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Marc didn’t bring his cup to the table. He stood with his back to the sink, arms folded, waiting for the coffee to cool. He frowned, then glanced around. “Who? Me?”
Difficult man. Could you try being nice? Kayla nodded. “Your socks.” She pointed down.
“Yes?”
He drew the word out deliberately, his voice tinged with dis-belief. She ignored the cool bite. “They look warm.”
He paused too long, stretching his response to make her feel awkward. No way would she let him see his strategy worked. She held her ground and her tongue until he answered. “They are.”
“Where did you get them?”
He swept her feet a glance. “Your toes cold?”
She fought back a retort and counted to five. Why were her sassy clogs such an issue? Couldn’t he answer a simple question without being a jerk?
“I walk for exercise,” she answered. She didn’t mention she needed the socks to keep her feet warm at home. That would give him an opening to make some schlocky remark about her shoes. “Warm socks would be nice.”
“Ostrander’s.”
“The bed and breakfast?” Marc DeHollander didn’t seem like the B and B type.
“They have a wool shop beneath the house.”
“Really?” Kayla pictured the farm’s bucolic setting. Tourists spoke highly of the accommodations. “Thanks.” She nodded. “I’ll stop by.”
“Better check the hours,” Pete warned. Kayla turned his way. “During winter, the family might not be around as much.”
“Good point. I’ll call first. Were they expensive?” She turned back to Marc.
He looked as though he wasn’t sure what to make of her or the discussion. “Quality has its price. They do the job.”
And the award for warm and fuzzy personality goes to…anyone but you, Farmer Boy.
Kayla swallowed words she would have voiced short years past and nodded. “That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”
His eyes pierced, the gray-green color flint and flat. Long seconds ticked by before he switched his attention to his father, the move dismissive. “I’m picking Jess up from Nan’s later. Anything you need from town?”
Pete patted the small package. “I had a hankering for some of them filled wafery things. Kayla got some for me.”
“Wasn’t that nice?” The edge in Marc’s voice told Kayla she’d stepped on his toes again.
She bit back a groan. What was it with this guy? Wasn’t anything easy? Did bringing his sick father a box of Napoleons constitute war?
Marc rolled his shoulders. With one long swig, he drained his cup and plunked it onto the scarred counter. “Anything special you’d like for supper, Dad? I can defrost the meat.”
Pete mulled, then said, “Stew.”
Marc smiled.
Whoa. Secret weapon, highly effective. Definitely part of his arsenal that should be kept sheathed, only to be revealed with a mandatory warning to all females within relative proximity. Kayla’s heart beat a rat-a-tat-tat against her breastbone, a totally adolescent reaction. Stop. Stay cool. Distant. Step away from the smile. Avert your eyes. Whatever it takes.
The grin held a high-amp flash of teeth and a dimple that should have made him look soft, but didn’t. Just the opposite. The man looked good. Self-assured. Confident and happy.
His father grinned in response. Kayla looked from one to the other, mystified. “Is there something I’m missing? A private joke?”
Marc shifted his weight. “Family stuff.”
Her spine tightened. The rebuff was meant to keep her in her place. He’d drawn a line in the sand, a marker of domination.
She didn’t need his marker. She knew her place. Always had. With an audible intake of breath, she reached into her laptop bag and withdrew papers. “Are you up to doing paperwork, Mr. D.?”
He nodded. “I’m okay.”
“Good.” She smiled at him and worked to focus on the more rudimentary aspects of her job. Sparring with Marc would get her nothing but aggravation. She didn’t need that. With his father’s terminal condition, Marc didn’t either. The guy was spoiling for a fight, and she refused to give him the satisfaction. Maybe she could suggest a night at the gym, a bout with a punching bag. Did gyms still have punching bags?
She didn’t know, but figured Marc might feel better after an evening-long session with one. Hours of repetitive thrashing could release his anger at a situation beyond his control. And beyond hers, for that matter. She’d been assigned to do a job, and had every intention of performing her task to the best of her ability.
With or without Marc DeHollander’s approval.
Chapter Four
Marc pulled into Nan Bedlow’s at 5:40 p.m. He’d spent the better part of the day moving rotational fencing, allowing the herd new winter grazing on old cornstalks. His shoulders ached and his back knew the strain of bending and shifting, but he’d finished the job.
