The Rancher Inherits A Family. Cheryl St.John

Little John in one tub and shared the chore of scrubbing two little boys who didn’t want to be washed. They both had a few scrapes and bruises from the accident, so the women gently cleaned their injuries. Harper endured the washing, but Little John cried, and Marigold felt dreadful for his discomfort. These children had lost their mother and been shuffled across the country, ending up in a heap of train wreckage.

      “It’s going to be all right,” she said to him and used the corner of a towel to dry his reddened face and his watery dark eyes. “After we’re clean and dressed I’ll read you a story. Would you like that?”

      The toddler’s lower lip continued to tremble, but he lifted his wide trusting gaze to hers and nodded.

      “All right,” she said with an encouraging smile.

      “Do all of us get to hear the story?” Harper asked.

      “Yes, of course.”

      “Poor little lambs,” Aunt Mae said after they’d dried the boys and supervised their clean clothing and hair combing. She waited with them while Marigold took her own bath and washed her hair. Her chin hurt to the touch, and she had a bruise on her shoulder that ached, and another on her wrist she hadn’t noticed.

      Marigold thanked the woman for all of her help, but Aunt Mae just gave a shrug and hurried home to tend to her boarders.

      A deep orange sun hung low in the sky and cast long shadows in front of the four of them as they walked back to Dr. Mason’s office.

      Dr. Mason was ushering a cowboy with a bandage wrapped around his wrist from one of the examination rooms. He greeted Marigold with a crooked smile. Taking a hat from the rack near the door, he glanced back at her two more times, his gaze skittering away each time, before he finally exited the office.

      “Get used to it,” the doctor said with an amused grin. “There’s a shortage of young women in this town, and especially pretty ones like you. You’ll receive a lot of attention.” She reached for Marigold’s chin and tipped up her face to get a better look. “You have a bruise here I didn’t notice before.”

      “It was probably covered with dirt. I have some aches I didn’t notice at first.”

      “I’ll make you a poultice for it. It will take down the swelling.”

      Marigold admired the other woman’s efficiency, the way she moved about her offices with confidence. She liked the idea of working to support herself and of being indebted to no one. If she decided to marry one day, she would do the choosing.

      “Did you enjoy one of the meals Aunt Mae sent?” she asked the doctor.

      “Yes, she is thoughtful. Let’s see if Seth is ready to eat something. He was sleeping last time I looked in on him so I didn’t disturb him.” She gestured for them to enter his room. “I figured he and the children would want to get acquainted before they leave for the night, so I carried in a few chairs.”

      Dressed in wrinkled but clean clothing, their damp hair parted and slicked back, the boys entered the small room ahead of Marigold. Tate took Little John’s hand and guided him forward.

      “Mr. Halloway?” Marigold said softly.

      He was already awake, a purplish bruise having formed on his cheekbone. With an assessing coffee-brown gaze, he took in the trio of youngsters without revealing his thoughts. He was a large man, seeming to take up the entire narrow bed where he was resting, a sheet covering him to his waist. It had taken several men to lower his unconscious form from the railcar, and three strong ones to carry him into the doctor’s office. Above the bandages that wrapped his torso, his shoulders and upper arms were powerfully muscled, attesting to arduous work. His russet-brown hair was chin-length and wavy, and he wore a thick, neatly trimmed mustache.

      Little John turned and clung to Tate’s waist, obviously frightened by the bear of a man sizing him up.

      “Mr. Halloway?” Marigold said again. “This is Tate Radner.”

      Tall for his seven years, with dark blond hair, Tate took a jerky step forward and bravely extended a hand. Little John immediately released his older brother and attached himself to Marigold’s leg. “How do, sir.”

      “Pleased to meet you, Tate. You look like your father.”

      Obviously pleased, Tate puffed up his chest. “You knew our pa?”

      “I did. We enlisted together. Served in different regiments, but ran across each other from time to time.”

      “This here’s Harper,” Tate said, turning back to the five-year-old, whose fair hair had dried with a cowlick at the crown. Tate gave his brother a little tug.

      Harper shuffled a few steps toward the bed, stared at Seth’s enormous outstretched hand for a moment, quickly placed his narrow fingers into the palm, then released it and scuttled back beside Marigold.

      “You look like your mama,” Seth told him.

      Harper glanced from Seth to Tate and back.

      “And this here is Little John,” Tate said, pointing to the three-year-old with wispy platinum hair.

      Little John’s wide eyes opened even wider. He stuck his thumb into his mouth and Marigold was relieved that he didn’t immediately burst into tears.

      “We call him that ’cause he’s little. Pa named him Jonathan, but Mama said that name was too big for a little sprout.”

      Seth’s mustache twitched and his mouth settled into an amused smile. “Little John sounds about right.”

      “Why don’t you boys take seats?” Marigold suggested. “I’ll read the story I promised while Mr. Halloway eats his dinner.”

      “Seth,” he said, turning his dark gaze on her and catching her by surprise with his intensity. No wonder the boys had flinched under his scrutiny. “They should call me Seth.”

      She gave a nod. “Very well.”

      Marlys, who’d been standing behind them during their introductions, moved near the bed. “I’ll slide some more pillows behind you so you can sit up.”

      He cast her a doubtful glance.

      “The herbs will help with the pain so you can move enough to incline a bit. Don’t try to do it alone today. Let us help.” She glanced at Marigold.

      Marigold jerked into action and stood beside the bed.

      “Each of us will take an upper arm like this.” She demonstrated, placing her forearm along Seth’s forearm and clasping his bicep securely. “Then we’ll let our arms do the work, and not your back or ribs. Got it?”

      Seth glanced at Marigold, likely sizing her up for the job. She rested her right forearm along his and placed her hand around the muscled circumference above his elbow. His arm was warm and work-hardened, and decidedly masculine. An unfamiliar and uncomfortable sensation fluttered in her chest. Her gaze moved to the scars on his muscled arm, where he’d been shot with Comanche arrows. This man was as different as night and day from anyone she’d ever met before. Her gaze slid hesitantly to his. Seth assessed her hair, her eyes, her chin and lips, and her skin flushed under his perusal.

      “On three,” Marlys said.

      He had another scar above his right eyebrow, where the skin wasn’t tanned like the rest of his face, and a fresh cut under the same eye she hadn’t noticed before. Two neat sutures held the cut closed.

      “One. Two. Three.”

      He grasped her arm gingerly, undoubtedly holding back so as to hurt neither her nor the lady doctor, but she gripped his and pulled firmly. His lips formed a white line, but he sat up and leaned forward. Marlys quickly slid pillows behind his back and the women allowed him to inch back onto the added support.

      A fine glow of perspiration glistened on his forehead, and Marlys used a damp cloth to blot it away.

      “Are