A Family For Rose. Nadia Nichols

best get to work.” Billy started the tractor, gave her a nod and pulled away from the porch. Shannon watched him, pondering what strange twists of fate had drawn both her and Billy Mac back to Bear Paw.

      “Momma, can I help tomorrow?”

      “Sure, Rose. You can ride in the hay truck and count the bales as we load them on.”

      “How many bales will there be?”

      “Lots and lots. Enough to feed a bunch of horses all winter long, and maybe some cows, too.”

      “What if I can’t count that high?” Rose asked, frowning.

      “I’ll give you a piece of paper, and when you count ten bales being loaded, you make a mark on the page. Then start counting to ten again and make another mark. Each mark will count for ten bales, and that way you’ll keep track for us. Now let’s get to cleaning these saddles. It’s almost time for me to start supper.”

      They settled on the porch together, side by side, feet swinging over the edge, sponges in hand, saddles sprawled beside them. Rose made lots of suds with her sponge. Tess slept and twitched her way through the active dreams of a younger dog. Shannon breathed in the good smells of saddle soap and leather, and paused from time to time to look out across the broad sweep of McTavish Valley toward Wolf Butte. For the first time in years, she felt like she was truly home.

      She wondered how long the feeling would last.

      * * *

      BILLY WAS DOG TIRED. His leg hurt. His side hurt. His shoulder hurt. The pain was acute, and the more he tried to ignore it, the worse it got. He tried to focus on the machinery. On loading the baling twine into the baler. On the anticipation of a home-cooked supper prepared by Shannon McTavish.

      He’d overdone it today, that’s all. The pain would pass, along with the scare he’d gotten, seeing that big rooster tail of dust moving toward the ranch house, toward Shannon, and thinking it was Travis Roy.

      He’d seen a lot of ugliness over the years. A lot of death. He should be immune to violence by now, but he wasn’t. Just the opposite. He’d been numb for a long time, but it was as if the pain in his body had become a conduit to all the pain and suffering he’d witnessed.

      Seeing Shannon’s bruised face and how she’d tried to hide the bruises with makeup twisted him up inside. She insisted Travis wouldn’t come here. He hoped she was right, because he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he ever got his hands on that bastard. Or maybe he was sure, and that’s what scared him. Shannon was out of his league and always had been, but that didn’t keep him from caring about her, and it never would.

      Billy gave up on the baler. He needed to walk the pain out. He’d go up to the windmill, check on McTavish. The wind was dying and the air was sweet with the smell of fresh-mown hay. It was going to be a pretty evening. A pretty sunset.

      There was no one to see him, no one watching. He could limp. He could crawl on his hands and knees and it wouldn’t matter. That was the wonderful thing about living on the edge of nowhere. A man could find himself, re-create himself or lose himself, all without anybody watching.

      McTavish was crouched at the base of the windmill, tools scattered around him, covered with grease. “I think I’ve about got ’er,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag.

      Billy leaned against the front of the truck. He was sweating. He took off his hat and let the wind cool him. “I finished cutting the fields and turned them all once. Figured we could bale in the morning. I’ll head into town after supper and find us some help. With a good crew we might get all the hay in by dark, if we go at it hard.”

      He let himself slide down the truck’s bumper, keeping his leg out straight, until he was sitting on the ground. “Shannon’s fixing supper, and you just got a new delivery of six mustangs from the government. Good-looking horses. Wild and wooly. I would’ve had ’em all broke by now except I’m plumb wore out.”

      McTavish rubbed the stubble on his chin. He shook his head, wearing the faintest of smiles. “By God, but we’re a pair.”

      Billy would’ve laughed if he’d had the strength.

      * * *

      TEN YEARS OF having a chef had spoiled Shannon. She’d forgotten all the basic cooking skills she’d picked up from her mother, who could shoulder a full day’s work on the ranch and still manage to produce savory home-cooked meals. As Shannon rummaged through the lower cupboards for the proper cookware, she tried to recall what she’d bought for groceries. She had two hungry men and a hungry daughter to feed in short order.

      What to cook? How to keep them all happy?

      “Momma, I’m hungry,” Rose said, pushing through the screen door with Tess at her heels.

      She’d promised the men a good feed. They’d both be hungry. She had hamburger. Lots of hamburger. She’d fix the spaghetti sauce tonight and they’d just have to eat it two nights in a row.

      “Eat a piece of fruit, Rose. It’ll tide you over until supper’s ready,” Shannon said, reaching for a skillet. “I’m making spaghetti. You like spaghetti, don’t you?”

      “With meatballs?”

      “With meat sauce. Sorry, no time to make meatballs. We spent too long cleaning the saddles.”

      “They look nice and shiny, Momma.”

      “They sure do, and they’ll look even nicer on Sparky and Old Joe.”

      Shannon lit the gas burner and plunked the deep cast-iron skillet down atop it. She opened two cans of spaghetti sauce and poured them over the hamburger as it cooked. With a little doctoring, she could make the sauce look and taste like homemade.

      Shannon paused, frowning. She’d forgotten about Sparky and Old Joe. They were probably down at the barn by now, wondering where their grain was. What about the mustangs in the corral? They had water, but they’d need to be fed. And what of her father? Had he been crying or drinking? If he’d been drinking, had he put the cork back in the bottle?

      “Rose, I have to toss some hay to the mustangs in the corral. I won’t be two minutes. Stay here with Tess and I’ll be right back.” She paused at the door, scanning the small kitchen, the spaghetti sauce starting to bubble in the skillet, the old dog finishing her meal over in the corner, and the young child waiting and hungry. She wondered if she’d ever be able to juggle feeding horses and a haying crew while effortlessly mothering her own child.

      She couldn’t leave Rose alone in the kitchen. What had she been thinking? “Grab an apple and come with me, honey. You can watch, okay?”

      Rose took an apple from the bowl on the table, crossed the kitchen and took Shannon’s outstretched hand. “It’ll be okay, Momma,” Rose reassured her with all the trusting innocence of a child. And for one blindingly beautiful moment, as that small, perfect hand slipped into hers, Shannon believed that it truly would.

      * * *

      SUPPER WASN’T SERVED until 8:00 p.m., which was early for Shannon but very late for her father and Billy, who were both so tired they spoke in monosyllables as they methodically cleaned their plates and then made short work of seconds. The spaghetti was good, and she served it with garlic bread and a big salad. Her fears that her father might have been drinking up at the windmill had been laid to rest. He was stone-cold sober and dog tired.

      “I’m afraid it’s the same menu for tomorrow, but I’ll bake an apple pie, too,” she promised as she cleared the table.

      “Been a dog’s age since I’ve had apple pie,” her father said, leaning back in his chair. “Your mother could make the best pie crust. Light as a feather.”

      “Well, Daddy, I hope you’ll settle for a store-bought crust.”

      Billy was sitting quietly, finishing off his cup of coffee. “It’ll be great.”

      “What’s that?” Shannon asked,