The task wasn’t rhythmic like when he partnered with his dad. Then, one would drive, one would stake and unspool the wire to the plastic insulators, and they’d leapfrog one another to keep the installation moving. They could encircle a cornfield in a few hours time.
Quick compared to today, anyway. Setting fence was a two-man job.
He’d hired help for the feed store so he could have more time with his father. Even with the midwinter slump in business, he couldn’t be in the store, the barn and the house at the same time. Superman, he wasn’t. But he couldn’t justify paying two hands with the decreased work, so the store got the extra hands and Marc got the farm labor.
He smiled as Jess swung open the passenger door.
“Cold?”
Jess tugged off her gloves. “Oh, yeah.” She placed her hands palms down over the dashboard vents. “Thanks for having the truck warm.”
“It’s all right. Good session today?” Jess worked Rooster several times a week. The saucy paint had been a relatively inexpensive purchase five years past. He’d proven to be a good horse, with instinctive showmanship. The gelding loved an audience.
That made him perfect for Jess’s needs. Rooster defied the laws of gravity with his leans and Jess had no problem eyeing the arena’s dirt floor with him. They made a team, with the show ribbons and acclaim to prove it.
Jess kept her eyes trained ahead. “Good enough.”
Uh-oh. “But?”
“He needs to work.”
Ah. January doldrums. Working horses didn’t like being put to rest. They’d stabled Rooster with Nan so they wouldn’t have to trailer him. Jess worked off his feed by helping Nan. It seemed a good plan, but Rooster was a “go” horse. Hanging out with the pampered babies of weekend riders wasn’t his cup of tea. Marc understood that. “You’re probably right.”
“But trailering him here takes a lot of time.”
“Not so much.”
Jess started to object. Marc raised a hand. “We want to do what’s best for him, right?”
“Yes, but you’re doing everything on your own. That’s hard.”
She didn’t add that the advanced state of their dad’s cancer not only removed a capable set of hands, but added a pall to everyday life. They both recognized that. She continued, “I wish I didn’t have to go to school. I’d rather stay home and work with you. Ride. Feed. Muck.”
“Castrate.”
Jess laughed. “That, too.”
“You’re a born rancher, kid. And when those calves start dropping, I’ll put you to work.”
“I know.” Her voice was smug. “I’m a chip off the old block.”
Marc tuned in more carefully. Something else was going on. Something unspoken. “Problems?”
“Nope.”
She answered too fast. Marc mulled the possibilities. Jess was a good student. High honor roll, a favorite of teachers. He frowned as a thought occurred.
She rarely brought friends around. She’d meet up with other riders at the ring and sometimes hang out with them, but that was different.
School friends? None he could picture. Did she feel funny bringing them home with Dad sick? “Why not have some friends over this weekend? We can do a winter barbecue.”
Jess’s careful smile set off warning signals. “I’ve got to get ready for first semester finals and work Rooster, plus help you. And I’d rather spend time with Dad right now.”
Marc couldn’t argue. Time with Dad was growing short, although his father seemed more energized today. Still, the feeling he was missing something stuck with him. Resolving to figure it out, he turned into the drive.
The nurse’s car sat in his spot. He frowned, parked and followed Jess in.
“You must be Jess.” As he crossed the threshold, Marc saw the nurse offer her hand. “I’m Kayla Doherty, your dad’s nurse.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jess’s voice mirrored the sincerity of her smile. She grabbed the nurse’s hand in a firm grip. “Dad says you’re wonderful.”
The nurse laughed. Jess’s dimples deepened at the carefree reaction. Marc cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “The door, Jess.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Jess stepped in farther so Marc could close the door. Turning, he caught the nurse’s eye. “Is Dad okay?”
“He’s fine,” she replied. “He asked me to come by and meet Jess.” She smiled Jess’s way. “We hadn’t met and your dad wants you comfortable around me. That way you can ask me questions, approach me about anything. If I don’t have the answer, I’ll find it for you.”
“You came back to tell us that?” Marc stared, trying to read her angle. Women like her always had an angle. Part of the inborn metabolism that fed her need for stylish clothes and trendy shoes. Not to mention sassy nails.
“And for stew.”
Marc fought a groan. She met his look and continued, “Your dad invited me.”
“That’s great.” Jess’s voice pitched up. Obviously her taste was less discriminate than his. She grabbed Kayla’s hand, excited. “There’s never another girl around here.”
