A Cowboy For The Twins. Carolyne Aarsen

sliding around, though he was sure they’d be okay.

      Then he jumped down.

      “You’re really good at that,” the other twin said, her voice full of admiration.

      “Doesn’t take much skill,” he returned with a half smile. “But I’m used to climbing ladders and jumping off roofs.”

      Millie frowned in confusion. “What do you do?”

      “I’m a contractor. Carpenter,” he corrected.

      Millie nodded, her frown deepening. “Our uncle Josiah was a carpenter too. But he died when he fell down. My mom said his boss was a greedy man, and that’s why my uncle died.”

      Her innocent voice spelling out the reasons for Josiah’s death hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest.

      “I’m sorry about your uncle,” was all he said.

      At that moment, he happened to glance at Shauntelle. The sorrow on her face was replaced by a tightening of her lips, a narrowing of her eyes.

      He shouldn’t be surprised. During all the inquiries and investigations and follow-up by the various boards and organizations, he had occasionally run into Shauntelle’s parents and got a clear idea what they thought of him.

      But Shauntelle’s reaction bothered him more.

      He spun around and headed to the car to close the hatch just as Shauntelle walked in the same direction. They almost collided, and instinctively he reached out to steady her.

      For a split second, she stayed still, getting her balance before jerking her arm away. She ducked inside the car, coming out with two booster seats.

      “Do you want me to put those in the truck?” he asked.

      Shaking her head, she walked back to his truck to do the job herself. A few minutes later the girls were buckled in, the car was locked up—even though Noah doubted anyone would steal it—and they were headed down the road to Mrs. Fisher’s.

      The drive to Carmen’s place was quiet. What do you say when a young girl inadvertently accused you of being greedy and the cause of her uncle’s death? Trouble was, he felt it was true in spite of what the reports had said.

      Might-have-beens crowded into his mind, creating their own regret and pain.

      He eased out a breath, trying to ignore the woman on the seat beside him. Shauntelle sat as close to the door as physically possible, as if giving herself maximum distance between them.

      “This is a really nice truck,” Millie said from the back seat of the crew cab. “Lots of room.”

      “I like the color,” the other twin said.

      “Red is Margaret’s favorite color,” Millie put in authoritatively. “She wants to paint her room red when we get our own house. But Mom said we can’t until the restaurant is finished and it starts making money. I want to paint my room pink.”

      “That sounds nice,” Noah said, going along with the conversation. Anything to break the awkward silence between him and Shauntelle.

      “So are you Mrs. Cosgrove’s son?” Millie asked.

      “Yes I am.”

      “Are you Noah Cosgrove?”

      “Guilty as charged,” he returned, then realized how that sounded. Too on the nose, he thought.

      Another beat of silence followed his comment.

      “Our uncle Josiah worked for you.” This came out sounding like an accusation.

      “Yes. He did.” Noah shot a quick glance in the rearview mirror at Millie, who sat behind her mother.

      She frowned, as if absorbing this information. Then she looked over at Noah. “You don’t look like an evil man.”

      “Millie, that’s enough,” Shauntelle said quietly.

      “But he doesn’t. He looks like a nice man and he’s helping us.”

      Shauntelle turned to the girls, and Noah caught a warning glance sent her daughter’s way. Millie got the hint and looked out the window.

      They pulled up to Carmen’s place and Noah got out, the girls’ innocent words hounding him. “What do you need?” he asked.

      “I’ll get it myself.” She sounded tired, so instead of listening to her, he got out of the truck as well and climbed up into the box.

      “Tell me what I should grab,” he asked, opening the coolers.

      “The muffins and the two loaves of bread from the box and the meat pie from the cooler. They’re marked with Carmen’s name.”

      Noah found what she described and handed them to her.

      Taking them, she turned and walked away. Noah got out of the truck box and watched her as she strode up the graveled path to Carmen Fisher’s house, her thick brown hair shifting and bouncing on her shoulders. She had an easy grace and presence. He remembered being vaguely aware of her in school.

      And then, one summer, it was as if she had blossomed, and she had really caught his attention.

      Trouble was he was dating Trista Herne, and Shauntelle was four years younger than he was. While that meant little now, in high school it was a vast gulf he couldn’t breach. So he kept his distance. And then, as soon as he had the diploma in his hand, he left. The first time he had come back was for his father’s funeral six years later. By that time, Shauntelle was gone.

      “That’s a cute house too,” Millie said, hanging out the window she had opened. Clearly she didn’t mind that he was “an evil man.”

      “It is,” Noah agreed. “It’s part of the T Bar C. The ranch foreman used to live there.” Noah adjusted his hat, dropping his hands on his hips as his mind shifted back to times he had tried to erase from his memory. Long days and nights working until he could barely stand. Fencing, building sheds, herding cows, baling hay and stacking bales. There was always work to do.

      He remembered one evening he had been baling in a field just past this house. The tractor broke down at the far end of the field. Terrified of what his father would say, he stayed with the tractor. Then Doug and Julie had come home early from their outing. They brought him supper, and while he ate, Doug repaired the tractor. Then he sent Noah home and finished the baling himself. His father, however, was furious that he had made Doug work on his day off.

      “Why doesn’t the foreman live there now?”

      “My mother doesn’t need a ranch foreman,” he said as he got back into the truck.

      “Why not?”

      “The ranch doesn’t have as many cows as it used to.” He wished his mother would sell them. She had to hire someone to feed the cows and the horses that she wouldn’t sell either.

      Noah suspected it was a way of recognizing the hard work his father had done to make up for the way Noah’s grandfather ran the T Bar C into the ground with his poor management. Though his father had struggled to bring it back to its former glory, low commodity prices had made it almost impossible. He worked like a dog and made sure Noah did as well. He’d died from a heart attack when he was feeding the cows. Noah often felt that the hard work, stress and his father’s personality had combined to cause his death.

      Shauntelle came back and got into the truck, giving him a tight nod. “Thanks.”

      “So you’re okay with stopping to see my mom?” Noah asked.

      “I can hardly complain,” Shauntelle said with a note of asperity.

      He sensed it was difficult for her to spend time with him, but she had no choice.

      They drove just half a kilometer back down the road and under the imposing gate of the T Bar C.

      “That’s an awesome