“Oh shh-oot. Sorry.” Trout dashed into the room. Ears up, tail wagging, the dog skidded to a stop by his side.
Putting a hand on the dog’s head, he asked, “Ready, my man?”
Trout answered with a single bark. Blackwell gave Lydia a final assessing look, his gray eyes blazing with an intensity that clogged her throat. “Good night, Ms. Lydia. And thank you.” His voice was soft and deep, the tone sincere.
She felt a little light-headed as she watched man and dog disappear through the doorway that Sofie had told her led outside and to the JB Bar Ranch beyond. Ms. Lydia? A warm flush heated her cheeks and neck. She managed to wheeze out a breathy “Good night” that he probably didn’t hear. She was glad because she knew her voice sounded weird. A few minutes ago, she’d wanted to run off and now she wanted to fan herself. What was up with that?
It was just relief, she assured herself. Terror, hopelessness, desperation and anxiety so acute she’d barely slept in days, followed by two days of traveling, would scramble a person’s brain. Added to the mix was the sobering realization that her boss didn’t seem to like her and the single teenaged girl she’d signed up to ferry around was in reality two busy preschoolers. Exhaustion was setting in. But the thought that she might finally be safe left a small smile on her face.
She’d do anything to stay that way. Wrangling a pair of out-of-control twins and sparring with their irritable father seemed like a cakewalk compared to what she was running from.
“YOU DON’T LOOK nothin’ like a old pear.”
Lydia looked at Genevieve. “Excuse me?”
“It’s noth-ing, Gen,” Abby said. “Not nothin’.”
“I know that, Abby, but I like the way Tom says nothin’.”
Abby rolled her eyes at her sister. “Well, I think you should say you don’t look anything like an old pear.” Face taut with concentration, she studied Lydia. “But she’s right, you don’t.”
“Who told you I did? And are we talking about fruit or boots?”
“Tom,” Gen answered.
“Fruit,” Abby said.
“Tom said I look like an old pear?” Lydia asked.
Abby explained, “No, Tom said we were getting an old pear. It’s a fancy name for a nanny.”
Ah. Lydia smothered a laugh. “Actually, it’s au pair not old pear.”
Gen frowned. “Oh. What’s an oh pear? That don’t make no sense.”
“It’s a French term,” Lydia said, choosing not to correct the child’s grammar quite yet.
“Like a French fry?” Gen asked.
“Crepes are French,” Abby stated knowingly. “They’re real skinny pancakes.”
Gen gushed, “I lo-o-ove pancakes. Buttermilk pancakes are right yummy vittles.”
“Let me guess.” Lydia looked at Abby, whose eyes had gone skyward again. “Tom?”
“Mmm-hmm. Sofie says he talks like a movie cowboy.”
“Who is Tom, exactly?”
“Tom is Daddy’s foreman. Gen lo-o-oves him.”
Gen scowled at her sister. “Only because I’m gonna be a ranch foreman someday. Like Katie.”
“Katie doesn’t talk that way.”
Lydia held out her hands, palms down, fingers spread. She’d herded the girls into the bathroom to commence bedtime preparations. “Okay, hold on.” It was already going to be a challenge to become fluent in five-year-old, but five-year-old-aspiring-cowgirl was going to require some serious effort.
“Now who is Katie?”
Abby explained, “Katie is Lochlan’s daughter. He’s the foreman at Big E’s ranch.”
Gen fiddled with the faucet. Being still didn’t appear to be the child’s greatest strength. “But Katie should take over soon. I heard Daddy tell Tom.”
They had already mentioned Big E and Lydia now knew him to be the girls’ great-grandfather—Blackwell’s grandfather—and he was married to Zoe. Lydia wondered about his parents, but knew introducing yet another topic would only further delay her immediate mission.
“Interesting. Thank you. We’ll discuss this more later. For now, let’s get back to bath time.”
“We like to take showers now that we’re five.”
“Great. Showers it is. We’re going to do this like an assembly line. I’ll wash your hair first, Abby. Then you can hop in the shower while I wash Gen’s. Then you can shower, Gen. Got it? Use soap, okay?”
Gen groaned. “Do I have to take a shower?”
“What’s a sembly line?” Abby asked. “Is that French, too?”
“Yes, you do have to take a shower, Gen. It’s as-sem-bly line, Abby,” she said, enunciating carefully. “And an assembly line is an organized way of doing things. As far as I know, it’s not French.”
“Why?” Gen demanded, still fixated on the apparent torture of sanitization unfolding before her.
“You don’t smell like flowers for one thing, and for another you both need your hair washed.”
“Flowers?” Gen repeated, her face scrunched thoughtfully.
“I hate getting my hair washed.” This from Abby, whom Lydia had already deduced was slightly more amenable to hygiene and civilized behavior than her sister.
“Why’s that?”
“It hurts.”
“What do you mean it hurts? Washing your hair shouldn’t hurt.”
“It’s the after part. It gets all snarly like a rat’s nest—that’s what Daddy calls it—and it hurts to brush it.”
“I see. Well, that’s no good.” Lydia took a moment to scope out the toiletries—soap, toothpaste, toothbrushes and basic first-aid supplies. Another cupboard held fluffy orange and yellow towels. The shower curtain featured brightly colored jungle animals. No razors, shaving cream, aftershave, cologne or other manly potions in evidence. Blackwell apparently had his own personal domain, which was a relief. She didn’t relish the idea of sharing a bathroom with him. In the shower, she spotted a single bottle. She picked it up and said, “‘Shampoo and conditioner in one.’” That explained it.
“Wait right here. No more rat’s nests for you.” She started to walk out the door and then stopped as it occurred to her that there was a good possibility they might not be here when she returned. Nibbling her lip, she thought for a second. “I have two important things I need you guys to do while I’m gone. Abby, can you find some cotton balls? Gen, can you gather up all the hair bands in that basket and put them in a pile?” Lydia pointed to a container on the counter, where she’d noticed the hair accessories were kept. “Can you guys do that?”
They both nodded solemnly, neither questioning their assigned task.
Lydia dashed to her bedroom. She’d only brought one small suitcase but it included a travel-sized bottle of leave-in conditioner. Three heads of long hair meant it wasn’t going to last long. She added conditioner to the supply list she’d already started. Under boots and jeans she wrote conditioner.
Upon reentering the bathroom, she assessed the work they’d done. “Thank you. Great job, girls. Now, I’ll make you a deal. If you let me wash your hair, and you take