The Triplets' Cowboy Daddy. Patricia Johns

She stepped into the kitchen, tugging her robe a little tighter.

      He turned, surprised. “Aren’t you going to try to sleep some more?”

      “I’m not used to the up and down thing yet. When I get tired enough, I’m sure I will.”

      He nodded and turned back to the pan. “You want breakfast?”

      “Kind of early,” she said with a small smile.

      “Suit yourself.” He dropped several strips of bacon into the pan.

      “Look,” she said, pulling out a kitchen chair with a scrape and sitting down. “I think I’m in the way here.”

      “Since when?”

      “Since I woke you up at 3 a.m.”

      “I’ll be fine.” His tone was gruff and not exactly comforting. Was he doing this because she was the boss’s daughter? It had to factor in somewhere.

      “This is your home, Easton.”

      “You noticed.” He cast her a wry smile then turned around fully, folding his arms across his chest. Yes, she had noticed. She didn’t have to like it, but she was capable of facing facts.

      “I should take the babies back to the house with my mom,” she said. “I’m sorry. I hate that my dad left this place to you, but he did. So...”

      She was sad about that—angry, even—but it wasn’t Easton’s fault. He could have turned it down, but who would turn down a house? She wouldn’t have, either.

      “You don’t need to leave,” he said.

      “Oh.” She’d thought he’d jump at any excuse to get her out of his home. If this night had proven anything, it was that this space was very much Easton’s, and that felt awkward. This kitchen, where she remembered making cookies with her great-grandmother, was his kitchen now. She’d imagined she’d find peace here, but she’d been wrong. She shouldn’t be surprised. A lot of her “perfect” memories hadn’t been what she thought.

      “You don’t seem comfortable with me here, though,” she countered. “And if I’m bound to make someone feel uncomfortable, it should be my own mother, don’t you think?”

      “I don’t have a problem with you staying here,” he replied, turning back to the pan. He flipped the bacon strips with a fork, his voice carrying over the sizzle. “Do you realize that I’ve worked on this land since I was fourteen?”

      “Yeah. It’s been a while.”

      “That’s sixteen years. And over those years, you and I became friends.”

      “I know.”

      “Real friends.” He turned back, his dark gaze drilling into hers. “Do you remember when you broke up with Kevin Price? We talked for hours about that. I was there for you. I was there for you for Nathan Anderson, Brian Neville... I was there to listen, to offer advice. I mean, my advice was always the same—pick a better guy—but I was there.”

      Easton had been there for her, and she felt a blush rise at the memories. One rainy, soggy autumn day, they’d sat in the hayloft together, talking about a guy who wasn’t treating her right. They’d sat for hours, just talking and talking, and she’d opened up more in that evening than she had with any guy she’d dated. But then her father had found them, ordered Easton back to work and told Nora to get inside. She could still remember the stormy look on her father’s face. He hadn’t liked it—probably assumed more was happening in the hayloft than a conversation.

      Nora had talked too much back then. It had just felt so nice to have someone who listened like he did, but she might have led him on a little bit. She was a teenage girl, and her emotional world was vast and deep—in her own opinion, at least. She was mildly embarrassed about that now, but she wasn’t any different than other girls. Easton was just a part-time ranch hand, and a guy. He hadn’t been quite so in touch with his own “vast and deep” emotional life, and maybe he’d been a little in awe of her...maybe he’d nursed a mild crush. But she hadn’t ever considered him as more than a buddy.

      “I was an idiot,” she said with a short laugh.

      “And then you picked up and left for college, and that was it.”

      Well, that sure skipped a lot—like all the college applications, the arguments with her mother about living on campus or off and all the rest of the drama that came with starting a new phase of life. And since when was college a problem?

      She frowned. “I went to college. You knew I was going.”

      “Thing is,” he said, “you walked away, and life went on. For sixteen years I worked this land, drove the cattle, worked my way up. I’m ranch manager now because I know every job on this ranch and could do it myself if I had to. No one can get one over on me.”

      “You’re good at what you do,” she confirmed. “Dad always said so.”

      “And when you did come back to visit, you’d wave at me across the yard. That was it.”

      Admittedly, their relationship changed over the years. But having him here—that was the awkward part. If they’d just been school friends, then a change in the closeness they shared would have been natural—like the ebb and flow of any relationship. But he’d worked with her father, so unlike her school friends—where some of those old friendships could die a quiet death—she still saw Easton on a regular basis. From a distance, at least. He couldn’t just slide into the past. When she did come home, she only had a few days, and she had to see a lot of people in that time.

      “I was busy,” she replied. “Friends and family—”

      She heard it as it came out of her mouth. Friends—and she hadn’t meant him. She’d meant people like Kaitlyn Mason, who she’d been close with since kindergarten. She winced. There was no recovering from that one, but it didn’t make it any less true. Easton hadn’t been high enough on her list of priorities when she’d come back.

      “Yeah,” he said with a sad smile. “Anyway, I was the worker, you were the daughter. Well, your dad saw fit to give me a little patch of land. I worked for this. I know that your great-grandparents built this house, and I know it means a whole lot to you, but I’m not about to sell it or tear it down. I actually think I might take your dad’s advice.”

      “Which was?” she asked.

      “To get married, have a few kids.”

      That had been her father’s advice to him? Her father’s advice to her had always been “Wait a while. No rush. Get your education and see the world.” The double standard there irritated her, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. Whoever Easton decided to marry and whatever kids they’d have, they’d be no kin of the people who built this house with their own hands. Her family—the Carpenters—had been born here, had died here... Easton might have worked for her father, but he didn’t deserve this house.

      “Anyone special in mind?” she asked, trying to force a smile.

      “Nope.”

      There was no use arguing. The house was his. She couldn’t change it or fight it. Maybe one day she could convince him to sell to her, but that was about as much as she could do.

      “If you ever want to sell this house,” she said, “come to me first.”

      He nodded. “Deal.”

      Easton turned back to the stove and lifted the bacon from the pan with his tongs, letting it drip for a moment in sizzling drops before he transferred it to a plate. She had to admit—it smelled amazing. He grabbed a couple of eggs and cracked them into the pan. Was that it? Was that all she could ask from him—to sell to her if he ever felt like it? Probably, and he didn’t look like he was about to back down, either.

      He’d had a point, though. He’d spent more time with her dad than she had...he’d