The Cattleman's Bride. Joan Kilby

      She turned away from the sink, wearing her aggrieved-princess look. “Do I have to?”

      “Yes.” He waited for her to dry her hands and leave the room. Gave her another five seconds to get to the far end of the house. “Abby—” he began.

      “So Sarah Templestowe is making dinner, is she?” Abby’s voice turned coy, her mismatched eyes watching him. “That sounds cozy.”

      Luke refused to be sidetracked by Abby’s sly remarks. She was always digging for information, making something out of nothing, then seeming oddly pleased when there really was nothing. Nothing lasting, at any rate.

      “I looked at your photo album.”

      She smiled pleasantly and reached into the cupboard for cups. “Did you hear Sandy Ronstad had her baby?”

      “Abby.” His hands clenched. “Why did you cut out Caroline’s photo and replace it with your own?”

      Her body gave a kind of jolt, but she didn’t answer right away. The cups trembled in their saucers as she set them on the table. “Whatever are you talking about?”

      He flipped open the album and waved the envelope at her. “Did you show this to Becka?” If she had, so help him, he’d—

      “I’m not surprised Sarah Templestowe would move in fast on a handsome bachelor,” Abby continued, her voice wavering but still sounding determined. “Look at her mother. Taking off with that American after only a few weeks. Poor Len. She broke his heart.”

      Luke gripped her shoulders, stopping just short of shaking her. “Did you tell Becka you’re her mother?” he demanded in a fierce whisper.

      “Of course not.” Abby pressed her fingers to her temples. “That would be crazy.”

      “Then why did you put your photo in Caroline’s place?” Abby covered her ears with her hands. “Answer me,” he ordered harshly.

      “She’s all I’ve got, Luke. Don’t make me give her up.”

      “It’s time, Abby. We agreed after Caroline died that Becka would come to live with me when she turned nine.”

      “Nine was just an arbitrary number. She still needs a mother—” she quailed under his fierce scowl “—figure.”

      “She needs her father, too,” Luke said, hardening himself to her beseeching gaze. He couldn’t get the image of the defaced photograph out of his mind.

      “Dad!” Becka called from her old room. “I need help.”

      Luke glared at Abby and strode down the hall to Becka. She was struggling with her overnight bag and two shopping bags full of clothes.

      “What’s all this?” he asked.

      “Aunt Abby bought me some dresses and stuff.”

      Luke pulled out a handful of slippery blue fabric with spaghetti straps. “Is this a nightgown?”

      “It’s a party dress. Isn’t it cool?”

      “You’re only nine. You’re not going to parties dressed like this. Leave it.”

      “Da-a-a-d.”

      Abby appeared in the doorway. “Let her have them, Luke. She should have something fun and pretty in her wardrobe.”

      He turned on her. “You shouldn’t have done this, Abby. Not without asking me.”

      “Rubbish! Men have no idea how to shop for young girls. Do they, Becka?” She stroked Becka’s hair and the girl smiled up at her.

      “Take…them…back. She doesn’t need party clothes out at the station. She needs jeans and T-shirts and boots.” Luke tossed the shopping bags on the bed as though they were contaminated.

      “I was only trying to help. In case you hadn’t noticed, Luke Sampson, your little girl is growing up.”

      Luke had noticed, all right. And he hated it. He’d already missed too much of her life. “You’re making her grow up too soon. These are for a much older girl.”

      “You’re out of touch with what children are into these days,” Abby said. “It’s not surprising, living way out on that station. I’ve been caring for her almost all her life. I know what she needs. Anyway, she’s grown out of practically all her old clothes.”

      “If she needs new clothes I’ll buy them for her.”

      Tears burst from Becka’s eyes. “I hate you!” she screamed at Luke, and ran out of the room, her overnight bag banging against the doorjamb.

      Abby gazed at him reproachfully. “I really think you could have handled that better, Luke. But then, you haven’t had much practice being a father, have you?”

      His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “We won’t be seeing you for a while. Becka’s going to be busy out at the station.”

      From the front porch, Abby watched them drive off, the wheels of the Land Cruiser spinning in the dirt before hitting the bitumen and squealing away. She gripped the wooden railing till a splinter pierced her skin, raising a bright red drop of blood. She didn’t notice. The pain was nothing compared with the pain in her heart. Becka was all she had and Luke had taken her away. Just as Anne Hafford had taken Len away from her all those years ago.

      Don’t worry, Becka, my darling. We’ll be together again soon—somehow.

      “OUCH!” Sarah snatched her blistered finger back from the hot cast iron of the wood-fired oven and thrust it under cold water. Wood-fired oven be damned. It didn’t turn out the savory masterpieces the one at Alfredo’s Bistro did. Her pizza was burned around the edges, pale and gloopy in the center. Maybe if she switched on the electric stove and put the pizza under the broiler…

      Irritably, she wiped a smudge of flour from her nose and blew the hair off her forehead with an exasperated sigh. Canned tomatoes were no substitute for sun-dried, even drained through a sieve. And the closest she could get to paper-thin parma ham was a thick rasher of bacon complete with rind and little bones.

      But the burned dinner was a mere annoyance. The thing that set her teeth on edge and had her jumping out of her skin was the total absence of decent coffee. The instant stuff Luke made last night was okay once or twice, but she needed something more. She needed full flavor and rich aroma. She needed concentrated caffeine and lots of it. It was humiliating to admit, but she was addicted. Throwing down the hand towel, she strode down the hall to her room.

      She snatched up her cell phone, jabbed in her mother’s home number, and almost wept with relief when Anne answered the phone. “Mom! Thank goodness you’re still up.”

      “Darling, what is it? Is something wrong?”

      “I need coffee. Real coffee. Beans, freshly ground, covered with briskly boiling water. Frothy, steaming milk. Espresso, French roast, cinnamon hazelnut, cappuccino, café latte—”

      “Sarah, Sarah, are you all right?”

      “What was that noise?” Sarah demanded as she paced back to the kitchen. “I heard a slurping sound. Are you drinking something?”

      “Just a cup of herbal tea. Really, darl’, get a grip.”

      “I can’t. You’ve got to send me some coffee.”

      “I know Murrum isn’t exactly the center of the civilized world, but they do have coffee.”

      “Instant coffee. At least that’s all Luke has.” Sarah checked the broiler to see if it was hot and slid one of the pizzas under it. “Mother, please.”

      “Consider it done.” There was an odd hint of laughter in Anne’s voice. “How is the homestead? I’ve been thinking about you all day. Have you been down to the creek yet?”

      “Er, no. There’s so much