Winter's End. Ruth Herne Logan
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?”
Craig’s brow shifted up in interest. “Sounds like the same girl to me. She’s good at her job, Marc.” He shook his head, his face out-turned. “That doesn’t mean we’re solid inside. You know that.”
They’d reached the west-facing door of the barn. Slanted beams from the early setting sun shone through the glass upper. Marc worked his jaw before facing Craig. “Life’s plenty full around here. Between Jess’s schedule and Dad’s illness keeping him up at night, the feed store, the cattle…” Marc shook his head. “I can’t imagine squeezing one more thing in.”
“Some things don’t take space or time. They just make the rest easier to handle.”
Craig was talking