“Imagine that.” The nurse leveled Marc a look that said nothing and everything.
Marc narrowed his eyes. Her gaze offered a challenge. Silent, he pushed his boots into the corner and strode into the kitchen as Jess exclaimed, “Great shoes. I love wedges, any time of year. Where’d you get them?”
The nurse’s answer was lost to him as she and Jess headed toward the living room.
Great shoes, my—
Marc clamped the thought. With Jess growing up, it was normal for her to like girl things, right? Although tempted, he couldn’t keep her in flannel forever. Girls didn’t wear barn clothes to the prom. Or on dates. But he fought inner panic at the thought.
He didn’t want Jess to be like their mother, more concerned with appearance than substance. He wanted her to be a woman of merit. Women like that didn’t wear insensible shoes in January.
Responsibility tugged as he tended the stewpot. He didn’t know anything about raising a girl. How would he talk to her about…stuff? Girl stuff? Boy stuff?
Laughter from the front room caught his attention. Didn’t the nurse say she’d answer Jess’s questions? Hadn’t she just made that offer? Nurses were trained for that, right?
After all, Jess was raised on a ranch. She’d seen animals mating in a natural dance of life from the time she could walk. Truth be told, she could probably tell the nurse a thing or two. They’d raised dogs, cows and horses. Jess had been present at births and deaths and everything in between.
Even knowing that, he couldn’t bring himself to talk to her about the facts of life. No way, no how.
He grimaced as he withdrew a loaf of Amish bread from the oven. To approach the nurse, he’d have to be nice to her. Ignore her foolish shoes and her Meg Ryan haircut. The saucy look. And the “notice me” fingernail polish. For a moment he wondered if she painted her toes to match, then pushed the thought aside.
He was a tough guy. A farmer and rancher. He could be nice to a woman who placed looking good above everything else if it meant help with Jess.
But it wouldn’t be easy.
Chapter Five
“Great stew,” Kayla announced, but didn’t wait for Marc’s customary gruff acknowledgment. “I’ve never had better.”
Marc met her gaze, surprising her. “Thanks. Dad and I came up with this.”
Pete laughed, his fork aloft. The sound inspired a quick smile from Jess. “After too many failures to count,” he lamented, grinning. “Our early attempts were disasters. We’d have never made it in the restaurant business. Jess being little, we could always mash something up for her.”
Jess groaned.
“But for us, we had a long spell where we grilled everything,” Pete continued. The memory deepened his smile. “Steak, chicken, burgers, hot dogs, chops. I bought a propane grill so we wouldn’t have to mess with charcoal in the dead of winter.”
“Makes side dishes a challenge,” Kayla offered.
Once again Marc surprised Kayla by looking right at her. “Frozen veggie casseroles you stick in the microwave.” He arched a brow that would have done Pierce Brosnan proud. “And baked potatoes.”
“Always baked potatoes,” agreed Pete. “Peeling and mashing was too much work.”
“Exactly.” Marc exchanged another smile with his dad before turning back to her.
Kayla nodded in appreciation. The fact that he wasn’t growling pushed her to make the look more sincere. “That sounds all right, though. A good meal, all in all.”
“Every night.”
She laughed out loud. “Seriously?”
Marc leaned her way. The green flecks in his gray eyes were joined by points of gold surrounding a jet-black pupil, a myriad of muted color, very Monet. He held her gaze. “Every single night for over a year.” Then he flashed the smile she’d seen once before and she couldn’t help but grin in return. Maybe he had a personality after all.
She was a smart girl and she’d been raised in an environment that made her examine other people’s motives. That made her reasoning simple.
Marc DeHollander wanted something.
Kayla tamped down the feeling. She could be wrong. He may have had a change of heart in the quarter hour she chatted with Jess, sitting on the worn but comfy sofa. Maybe he’d come to realize she wasn’t evil personified.
Not likely. Lifting her coffee, she let her eyes meet his.
Strength. Ambition. Focus. She read the attributes in his expression and couldn’t find them lacking. They were good qualities. There was a potency about Marc DeHollander that lent itself to aspirations.
He was a goal-setter. Whether he had the gumption to reach those goals was another thing, but she sensed the determination from that one look.
So why the sudden change to nice? Was he trying to smooth things over for his dad’s sake?
Possibly. He clearly loved his father.
