The Bachelor's Homecoming. Karen Kirst

her own would have to go unfulfilled until she could successfully slay her hopes concerning Tom Leighton.

      “I can’t dwell on the future. I have to focus on one day at a time.” The thudding of horses’ hooves against the hard earth alerted her. “He’s here.”

      Retrieving her satchel, she looped it over her shoulder and entered the yard.

      Jess followed. “Be strong, sister of mine. I’ll say a prayer for you.”

      Tom guided the team to a stop. His motions fluid despite his impressive height, he jumped down and, after advising Clara to remain in the wagon bed, strode across the yard. Neat charcoal-gray trousers encased his long, muscular legs. A button-down shirt the color of spruce trees hugged his fit upper body, the rolled-up sleeves revealing corded forearms lightly dusted with fine hairs. His eyes glowed even brighter than usual. His dark hair hadn’t yet seen a pair of scissors, nor his chiseled jaw a razor. Strange. She’d thought he would’ve cleaned up for this first meeting with Megan. Personally, she preferred the rugged look. She linked her hands behind her back, away from the temptation of that beard, lest she succumb again to the need to touch him.

      As he neared, his intense gaze lit on her, and he flashed an endearing smile she felt all the way to her toes.

      She pitched her voice low. “Better pray hard, Jess. I’m going to need it.”

      * * *

      “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

      Beside him on the high seat, prim and proper and delicately beautiful in her high-collared russet-hued dress, she sat rigid with tension. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the wood.

      “I wasn’t sure myself,” she said softly.

      “I messed up, Jane. I was so absorbed in my own problems, I didn’t stop to consider your feelings.” If his brother was here, would he be saying the same things? How difficult would it be to come to a place of forgiveness? “I don’t blame you for being angry. Never should’ve asked Josh to keep my whereabouts quiet.”

      “No more apologies, okay? What’s done is done.”

      Frustrated at his inability to gauge her true state of mind, he dared take her hand. He wished he wasn’t wearing gloves so he could enjoy, however briefly, the soft texture of her skin. “You probably won’t believe me, but you were never far from my thoughts.”

      Her gaze lifted from their joined hands to his face, searching, probing for answers. Opening up about what happened wasn’t easy. He’d do it for her sake, though.

      “In those first months of trying to get my head on straight, I often asked myself what you’d think about this or that...if you’d appreciate the stark wildness of the land, the unending flatness of it all, a sky so blue it hurt to look at.” He smiled a little. “The ranch hands liked to sit out by the fire at night. There was one guy, Cookie, who played the guitar and sang the worst ditties you’ve ever heard in your life. Made me wish you were there to show them what a talented singer was supposed to sound like.”

      Alone on his cot in the bunkhouse, he’d think back to those times he’d drifted off to the sound of her lyrical voice. Picnics with the O’Malley sisters, joined sometimes by Josh and his brothers, had been one of his favorite pastimes. Good food. Great company. When he could eat no more and the sun had lulled him into a sleepy state, he’d lain on a quilt, hat over his face, and listened to Jane’s soft singing as she poured her thoughts into her journal.

      Jane didn’t comment. Face angled away, her attention was on the roaring river tumbling over moss-covered boulders and under the wooden bridge they were crossing. The air had a moist twang to it, a pleasant earthiness typical to this area. In the near distance, people bustled up and down Main Street conducting their daily business.

      He was both surprised and pleased that she hadn’t removed her hand.

      “The situation in Kansas...” His fingers subconsciously tensed on hers. “It deteriorated quickly after Jenny’s death. I found myself in charge of a very sad, confused little girl. Whenever I neared the end of my rope, tempted to give up, I’d think of you.”

      Head tipping toward his, her fine brows crashed together. “Why?”

      “You said it yourself. You finish what you start. You’re so strong, Jane. You handle difficulties with a grace I could only hope to mimic.”

      “I would’ve given anything for one letter from you.”

      She looked incredibly sad, and a little surprised she’d admitted it.

      “That’s how I feel about Charles. He’s doing to me what I did to you. I’m not sure I’d forgive me if I were you.”

      The wagon dipped to the side as the right front wheel hit a shallow depression. She didn’t flinch, didn’t remove her tumultuous gaze from his. “Our situations are vastly different. You didn’t owe me anything. Not really.”

      “Our friendship mattered to me. You mattered. And I made you feel like you didn’t.”

      He regretted that more than he could express.

      Emotion slid behind her eyes. Mercy? Understanding?

      Her mouth softened. “You’re home now. Let’s put the past to rest.”

      She took her hand back then, and he stifled a protest.

      Reins firmly in his grip, he glanced into the wagon bed to check on Clara, who’d been quiet the entire ride. Propped against the far side, she observed the passing scenery. Her springy curls were freshly washed—he winced at the memory of her protests as he’d tried to untangle them with a comb—but her yellow dress was too short, the puff sleeves a little too snug about her small arms. He was going to have to hire someone to fashion her a couple of new dresses. Maybe nightgowns, too. Even if he knew how to sew, there simply weren’t enough hours in the day.

      Returning his attention to the rutted road, he said, “Something smells delicious. What’s in the basket?”

      “Rhubarb pie.”

      Tom groaned, his mouth watering at the prospect of sampling Jane’s cooking after so long a drought. “I sure hope your sister is in a sharing mood.”

      At that, she stiffened. He wondered at the cause.

      She twisted around to address his niece. “Do you like rhubarb, Clara?”

      “I don’t know.”

      He felt Jane’s speculative regard. “Did your sister-in-law not like to bake?”

      “She did.” He lowered his voice. “Clara was only four when she passed and probably doesn’t remember a whole lot. And neither Charles nor I are that handy in the kitchen. We managed to get simple meals on the table. Nothing fancy.”

      Lots of beans and corn bread. Slabs of pork fried in hog fat. Fried chicken. Sometimes vegetables made an appearance on their plates. Greens from the yard. Potatoes or carrots he’d purchased from a neighbor. After Charles lost himself in the bottle, preparing breakfast, lunch and dinner fell to Tom. The entire situation had exhausted him, mentally and physically. That wasn’t the kind of life he wished for Clara.

      Not for the first time since he’d received guardianship, he considered the prospect of a wife. Clara would benefit from a woman’s presence. There were things he simply couldn’t teach her. With all the upheaval in their lives, however, he lacked the time and inclination to search for a suitable bride.

      Admit it, marriage for convenience’s sake doesn’t appeal. You want the real deal. Like what Charles and Jenny had shared. Love. Mutual respect and affection. A true partnership.

      As if she’d read his mind, Jane said haltingly, “Perhaps she could spend some afternoons with me and Jessica. I’d be happy to teach her the basics. She’s not too young to learn how to make dough for biscuits and bread. You’d have to tend the stove, of course.”

      “I