where they weren’t allowed to be without him present. Not in the dining room. Or the laundry room.
“Tabitha!” He raised his voice as he exited the house. What was up with his kids? Twice in less than forty-eight hours they’d disappeared. Twice he’d lost them.
It wasn’t like him.
Or them.
“Tabitha! Justin!” he called, heading toward the calf barn while pulling out his phone and dialing Betsy.
People were going to start thinking he was a bad dad or something.
They’d made their beds. Brushed their teeth. There’d been no sign of a struggle. But he hadn’t heard them on the stairs. Or heard them talking, either.
How could that have happened? Unless...he’d been so distracted by thoughts of the woman he’d refused to think about...
Or... Had they been purposefully quiet? It was the only way Justin kept quiet. By trying really, really hard.
Had his kids snuck out on him?
At seven years old?
Taking a quick turn, he headed toward the temporary television studio he wished he’d never agreed to allow on his property. He’d had great plans for the day. More four-wheeling. A visit to the horse barn for Tabitha. Hot dogs on the grill. Maybe some fishing. It all faded away, usurped by punishment.
He didn’t discipline his kids often. Betsy said not enough. He did what he needed to do. As long as they followed his rules, they were allowed to be free thinkers. To develop their own individual personalities.
Until this weekend, the plan had worked. Almost unfailingly. With some Justin exceptions.
It was time to get a dog. An outdoor dog. One that Justin would have to feed. One who would bark in the yard anytime there was movement—as in kid movement. One who would follow the kids wherever they went. One he could whistle for and, by his response, would tell Spencer where his children were.
Scrap the entire rest of the day’s plans. No full day of fun for the kids. They were going into town to get a dog. And then the kids were going to be yard-bound.
They hated that—not being allowed outside the perimeter he’d designated as the yard for punishment purposes.
He could see the activity at the studio before he was close enough to hear distinct voices. No cooking had happened the day before, but for all of the upcoming weeks, prepared dishes would be transported out on the bus with the contestants, along with any perishable pantry food—bound for homeless shelters, Natasha had told him during one of their original interviews.
Whatever else was going on, he didn’t know. He could see big black equipment boxes going out on the buses. Probably because his barn didn’t have the security of a television studio.
What he couldn’t see, as he strode closer, was his children.
Angela, Natasha’s second-in-command, stage manager, assistant and, he’d concluded, friend, met him before he’d reached the studio.
“You need something, cowboy?” she asked with a grin. The woman had a curious, flamboyant style, dressed in clothes that were as tight as they could be, and yet he was comfortable with her. Like, what he saw was what he got. He liked that. And liked that he wasn’t the least bit tempted to get to know her any better.
She also seemed completely unflappable.
“My kids,” he said, continuing toward her.
“Justin and Tabitha?” Her frown slowed his step. “They aren’t here.”
He stopped. “You’re sure?” They’d hidden from Natasha on Friday. But just for a little while.
Justin could be crafty. But he was only seven. And he had a very black-and-white, mind-the-rules Tabitha with him.
“Positive. I’ve done a final check of the space. We’re out of here in the next five minutes.”
Good. He needed his life back to normal. But...
“Well, thank you.” He smiled. And then, because he wanted to know how long he got to enjoy his freedom from invasion, he asked, “When will you and Natasha be back?”
“I’ll be here Thursday,” she said. “With the crew.”
Yes, that was what he’d meant. Just because the boss lady had been there first this past week didn’t mean she would be again.
“...I’m not sure when Natasha’s going to be here,” Angela was saying. “My guess would be Friday. She’ll want to check things over before Saturday’s show. I’ll ask her and give you a call.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I figured you’d want to know for whoever’s cleaning her cabin...” He didn’t like the quirk of Angela’s head, the way she was studying him.
“It’ll be done Wednesday,” he told her, backing up. His cleaning lady was handling it all for him. And he had to find his kids.
“Well, I’ll let you know when her plans—”
Shaking his head, he said, “Don’t worry about it. I have to find my kids. Have a good trip back.” And he was around the corner, out of her sight.
“Tabitha! Justin!” He jogged. He called. Checked the barns between the studio and the house, intending to head toward the stream by way of the bunkhouse.
“Justin, don’t!” Tabitha’s stern shriek stopped him as he passed the house.
“You know Daddy says you can’t put your dirty finger in the bowl before he cooks.”
They were in the kitchen?
He was inside before his daughter could make another attempt to corral her wayward brother.
Catching Justin in the act.
The boy jerked his hand back and would have splattered breakfast all over the ceramic tile floor except that Spencer, knowing his son well, was there to catch it.
“Go wash up,” he told his son.
“I already washed when I brushed...”
“And you had your finger in pancake batter. Go.” He didn’t raise his voice.
As soon as his son was out of the room, he gave Tabitha a very firm stare. “Where were you?”
She looked away. “I’m right here, Daddy.”
“I went upstairs looking for you.”
That brought her big brown eyes back to him. “We wanted Natasha to have pancakes. Justin says she’s a good cook, and our Sunday pancakes are the best.”
Sunday was always pancake day. Because the kids didn’t have school and he had the time to make them. Because it was a tradition left from his childhood. Because traditions were important.
Sometimes they were everything.
“You went to Natasha’s cabin?” he asked now.
“Yes.” Tabitha nodded. “But she wasn’t home.”
“She left last night.”
“She didn’t tell us ’bye.”
Yes, well, that was for the best. But he wasn’t going to have his kids’ feelings hurt.
“She’s not our friend, Tabitha. When other workers come to the ranch, they don’t tell you goodbye, either.”
“She is, Daddy.”
“Is what? A worker?”
Tabitha’s tangled hair flopped around her shoulders with each vehement shake of her head. “She’s my friend.”
“No, sweetie, she’s just someone who’s