Or maybe Jess’s presence inspired him. Perhaps he shelved rude behavior in the presence of impressionable teens.
More likely.
Kayla set down her mug and appraised him.
He met her gaze with no animosity. Different, in a nice way.
But Kayla had learned to study the motives behind behavior rather than accept actions at face value. She knew better than to trust the surface. She liked the more relaxed demeanor he offered, but wouldn’t be fooled by it.
As long as he put a lid on that “sit beside me” smile. The wattage alone was enough to ruin a girl’s resolve. Luckily, Kayla’s self-generated “I’m leaving in six months for places unknown” force field was firmly intact.
“Dinner was good.” Kayla shrugged into her coat with careless ease. “I know you were surprised to find me here. Your father didn’t mention he called me?”
Marc shook his head. “He was asleep this afternoon, and I ran errands before I picked up Jess.” He watched as she positioned her scarf, long fingers snugging the ends beneath the coat. “You wear open-toed beach shoes in the house and bundle up to walk thirty feet to your car.”
“They’re not beach shoes,” she argued. “They’re comfy shoes, with quiet soles that don’t disturb resting patients. And the car,” she nodded toward the drive, “has been sitting for over two hours. It’ll barely be warm by the time I get home.”
“Your heater doesn’t work?” Why did that bother him? A professional woman ought to have sense enough to service her car, shouldn’t she?
“It’s pokey,” she replied, pulling on her gloves, “and I’m not patient enough to wait for it to warm up.”
Because he did the same thing, he couldn’t say much. Still the thought that her windows might not fully defrost gave him a nudge of unease. He pushed it aside and cleared his throat. “You’ve got cookies?”
Her hands paused. She frowned, puzzled, her bright blue eyes shading darker.
“In case the dog’s out.”
She flushed, but didn’t lose her cool. “A good Scout is always prepared.”
“You were a Scout?”
The flush tinged deeper. “Just an expression.” Her voice toughened to a more pragmatic tone. “I was never in one place long enough to do things like scouting.”
“A gypsy,” he mused out loud. “Or an Army brat.”
“Neither applies.” Her closed expression said he’d get nothing more. She nodded toward the kitchen. “Thanks for giving me time with Jess. She’s a great kid. Does your dad always beat her in Scrabble?”
Marc acknowledged Jess’s losing groan with a wince. “Not always. The kid’s got a hefty vocabulary. She’s a reader,” he added. “And a loner.”
“Really? That’s surprising.”
“It’s true enough,” Marc rejoined. He stuck out a hand in what he hoped was a peace-making gesture. He didn’t like the reasons that brought the stylish nurse to his house, but he needn’t make her task tougher. “Thanks for coming.”
She slipped a glove off and grasped his hand. “I was glad to do it, Mr. DeHollander.”
Her skin felt soft between his work-roughened fingers. Nice. Warm. He dropped her hand with a minimum of finesse and stepped back. “Marc.”
Her eyes sparkled at his gesture of peace. “Then feel free to call me Kayla,” she told him, her voice low. She leaned forward as if sharing a secret. “Instead of ‘that nurse.’”
Her sassy smile reminded Marc why women like Kayla should be avoided. High-maintenance women didn’t belong in the North Country, much less on a farm.
There were good reasons why Marc avoided savvy women. His mother had been brilliant and beautiful. Arianna DeHollander reveled in the latest trends, a fashionista before the term became a buzz word.
Nope. No way would he repeat his father’s mistakes. Pete married a woman too worldly to be tied to the ruggedness of northern New York. She’d never learned to love the rock-strewn land and the simplicity of the population. She was destined for bigger and better, and let everyone know it. That made her desertion less a surprise, but still devastating. Throw a five-month-old baby into the mix, and you had an interesting family dynamic. Two men and a baby, one guy short of a movie title.
They’d made it work, treasuring the baby to lessen the trauma of her mother’s disappearance.
And Jess was just fine, Marc assured himself. A strong girl, an accelerated student, sure-seated on the back of a horse.
Marc pushed aside the signs he’d noted earlier. Her lack of friends, her singularity. Her anxiety over her appearance. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? Was that normal for girls going through puberty?
He had no idea, but he was rethinking the notion of having Kayla talk with Jess. Jess was a commonsense kind of girl, unafraid to put her hand to work, unlike Miss I-Think-I-Chipped-My-Nail Doherty.
