch him. Just a touch. A palm to his spine, easing the stress she sensed churning under his skin.

“You’re a kind man. I’m very—Thank you. For everything.”

His shoulders heaved a sigh. “Best get back to your boy.” Opening the door, he strode into a thick, lazy snowfall.

Tom was at the kitchen table with Daisy and Charlie, drinking hot cocoa, when Ash returned from the cottage, Rachel in tow. Seeing his stepfather in that chair, so mangled…and then for her to head back to town without a hint, without honesty…. Ash frowned. It wasn’t right.

He shot Rachel a look. Honesty is best up front.

Clever woman read his thoughts. Directly to Tom, she said, “Mr. McKee, as I mentioned on the phone the other day, renting the guesthouse isn’t the only reason I’m here.”

On her forehead sweat poked from her skin as if she’d sat for an hour in a sauna. “I’m freelancing for a magazine on the East Coast, as well as working at the town paper.”

“A magazine?”

“Yes, American Pie. It’s like The New Yorker. I’m doing a series. It’s about…”

She was nervous, Ash realized. A journalist nervous about a story. Interesting.

“It’s about survivors. From Hells Field.”

Tom scrutinized the woman for a long moment, eyes and face rigid as stone. Deep in the house, the cuckoo clock chimed the half hour. “What for?”

She leveled her shoulders. “Because it was one of the most controversial battles in that war. And you—you were the leader of a platoon of nineteen Marines of which only seven survived.”

A hush fell. Ash imagined angsty commotion in her mind as she waited: Tom would tell her to leave. He’d sic those cattle dogs on her the minute she and Charlie stepped outside. And Ash, family defender, would chase her car on his horse all the way down the road.

Tom’s lips pulled tight. “Old news. Fact is, the more years between, the more people forget. Better that way.”

She glanced at Ash, looking, he suspected, for support. For a split second his heart skipped and he almost stepped beside her. Then he saw Daisy, transfixed at the table, and he moved, instead, within reach of his daughter. Damn straight he was the defender of his family.

His positioning wasn’t lost on Rachel. Her gaze wove from one to the next, finally settling on Tom. “Wouldn’t you like something good to come out of all you’ve lost, Mr. McKee?”

The old man snorted. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Missy. Ain’t got nothing to say about Nam.” The chair hummed backward before he spun around and headed toward the hallway that led to his private rooms.

“Grandpa, wait!” Daisy jumped up from the table. “I want to know about Hells Field.”

Ash moved around Rachel, blocking her view with his back. “Daisy, let it be.”

“No,” she cried. “God. You’d think that war was garbage we should throw out. People died, Dad. Over fifty thousand of them. Grandpa was there and he was wounded, and I don’t even know why or how. This isn’t just our country’s history, it’s our history. Mine!” Her tiny nostrils flared. “Just like Mom is.”

Tom wheeled down the hall. Conversation over.

“Argh,” Daisy muttered. “Stubborn old man.”

“Daisy.” Ash gentled his voice, touched her shoulder.

She shrugged him off. “You’re as bad as him. You don’t want to talk about Mom any more than he does about Vietnam. It’s like every time something bad happens, we put a lid on it. Like that’s gonna make it go away. It’s not. And neither is Mom’s death no matter how many pictures you hang.”

“Daisy Anne—” Dammit to hell.

“It’s the truth.” Tears shone in her eyes and his heart broke. “Thanks for trying, Ms. Brant. At least you got them to admit there was a Hells Field.”

Ash glared at Rachel. You hurt my family. For that, he could not forgive her.

But she surprised him again. “Sometimes—” she turned to his daughter “—it’s better to let history and the past fade. It softens the pain.”

Not an hour here and she was peering into places he’d nailed shut for years. He started for the door. “I think you should take your son and go.”

“Why this war?” Tom spoke from the hallway, surprising Ash. Though his stepfather had returned, severity thinned his lips. “Why Vietnam?”

“Because my dad was in it,” Rachel replied, giving the old man her full attention. Tom’s pupils pinpricked.

“My grampa calls it the black hole,” her son piped up.

“Hush, Charlie.”

Tom zeroed in on the kid. “Why’s that, boy?”

“Cuz a bunch of people went in it and never got out.”

“Charlie,” Rachel whispered. Her gaze scooted from Tom to Ash like a creature trapped by wolves. “We’ll be getting back to town. It’s been a pleasure, Tom. Daisy.” She refused to look at Ash.

Feeling’s mutual, lady. He reached for the door but his nose caught her perfume, a wisp of springtime.

Oh, yeah. He wanted her gone.

“Just a minute,” Tom said, halting them all. “I’ll make you a deal, Ms. Brant.” He looked at Daisy. Under grizzled gray brows, his eyes eased. “My granddaughter wants to know about the war for a school project. You help her write that story and I’ll do your interview.”

Ash gaped. “Pops—”

Tom held up a hand. “However, my son and I will read your work when it’s done, and you’ll fax it from this house so there’s no chance of changes.” His jaw was resolute, his eyes strict. “Ash can decide if he wants to rent the cottage.”

“Thank you.” Relief washed over her face.

Before Ash could interject, Tom spun his chair toward the kitchen, Daisy in tow.

God almighty, Ash thought. Was the old man losing it? Less than a week ago, he’d been resolute about his secrets. Now this?

Determined to dig out his father’s motives later, he waited by the door, watched Rachel help her son with his coat. The scene conjured up Susie with Daisy at seven and Daisy batting her mother’s hands, declaring, “I can put my coat on, Mom. I can do it.” Charlie held out his thin arms for his mother’s help.

At the top of the porch steps, she faced Ash. Her brows were dark and sweeping. A swallow’s wings.

He fisted his hands in the pockets of his jeans when the breeze caught a strand of her hair against that lilting mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “for upsetting your family.”

If he pulled her against him, her head would rest against his collarbone. “Apology accepted.”

“Well.” She pulled on her gloves. “Goodbye, Ash.”

He could tell she didn’t expect to hear from him again.

“See ya.”

She walked through the snowfall to her car where Charlie petted Jinx and Pedro. A minute later, her Sunburst drove from the Flying Bar T and the dogs crept back under the porch.