this is my friend Jane O’Malley.”
Friend. An innocent word that sounded hateful when he spoke it. Had he had the same reaction when Megan insisted on being nothing more than friends?
“Hello, Clara.” She dredged up a smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Clara continued to stare first at Jane’s hair—no doubt a wild mess since she’d plucked all the pins out to rid herself of the flowers—and then at her apparel.
“You have the same eyes,” Jane told him quietly. “And hair.”
Shadows gathered in the green depths. “She’s my niece. I’m her legal guardian.”
Tom’s only sibling, a brother named Charles, was ten years older than him. He’d left town years ago and hadn’t returned.
“You were with Charles and his family all this time?”
He gave a short nod, lips tightening. “On his ranch in Kansas.”
She’d imagined him in all sorts of places and situations, none of them as ordinary as Kansas. Piloting a riverboat in Louisiana. Cutting hair in New York City. Sailing to Europe on a huge ship. Those pursuits would’ve kept him so busy he couldn’t be blamed for not thinking of her. But working on a ranch in the middle of nowhere?
The reality stung. He’d had ample opportunity to contact her—he’d simply chosen not to. She bit back the urge to ask about Clara’s parents, to ask anything more of him. Pride prevented her, as did consideration for the girl’s feelings.
Clara dared touch one of the seed pearls on Jane’s sleeve. “Are you a princess?”
“No, sweetheart.”
Tom’s perfectly formed, expressive mouth softened into a slight smile that held affection for the little girl. “She sure does look like one, though, doesn’t she?”
Then he turned that smile on Jane, and her foolish heart hummed a happy tune.
She flinched.
No. She couldn’t do this. Not again.
“Jane?” Confusion colored his tone.
Struggling to her feet, she shook out her skirts and tugged the tight bodice down, backing away as she did so. “I have to go.”
He stood to his full, impressive height, one hand outstretched. “Let me take you home.”
“No.” Her harsh tone elicited a frown from Clara. Tempering it, she continued her retreat. “I mean, no, thank you.”
“Jane—”
“I don’t need your help, Tom. I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way home.”
She hadn’t finished expelling him from her storybook dreams. If she allowed him to reclaim what progress she’d made, she’d never know true peace or contentment.
And for the second time that day, she fled.
Frustration pushed Tom to call after her. “I don’t remember you being this hardheaded.”
She paused long enough to glance over her shoulder. Her luminous eyes challenged him. “People change.”
Framed by the forest’s varying shades of green, her startling white wedding garb and flowing red mane carved an image on his brain he wouldn’t soon forget.
He, more than anyone, was acquainted with the truth of that statement. His brother had transformed into someone unrecognizable after Jenny’s death, and there’d been nothing Tom could do to stop it. As for Jane, the sweet, adoring girl who’d followed him around like a lamb after its mother had been replaced by a self-assured, stunning young woman.
With a dismissive shake of her head, Jane ventured deeper into the forest, hem flaring with each stride of her long legs.
He didn’t like the thought of her on her own out here, especially considering her current mental state, but he couldn’t very well tie her up and toss her in the wagon.
“I’m hungry, Uncle.”
Clara tucked her hand in his, the utter trust she’d placed in him a humbling thing. He was all she had now. That she depended on him for everything weighed heavily at times. Not because she was a burden, but because he’d come into this upside down. He’d never been married. Didn’t know what it was to be responsible for another human being, although he’d had plenty of practice these past months.
“Come on, then, my little bird. I’ve got a can of tinned peaches with your name on it.”
Her rosebud mouth parted. “Really? Clara Jean Leighton is right there on the label?”
Chuckling, he lightly tapped her nose. “Not exactly.”
When he had her settled with her snack in her spot between the crates, he climbed onto the hard seat and put the team in motion. Impatience kept his bone-deep exhaustion at bay. These final miles felt like the longest of the entire journey.
Pulling into the shaded, overgrown lane leading to his place, memories bombarded him, and he wished his ma were here to welcome him. To meet her only grandchild. She would’ve relished the role of grandmother.
“We’re here, Clara.” His throat grew thick, and he had to blink away the gathering moisture.
Gripping the side, she observed her surroundings with solemn curiosity.
Tom hadn’t expected his family farm to be in good condition—his ma had been gone a long time—but the disintegration of his former home gutted him. Set against the magnificent backdrop of the Smoky Mountains, his land used to be lush and vibrant, the yard around the one-story cabin kept neat and his ma’s roses flanking the narrow porch. Now vegetation consumed the buildings. The cabin’s shingled roof was barely visible beneath bands of ivy, the porch running the length of the building completely obscured. To the left and slightly behind it were the barn and toolshed, the smokehouse and corncrib looking like stacks of weathered wood amid a profusion of man-size weeds. The handful of apple and peach trees were in desperate need of pruning. The snake-rail fence separating the yard and fields beyond had completely fallen apart in some spots.
He was in for a massive job. Chest tight, he wondered how he’d manage to set things to rights before the first frost in six months’ time. Unearthing the vegetable garden and readying the ground for seed alone was going to take days of hard labor.
And what to do about his niece? She couldn’t very well accompany him to the fields every day.
Leaving her in the wagon, Tom used a hatchet to carve a path through the waist-high weeds and hack out an opening in the ivy. Stepping through onto the porch, he passed the single window with its dusty, cracked glass and had to shoulder the door open.
He stopped short on the threshold. If not for the layer of grime coating the cast-iron stove and the cobwebs in the corners, he’d have thought his ma had gone to the mercantile for the day’s necessities. His gaze landed on the gray knitted shawl she’d favored, draped over the rocking chair beside the fireplace, and he picked it up, catching a whiff of her floral scent beneath the overwhelming odor of dank air and dust.
The unreality of her death coalesced into a truth he could grasp. She wasn’t at the mercantile. She wasn’t in the henhouse gathering eggs with her gnarled, age-spotted hands. She wouldn’t be welcoming him home.
She wouldn’t learn that her firstborn had descended into debauchery to the point Tom hardly recognized him. And that her youngest was now charged with the care and raising of a vulnerable five-year-old child.
Oh, Charles. What have you done?
* * *
“You should try to eat something.”
Gripping the pot, Jane scrubbed harder at the stuck-on bits. “I’m not hungry.”
Jessica