Winter's End. Ruth Herne Logan

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СКАЧАТЬ The coffeemaker had gone silent. Feeling at home, she retrieved two hefty mugs.

      “Jess rides and does horse shows,” Pete explained. “Marc trucks her and Rooster around, using time he probably should spend here.” Pete raised his gaze to the sprawling farmyards. “A farmer only gets so many good days and fine weekends, but Marc had Jess on a horse before she could walk. She rides like she was born to the saddle.”

      “That’s very cool.” Kayla weighed the time frame. Summers never had enough weekends to accommodate everything slated for good weather. Work, home repair, social functions. From Pete’s depiction of Jess’s pastime, Kayla caught a glimpse of the younger DeHollander’s conflict. He was a one-man band, without the juggling monkey. Filing the information, she raised a thick-based cup into the air. “Guys’ mugs. I love ’em.”

      “Nothing fancy.”

      “But they hold a solid cup of joe.” Kayla flashed him a smile as she poured. “Smells good.”

      “You’re not going to lecture me on the evils of caffeine?” Pete teased, pretending surprise. “What kind of nurse are you?”

      “The kind that picks her battles,” Kayla retorted. She crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out a plastic jug. “Besides, I’d have to point the same finger right back at myself. You buy milk?” She turned to face him. “When you’ve got all those cows?”

      “Beef cattle.”

      The deep voice startled her. She turned. Marc’s flat and unfriendly expression did little to enhance his gasp-out-loud good looks, and that seemed a crying shame. For a moment she wondered if God had been distracted by some urgent need when Marc DeHollander moved to the front of the “winning personality” line, then reminded herself that blaming God was unfair. Jerks generally achieved their status on their own, and most deservedly. She arched a brow his way.

      “Dairy cattle give milk,” he continued, his stance rigid.

      “They’re mammals,” she corrected. “They all give milk. Those of the female gender, that is.”

      His expression toughened another shade. “Not for commercial purposes.”

      “I see.” She slid her gaze to the pot. “Would you like coffee, Mr. DeHollander?”

      The formal name tightened the hard set of his eyes, but his lips twitched. Either he’d actually considered gracing her with a smile or he had some mild form of palsy.

      Kayla put her money on the palsy.

      “I’ll get it.” He moved through the room with the outdoor elegance of a man comfortable with himself. He’d left his boots at the door and his socks were a heathered blend of brown, ivory and gray. They looked warm. Kayla eyed them with a hint of envy, then glanced up. “Excuse me.”

      Marc didn’t bring his cup to the table. He stood with his back to the sink, arms folded, waiting for the coffee to cool. He frowned, then glanced around. “Who? Me?”

      Difficult man. Could you try being nice? Kayla nodded. “Your socks.” She pointed down.

      “Yes?”

      He drew the word out deliberately, his voice tinged with dis-belief. She ignored the cool bite. “They look warm.”

      He paused too long, stretching his response to make her feel awkward. No way would she let him see his strategy worked. She held her ground and her tongue until he answered. “They are.”

      “Where did you get them?”

      He swept her feet a glance. “Your toes cold?”

      She fought back a retort and counted to five. Why were her sassy clogs such an issue? Couldn’t he answer a simple question without being a jerk?

      “I walk for exercise,” she answered. She didn’t mention she needed the socks to keep her feet warm at home. That would give him an opening to make some schlocky remark about her shoes. “Warm socks would be nice.”

      “Ostrander’s.”

      “The bed and breakfast?” Marc DeHollander didn’t seem like the B and B type.

      “They have a wool shop beneath the house.”

      “Really?” Kayla pictured the farm’s bucolic setting. Tourists spoke highly of the accommodations. “Thanks.” She nodded. “I’ll stop by.”

      “Better check the hours,” Pete warned. Kayla turned his way. “During winter, the family might not be around as much.”

      “Good point. I’ll call first. Were they expensive?” She turned back to Marc.

      He looked as though he wasn’t sure what to make of her or the discussion. “Quality has its price. They do the job.”

      And the award for warm and fuzzy personality goes to…anyone but you, Farmer Boy.

      Kayla swallowed words she would have voiced short years past and nodded. “That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

      His eyes pierced, the gray-green color flint and flat. Long seconds ticked by before he switched his attention to his father, the move dismissive. “I’m picking Jess up from Nan’s later. Anything you need from town?”

      Pete patted the small package. “I had a hankering for some of them filled wafery things. Kayla got some for me.”

      “Wasn’t that nice?” The edge in Marc’s voice told Kayla she’d stepped on his toes again.

      She bit back a groan. What was it with this guy? Wasn’t anything easy? Did bringing his sick father a box of Napoleons constitute war?

      Marc rolled his shoulders. With one long swig, he drained his cup and plunked it onto the scarred counter. “Anything special you’d like for supper, Dad? I can defrost the meat.”

      Pete mulled, then said, “Stew.”

      Marc smiled.

      Whoa. Secret weapon, highly effective. Definitely part of his arsenal that should be kept sheathed, only to be revealed with a mandatory warning to all females within relative proximity. Kayla’s heart beat a rat-a-tat-tat against her breastbone, a totally adolescent reaction. Stop. Stay cool. Distant. Step away from the smile. Avert your eyes. Whatever it takes.

      The grin held a high-amp flash of teeth and a dimple that should have made him look soft, but didn’t. Just the opposite. The man looked good. Self-assured. Confident and happy.

      His father grinned in response. Kayla looked from one to the other, mystified. “Is there something I’m missing? A private joke?”

      Marc shifted his weight. “Family stuff.”

      Her spine tightened. The rebuff was meant to keep her in her place. He’d drawn a line in the sand, a marker of domination.

      She didn’t need his marker. She knew her place. Always had. With an audible intake of breath, she reached into her laptop bag and withdrew papers. “Are you up to doing paperwork, Mr. D.?”

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