The Bachelor's Homecoming. Karen Kirst
* *
Tom was holding her hand.
The soft-as-a-feather scrape of his thumb across her skin mesmerized her. Hot tingles arrowed up her arm and into her midsection. He was standing so near, wide shoulders filling her vision, his brilliant green eyes earnest.
“I...I’m not angry anymore.”
“But you’re disappointed.”
She couldn’t lie. “Yes.”
“And hurt.”
“That, too.”
This close, his lips looked firm yet yielding. If Tom tried to kiss her, she wouldn’t shy away. She’d welcome his embrace. It hit her then that marrying Roy wouldn’t have accomplished anything. Laura’s arrival had saved her from a catastrophic mistake.
Pulling free, she adopted a casual air that was difficult to pull off. “Not sure why I expected you to write to me. I was just a silly kid with a bad case of hero worship.”
His forehead creased. “That’s not how I remember it. We were friends. I—”
“Uncle Tom?” Clara twisted her hem in both hands. “I’m hungry.”
Tom continued to stare at Jane, obviously conflicted. After a moment, he slowly nodded. “I am, too. Guess it’s time for a bite to eat.”
Glad for the interruption, Jane held out her hand to her. “My ma packed lots of goodies. Why don’t we go and see what all there is to choose from? We can finish the dishes when we’re done.”
Clara’s hand in hers was small and warm, her expression trusting but with a hint of sadness and uncertainty. Jane found herself pondering how to elicit a smile from Tom’s charge.
Her hope that he would busy himself with another chore fell flat when he stacked the already washed plates in his arms and followed them to the cabin. He even joined them in riffling through the foodstuffs, his excitement matching Clara’s over the jars of apple butter and assorted jams. They decided to appease their hunger with thick slices of bread smeared with butter and blackberry preserves. Jane insisted on scrubbing the tabletop beforehand, so while she tended that task, Tom readied the food.
A giggle caught her attention. Twisting, she saw them standing together at the long counter beside the cookstove. His hair was a shade darker than hers, but the family resemblance was strong. He dipped his finger in the jar and swiped a tiny bit of sweet jam on the tip of Clara’s nose. He grinned. “Try and lick it off.”
Clara stuck out her tongue. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t reach. “My tongue isn’t long enough.”
“Let me try,” he said, swiping some on his own nose.
Clara giggled again at his antics, and Jane couldn’t suppress her mirth. She’d forgotten how good he was at that. Making others laugh. Making them forget their problems, even if just for a little while.
He looked across the room at her and winked. She quickly resumed her task before she could act on the impulse to join them. She wasn’t part of their family.
And she couldn’t allow herself to be a part of their lives, no matter how much the idea appealed. When the surface was at last clean, Tom carried three plates over.
“You’re joining us, right?” He pulled out a chair for her.
Jane hadn’t planned to. She could use the time to wipe off the wall-mounted shelves above the counter or clean out the stove’s firebox. But she didn’t want to disappoint Clara, who was waiting expectantly.
“Sure.” Taking her seat beside him, she scooted the plate closer.
“I haven’t had a chance to purchase a milk cow. We’ll have to make do with water.” He angled his thumb toward the saddlebags in the corner. “Unless you’d prefer coffee. I could wash out the kettle and brew us some.”
“Water’s fine.”
“Do you even drink coffee? You didn’t use to like it.”
“Sometimes. I require lots of milk and sugar when I do.”
He nodded, the bread balanced in his large, work-roughened hand. “I’ll be sure to have those items on hand next time you visit. And this place spick-and-span.”
Jane didn’t mention she wasn’t planning on doing much of that. Quietly taking in the interaction between uncle and niece, her questions mounted. Tom was completely at ease with the child, his manner natural. He loved her. How had such a rapport between them built? How long had he been her sole caretaker?
By the time he’d gotten her settled on her pallet for a nap, Jane couldn’t resist questioning him. Pride be hanged.
They’d gone out onto the porch, the cloying heat hinting at an impending rain shower, and he’d tugged on his buckskin gloves and begun removing the remainder of the vines. Bit by bit, the sagging railing became visible.
She hung back, out of his way. “What happened to Clara’s mother?”
The muscles in his broad back rippling with effort, he ripped away a handful of vines and tossed them in a growing pile near the porch. Pushing his hat farther up his forehead, he met her gaze squarely, rioting emotions near the surface.
“Jenny died a year after I went to live with her and Charles. Pneumonia.”
“I’m so sorry.” Sympathy squeezed her heart. Poor Clara.
“Me, too. She was a fine woman.”
“How old was Clara?”
“Four.”
Lips pressed in a tight line, he attacked the last section. So he and his brother had been left to comfort the small girl. Cook for her. Do the wash. Mend clothes. Hard to fathom how they’d managed it in addition to ranch work.
“Where is Charles?”
Was it her imagination, or did he yank on the stubborn vegetation with greater force? He discarded another bunch before answering.
“I have no clue where my brother is,” he bit out.
Shock carried her forward. “I don’t understand.”
“Me, either.” He snorted. “It’s not a topic I like to dwell on.”
His rigid spine and closed-off expression warned her to abandon the topic. There was a mystery here, one she would’ve liked to unravel. Short of tying him up and forcing it out of him—something her bolder, braver twin wouldn’t have hesitated to try—she’d have to accept his silence on the subject.
Besides, the less she knew about his life, the less involved she’d be. Keeping her distance—emotionally and physically—was the only way to survive his homecoming.
Jane’s heart and mind were at war. Her heart insisted she stay and attempt to draw him out. Learn what had happened in Kansas. Her oh-so-practical mind, on the other hand, was insisting she leave.
“I’ll go and finish those dishes.”
By now, he’d uncovered the entire porch railing. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get to them later.”
“I like to finish what I start.” That was the only reason she wasn’t climbing in her wagon right this minute. “I have extra time on my hands since the café is closed on Sundays.”
“That’s kind of you, Jane.” He dropped the last bunch onto the pile. “Least I can do is pitch in.”
Not giving her a chance to decline his offer, he took her elbow and assisted her through the thick vegetation. She was very conscious of the strength of his fingers through the gloves, his gentle hold. He didn’t release her until