The Rancher's Twins. Carol Ross

probably from the cold sweat breaking out all over her body.

      * * *

      HALF-DAZED AND FULL-ON IRRITATED, Jon headed out to the nanny’s vehicle. At least the well-used four-wheel-drive SUV was Montana practical. Although, he noted disapprovingly, it could use some new tires. Opening the back, he wondered how many trips it would take him to haul City Girl’s stuff inside. Seemed like kind of a waste since she wouldn’t be here long. He was calling the agency first thing in the morning and getting a replacement.

      “Huh,” he grunted. All he saw was one small suitcase and a bag that looked about large enough for a laptop. He’d expected at least one steamer trunk filled entirely with impractical shoes.

      Back inside the house, he deposited the bags in the guest room, which reminded him to take a side trip to the laundry room and put the sheets in the dryer. Still fuming, he headed into the bathroom in his master suite. Normally, he’d just wash up in the half bath off the mudroom, but he needed a second. Several seconds. Days maybe.

      After scrubbing his hands, he splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection.

      “Lydia Newbury,” he said and then followed up with a whispered expletive. “It even sounds like a spoiled, city-girl name.”

      How could this have happened? The agency advertised that they carefully vetted each candidate and placed them in the best possible position. He’d specifically requested a nanny with ranching or farming experience, a rural background at the very least. This woman looked like she just stepped off the subway in her tight skirt and stupid high-heeled boots. Long, silky, chestnut-colored hair shined with expensive highlights, manicured nails clutched a designer bag that looked so soft it would probably melt in the rain.

      His marriage hadn’t lasted long, but it had been long enough to recognize a woman addicted to the finer things. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d blatantly given herself away. She didn’t want to be here on the JB Bar Ranch. From the window, he and Sofie had watched her, scowling and shaking her head. “I think I must have the wrong place,” she’d said, standing right on his doorstep, her expression so baffled and forlorn that once upon a time his younger, naive self might have gone weak with sympathy. That man had died right along with his marriage.

      Reality rarely lived up to expectations and he couldn’t help but wonder what she’d been imagining? A stately old colonial mansion? A “rustic” lodge-style monstrosity that wasn’t rustic at all but was designed to look as if it was, like the guest house at the Blackwell Ranch? Too bad it wasn’t open yet—he could move her over there until she could catch a plane back to Philadelphia. Whatever she’d had in mind, it clearly was not Jon’s modest-sized rambler.

      “How cute,” Ava had said the first day he’d brought her to the JB Bar. “A ranch-style home for a rancher. We can add on later, right?” Jon had thought she was joking. By the time he’d learned otherwise, she was pregnant. When it came to material things, Ava had no sense of humor, only a longing that he could not satisfy. Her cravings were the kind that ranching could never cure, not his style of ranching, anyway. He’d built his house and ranch from the ground up with cattle, practicality and comfort in mind. Pretty much in that order.

      A nanny like Lydia was out of the question. He’d had enough of coddling beautiful, materialistic, impossible-to-please women to last a lifetime. Besides, he thought as a wave of those bitter feelings washed over him, it didn’t work, anyway.

      It had taken weeks for this nanny to get here. How long would it take to get a replacement?

      * * *

      AFTER SOFIE LEFT, Lydia remained in the kitchen, admiring the granite countertops, brushed stainless-steel appliances and double sinks. Gorgeous hardwood floors gleamed beneath her feet. A large island made up the centerpiece of the room. Copper-bottomed pans hung from a rack suspended above. Five tall padded comfy-looking stools were tucked under the opposite edge.

      She stepped closer to the deluxe five-burner stove with double ovens and felt a spark of joy. A little swirl of hope circled inside of her. If Lydia had designed the kitchen herself, she wouldn’t change a thing. Cozy and gourmet utilitarian at the same time. Cooking was an area where she felt supremely confident.

      The girls skipped into the kitchen. Genevieve climbed up one of the tall stools at the kitchen’s island.

      “It’s dinnertime, why don’t you guys go ahead and sit at the table?”

      “We eat here,” Abby said, joining her sister in the next chair.

      Hmm. Lydia had fond memories of her and Nana sharing meals at the table. “Every day?”

      “When we eat here.”

      “What do you mean when you eat here?”

      “Since it’s calving time we usually eat in the bunkhouse with the cowboys.”

      “I see.” But she didn’t. Was she supposed to cook for a bunch of cowboys, too? Now that she thought about it, the position hadn’t come with much of a job description. That had been the least of her concerns. She and Blackwell needed to hash out a few details.

      “Tonight, we’re going to sit at the table, okay? That way we can see each other while we eat, and I can get to know you guys a little bit.”

      “Are you going to quit, too?” Abby asked.

      “Quit?”

      “All our babysitters quit,” she explained.

      “No, I most certainly am not.” For once in her life quitting was not an option.

      The girls exchanged glances. Leaning their heads together, they whispered excitedly. After a moment, something seemed to be decided because they sat up straight again, grinned at Lydia and shrugged in tandem. “Okay.” They hopped down and darted toward the dining room.

      “Hey, you guys want to help me set the table since you’re headed that way?”

      They turned back toward her, matching gray-blue eyes wide and curious. For a few long seconds Lydia thought they were going to balk.

      Abby’s face erupted with a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

      “I’ll get the spoons,” Genevieve said.

      The three of them were seated and waiting when Blackwell strode into the kitchen. Stopping short, he looked from the kitchen to the dining room and back again. Lydia almost laughed at the baffled expression on his face.

      Abby saved Lydia from having to explain. “Daddy, look, we’re eating at the table.”

      “Isn’t this neat?” Gen added.

      “Uh... Yeah, very...” He walked over and stood before the table for a second, hands on hips. “Neat.” He folded his tall length into the vacant chair and Lydia couldn’t help thinking that he moved with the graceful ease of an athlete. Or a cowboy. Not that she’d ever known one of the latter. Dipping his head down, he studied the steaming bowl of stew as if trying to decide what it might contain.

      Unlike the new kitchen, the oak dining table looked very old. The girls had shown Lydia the drawer in the matching buffet where place mats were kept. They’d seemed excited when Lydia encouraged them to choose a set.

      Fiddling with the silverware laid out on his left side, Blackwell looked at Lydia. “We don’t usually eat here.”

      “The girls told me.” Lydia unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. “Dinnertime is a nice way to multitask, though, don’t you think? You get to eat and spend time together as a family. That’s what my grandmother always said.”

      Blackwell’s lips formed a grim line while the twins stared at her solemnly.

      “You’re lucky to have a grandma,” Abby said.

      “Yeah,” Gen agreed. “We have Zoe, but she doesn’t like us to call her Grandma. She doesn’t do any grandma stuff, either. One time she painted our fingernails.”