The nurse was smart. And sure of herself. She maintained her equilibrium when challenged, and he’d seen that firsthand because he’d been the challenger.
But she was beautiful and knew it. Saucy and unapologetic. Self-composed, a quality that seemed achieved rather than intrinsic.
But too concerned with her mode of dress, style of hair. She was Reese Witherspoon pixie-pretty, not Julia Roberts gorgeous, but either aspiration was beyond Jess’s caring.
Wasn’t it?
As he headed for the shower, Marc tucked Kayla’s image aside. He’d be nice to her. That was the least he could do.
But that was as far as he’d go. He wouldn’t ask her help with Jess. That would be too personal. Allowing that intimacy could ingrain her. Better that she do her job, he’d do his and they’d face whatever happened as it came.
He nodded, satisfied, then frowned as he grabbed the water knob. Were there fourteen faint freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, or fifteen? He pictured her face and did a mental scan.
Sixteen. Evenly spaced and divided, right to left.
Not that he cared.
Chapter Six
“How’s your dad doing?” Craig Macklin watched as Marc latched the stall door enclosing the spry but very pregnant horse.
“Like you’d expect. Some good days. Some bad.”
“Have they given you a time frame?”
Marc stared. “For?”
“His prognosis.”
Marc swore under his breath. Why was it that everyone else accepted Pete’s fate? Was his family last night’s feature on the late-breaking news?
“This just in: End-stage lung cancer patient Pete DeHollander has a short time to live. Let’s visit the family and see how they’re doing.
“Excuse me, Miss, you’re Jess DeHollander?”
“Yes.” Jess nodded to the man with the mic while a cameraman jostled for position.
“Tell me, Miss DeHollander, how do you feel knowing your dad is at death’s door?”
Jess’s smile revealed the gentle spirit within, a hint of pathos strengthened by faith. “I feel blessed to have been his daughter all these years. He raised me when my mother abandoned me. He fed me, clothed me and saw to my education at the highly rated local school. And he gave me a horse.”
Suddenly Rooster appeared, his head bobbing equine agreement. Jess cradled the paint’s neck and cuddled him, cheek to cheek, both facing the camera. “We’ll miss Dad dearly, but he’s going to a better place.”
The reporter nodded, then turned Marc’s way. “And you, sir? You’re Marcus DeHollander, Pete’s son and soon to be the sole proprietor of DeHollander Hereford Holdings and the De-Hollander Feed and Grain. How do you feel about your father’s impending demise? Will you be able to handle the work of two thriving businesses, raise your sister, keep a home and maintain the kind of social life a thirty-year-old man craves?”
Furious, Marc broke the imagined camera into a thousand pieces and strode briskly away.
“Marc? Where are you, buddy?”
Marc sucked a breath and tried to calm his feelings without much luck. “Your old girlfriend is working here.”
Craig frowned. “My old— What are you talking about?”
“The nurse. The Doherty girl.” As Craig’s expression changed, Marc raised a brow. “Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten now that you’re married.”
Craig laughed. “They won’t let me forget. Sarah and Kayla are friends. Sarah taught Kayla to spin and knit.”
Marc nearly choked. “Awkward at best.”
Craig disagreed. “Naw. Kayla and I only dated a few times. It was never going anywhere. She and Sarah got friendly once Kayla joined our church and the rest is history. She even watches the baby now and then. When she’s not working,” he added.
Craig’s words painted a picture for Marc, of Kayla and little McKenna Rose, a year old now. The image of the baby’s dark curls pressed against Kayla’s fair skin made his fingers tingle. He clenched his hands. “Still weird.”
“Why?”
“Wives and old girlfriends are an odd mix, Macklin. Oil and water. Can’t possibly work.”
“It can if you know Sarah.”
Marc frowned. “I know Sarah. What’s that got to do with—”
Craig interrupted, laughing. “Housed in the lowest level of my well-mortgaged country home are three lambs that needed warming, a barn cat due to deliver and a nephew who is rapidly becoming a dedicated farmer like his aunt.” When Marc looked confused, Craig punched his arm. “Sarah’s good with strays. Kayla fits right in.”
Marc pictured the feisty nurse. “Are we talking about the same woman?” He met Craig’s eye and raised a hand shoulder level. “So high, short blond hair, big blue eyes, crazy shoes and an attitude that barrels into next week?”