The Bachelor's Homecoming. Karen Kirst

taking her hand, walked her over to the steps. Tom remained standing, his focus on the girls.

      She knew what he was thinking. Lillian, with her waist-length blond curls and pale skin, could pass for Megan’s sister. Rose, on the other hand, had dark brown hair and olive skin like Lucian.

      As the girls neared, Clara tucked closer into Tom’s side. He gently stroked her curls and murmured encouraging words. Jane winced. This was the reason she couldn’t be Clara’s caretaker. She couldn’t be in their presence every day, couldn’t witness his patience and affection without yearning to be included. To share in the care and nurturing of this sweet, vulnerable child. And, impossibly, to give him more children. Build a family with him.

       Please, God, let this visit be brief.

      Motherly pride on her face, Megan brought them over. “Girls, I’d like you to meet a dear friend of our family, Mr. Tom Leighton. And this is his niece, Clara.”

      Lillian blushed and smiled. “How do you do?”

      “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Tom said warmly.

      Rose observed Clara with keen interest.

      “Girls, how about you show Clara the gardens?” Megan said.

      “Certainly. Rose has some dolls on the table there.” Lillian pointed to the white wrought-iron setting on the garden’s perimeter. “Would you like to come and play?”

      Clara looked up at her uncle, silently questioning. He bestowed her with a bright smile. “Go ahead, little bird. I’ll be right here.”

      Megan lifted the basket Jane had given her. “I’ll have our treat dished out in a few minutes. I’ll prepare tea for you, sis. Tom, would you care for coffee?”

      “I’d love some.” Striding to her side, he relieved her of her burden. “I’ll help you get everything ready.”

      Jealousy flushed her skin hot, then cold. Jane hated that she was jealous of her own sister. Forgive me, Lord.

      “I’ll stay with Clara,” she scraped out, throat burning. He’d invited her here to smooth things between them. Apparently he didn’t require her presence, as he’d initially thought.

      Megan flashed her a look of apology. Tom thanked Jane, already leading the way to the door, holding it open like a proper gentleman.

      Clara tugged on her sleeve. “Let’s go, Miss Jane.”

      Gazing down into wide, solemn green eyes so much like Tom’s, she realized how immature she was being. This child had endured the loss of her mother. Her father had willingly abandoned her. She was in a new, unfamiliar town far from Kansas, surrounded by people she didn’t know. Jane’s shallow problems were inconsequential compared to Clara’s.

      Summoning a smile, she squeezed her hand. “What shall we do first? Play dolls or explore the gardens?”

      * * *

      Two days later, Tom couldn’t get the image of Jane and Clara out of his head. He and Megan had emerged carrying trays brimming with pie and hot drinks and there, in the midst of the stone path flanked by a profusion of pastel blooms, sat Jane, his niece on her lap, heads bent as they studied a caterpillar in her cupped hands.

      A rare smile had graced Clara’s rosebud mouth. She’d been relaxed in Jane’s arms. Content. And when they’d lifted their heads, he’d been struck by the compassion on Jane’s face.

      He shouldn’t be surprised at the evidence of his friend’s maternal instinct. Jane was one of the most kindhearted, loving people he’d ever met. That’s why he was here on her doorstep unannounced, ready to get down on his knees and beg if need be.

      At his knock, the door swung open and there she stood, an apron over her nut-brown skirt and buttercup-yellow blouse. Shiny strands had slipped from her simple twist to form a halo about her appealing features, the hair at her temples damp from the afternoon heat. One hand clutched a small towel. He’d interrupted her baking.

      “Tom.” Varying emotions surged and waned in her shadowed eyes. She dusted flour from her apron. “I wasn’t expecting you today.” She looked beyond his shoulder to where Clara was crouched in the grass, picking dandelions. “Is everything okay?”

      Of course it wasn’t. He was overwhelmed with the massive task of setting the farm to rights while trying to keep an eye on Clara, not to mention taking time out to prepare meals. He hadn’t even addressed the issue of Clara’s new wardrobe yet.

      “Do you have a minute?”

      Draping the towel over her shoulder, she opened the door wider. “Sure. Come on in.”

      Inside the main living area of her family’s two-story cabin, the tempting aroma of apples and cinnamon curled around him. The low-ceilinged rectangular room looked pretty much the same as he remembered it—a stacked-stone fireplace dominated one wall. Oval-backed chairs surrounded one long chocolate-brown settee and a yellow-gold fainting couch. Sewing baskets, fabrics and supplies occupied a low table in the far corner. A cramped dining space led to the kitchen.

      “Smells amazing in here.”

      “I’m working on a stack cake for Hattie Williams’s wedding tomorrow. Do you mind if I give Clara a treat?”

      “She’d enjoy that.”

      He followed her to the kitchen, attention on her hair and her exposed nape. She’d nearly caught up with him in the height department, the crown of her head about even with his nose. The twins were tall and slender like their eldest sister, Juliana, and shared the same flame-colored hair.

      Being in her kitchen was like being in the bowels of a bakery. The pie safe’s doors were open, the shelves crowded with baked goods. A five-pound sack of flour, containers of sugar and fresh butter occupied one end of her work surface, while bowls and spoons of various sizes fanned out around the stack cake in the middle. Even the table had been put to use. Spice bags and a crate of eggs lined the nearest edge.

      “Where’s Jessica?” Tom propped a hip against the counter, wishing he could have a taste of the towering confection.

      “At the mercantile. I ran out of vanilla extract.” Removing the covering on a large plate, she counted out four ginger cookies the size of his palm.

      “Are all of those for Clara?”

      Humor played about her generous mouth, and she started to replace the top two. “I thought you might like to indulge your sweet tooth, but if you’d rather not...”

      For a moment, he was struck dumb by her almost smile, the first true glimpse of the lighthearted girl he used to know. One long stride had him at her side. Chuckling, he swiped them from her hand and took a huge bite. “Mmm. You, Janie girl, are the best baker in the state. Maybe even in the east.”

      Her green gaze clung to his, something akin to fascination in the mysterious depths, as if she was loath to look away from his enjoyment of her creation. Clearing her throat, she moved away to pour milk into a pair of mason jars.

      “I’ll be right back.”

      His mouth full of cookie, he watched as she carried the jar and a small plate out to the front porch. Clara came running. Jane bent to her level, a full-fledged smile transforming her face into something so pure and lovely he nearly choked as he fought to catch his breath.

      She had to agree to his request. Her affection for Clara had surely grown greater than her reasons for refusing him the first time.

      Taking up her spot behind the waist-high work space, she resumed her work, carefully slathering apple butter across the top layer. “What did you wish to see me about?”

      “You’ve seen my kitchen.”

      “Yes.”

      “It’s not as large as yours, but it has everything you’d need to do your baking there. Jessica, too.”

      Slowly