hair was neatly piled high up on her head and her warm brown eyes matched the kindness in her tone. “It’s wonderful to meet you. We’ve been expecting you. Did you have trouble finding the place?”
“It’s wonderful to be here finally. I’m sorry I’m late. I did have a little trouble finding the place, which would have been a lot of trouble if Deputy Tompkin hadn’t helped me out.”
Sofie smiled. “Oh, good. Scooter’s great.”
“Even after that I still wasn’t sure—”
“Why is that?” the man interrupted, his scowl morphing into more of a glare.
He’d moved a few steps back and now stood in the doorway leading to the kitchen. Lydia could see gleaming silver appliances behind him. Country music drifted softly from that direction. Tall and nicely muscled, he filled the doorway where he leaned against the wood frame. He slipped a hand into the back pocket of his dingy, faded jeans. All that was missing was a cowboy hat to cover his attractively mussed hair and a piece of straw poking from between his chiseled lips. Tension vibrated off him like an overtuned guitar string. A couple of six-shooters hanging from those lean hips and he could walk right onto to a movie set about a gritty, bitter cowboy. He definitely didn’t match up to the nice-guy impression she’d gleaned from Scooter.
Forcing herself to make eye contact confirmed her assumption—he didn’t like what he saw. She wondered if he knew how much his steely gray gaze gave away.
“Why is what?” she asked, forcing a friendly smile. Whatever his first impression had told him, it wasn’t good. Lydia needed to change his mind.
His next words were hard-edged, like it tried his patience to clarify his question. “Why did you think you had the wrong ranch?”
“Um, well...” Lydia tried to think of a way to condense her reasons. Because a pregnant woman opened the door and I thought you were a single dad, and you’re glaring at me, and I didn’t expect my new employer to be a grouch who disliked me on sight.
Sofie blinked wide brown eyes. “That doesn’t matter, does it, Jon? She’s here now.”
The little shake of his head was almost imperceptible. In a flat tone he conceded, “I suppose not.” He stuck out a hand. “Jonathon Blackwell. This is the JB Bar Ranch.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Blackwell.” Lydia offered her hand. He gave it a firm squeeze and then released it like they were playing a game of hot potato. His stern gaze skimmed over her and lingered on her boots before he glanced away.
A black-and-white dog sidled up to her, tail wagging.
“Hello, gorgeous.” Crouching, she held out a hand. The dog came closer and laid his muzzle on her thigh. Lydia relaxed a little and stroked his silky ears. At least the dog liked her. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing?”
“This is Trout,” Sofie said, beaming.
Blackwell loomed, his face a grim mask.
“How was your drive?” Sofie asked.
“Good. Stunningly beautiful. I’ve never seen this part of the country. Or much of rural America at all, unfortunately. Not since I was a kid, anyway.”
“Oh, but I thought you had... Where are you from?”
“Philadelphia, born and mostly raised.” If a girl can be raised by the age of fifteen, she added silently.
Sofie’s face twisted thoughtfully. “So, you’ve never lived on a ranch?”
Lydia laughed and gave the dog one more pat before standing. “Nope. City girl through and through.” Except for her two years in upstate New York with Nana. But that was a story and Tanner had told her to withhold details when she could. Sofie shot Blackwell another curious glance. He returned it with another head shake and a sigh. What was this guy’s problem?
Sofie noticed her watching. Clearing her throat, she focused her bright smile back on Lydia. “Well, I can relate to that, that’s for sure. I’m from Seattle.”
Trout let out an excited whimper and jogged through the doorway where Blackwell still stood guard. Behind him, the unmistakable sounds of a crowd entering the house followed; voices, laughter, squeals, the clank of what sounded like metal and then the stomping of feet.
“Perfect timing,” Sofie said brightly. “The girls are back.”
BEFORE LYDIA’S BRAIN could even register the plural form of the word girl, a pair of them rushed into the room. Little ones. Decidedly un-teenager ones. Cries of “Sofie” and “Trout” and “Daddy” followed. Maybe these were the pregnant Sofie’s other children? But no, because they were clearly calling Blackwell “Daddy.”
Within seconds he was confirming the association. “Girls, I’d like you to meet Ms. Lydia Newbury. Ms. Newbury, this is Abigail.” He placed one large palm on a mess of long brown curls before putting the other on the shoulder of a child with lighter brown tangles even messier than her sister’s. “And this is Genevieve.” There seemed to be a challenging glint in his eyes. “My five-year-old twin daughters.”
Lydia’s brain was spinning a hundred miles an hour. There must have been a mix-up at the nanny agency. Instead of one fourteen-year-old, she’d gotten placed with two five-year-olds? As much as she wanted to apologize for the inconvenience, walk out to her car, climb in and drive away, fleeing was not an option. This was her flee, so to speak. Images of Clive and his cronies swam before her eyes. Five-year-old twins and their grumpy father versus taking her chances on the open road?
She held out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Abigail and Genevieve.” One tiny, filthy hand and then another reached out and squeezed hers. Adorable, polite, nice-to-meet-yous accompanied each gesture. Lydia studied their dirt-smeared faces and felt a tug of affection working at the knot of terror and anxiety tangled inside her chest.
“I’d like for you guys to call me Lydia, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Abigail said.
Genevieve commented, “I like that better. It’s faster to say. Like Gen instead of Genevieve, you can call me that if you want.” Expression earnest, she flipped a hand toward her sister. “And Abby you can call Abby. Hardly nobody calls us Genevieve or Abigail.”
“Hardly anybody,” Abigail said, correcting her sister.
“Yep,” Genevieve agreed with a quick bob of her head. “That’s what I meant, hardly anybody.” She hooked her thumbs in her belt loops and seemed to study Lydia’s outfit with much less disdain than her father. “Those boots are real pretty. They’re tall, huh? I don’t think you could run very fast in them. Or ride.”
Blackwell let out a sound like a cross between a snort and a chuckle. “Boots like that aren’t good for much, sugar plum. They’re not even real leather.”
Lydia felt her cheeks go hot. Why did it feel like he’d just insulted more than her boots?
“You could wear them to church?” Abigail suggested helpfully. “Or to a party? Not a barn party, though, because the heel part would sink into the dirt.” She stomped one tiny cowboy-booted heel as if to show Lydia what she meant.
“Do you like horses?” Genevieve asked.
“Um, yes, I do,” Lydia said.
“We love horses. Abby and I have our own horses. Mine is Garnet and hers is Topaz.”
“Do you ride, Lydia?” Blackwell asked in a tone that let her know there was only one right answer and he suspected she wasn’t going to give it. What was wrong with this guy? Like his first question, she wasn’t quite sure how to answer it. Lydia loved horses. But she hadn’t been on one since she was fourteen,