The Triplets' Cowboy Daddy. Patricia Johns

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       Chapter One

      Nora Carpenter could have cared for one baby easily enough. She could somehow have juggled two. But three—she’d never imagined that accepting the role of godmother to her half sister’s babies would actually put her into the position of raising those babies on her own. She was still in shock.

      Nora stood in her mother’s brilliantly clean farmhouse kitchen, more overwhelmed than she had ever felt in her life. The three infants were still in their car seats, eyes scrunched shut and mouths open in hiccoughing wails. She stood over them, her jeans already stained from spilled formula and her tank top stretched from...she wasn’t even sure what. She unbuckled the first infant—Rosie—and scooped her up. Rosie’s cries subsided as she wriggled up against Nora’s neck, but anxiety still made Nora’s heart race as she fumbled with Riley’s buckle. She’d come back to Hope, Montana, that afternoon so that her mother could help her out, but even that was more complicated than anyone guessed. These babies weren’t just orphans in need of care; they were three tiny reminders that Nora’s father hadn’t been the man they all believed him to be.

      Everything had changed—everything but this kitchen. The counters were crumb-free, as they always were, and the room smelled comfortingly, and very faintly, of bleach. Hand-embroidered kitchen towels hung from the stove handle—two of them, one with Monday sewn across the bottom, and one with Thursday. Today was Friday. Unless Dina Carpenter was making jam or doing canning, this was the natural state—immaculate, with no care for properly labeled towels. The babies’ cries echoed through the house.

      Rosie, Riley and Roberta had finished their bottles just before Nora’s mother had left for a quick trip to the store for some baby supplies.

      “I’ll be fine!” Nora had said. Famous last words. The minute the door shut, the cries had begun, and no amount of cooing or rocking of car seats made a bit of difference.

      There was a knock on the back door, and Nora shouted, “Come in!” as she scooped up Riley in her other arm and cuddled both babies close. Riley’s cries stopped almost immediately, too, and that left Roberta—Bobbie, as Nora had nicknamed her—still crying in her car seat, hands balled up into tiny fists.

      Nora had no idea who was at the door, and she didn’t care. Whoever walked through that door was about to be put to work. Served them right for dropping by.

      “Need a hand?” The voice behind her was deep—and familiar. Nora turned to see Easton Ross, the family’s ranch manager, standing in the open door. He wore jeans and cowboy boots, his shirt pushed up his forearms to reveal ropy muscle. He’d changed a lot since their school days. Back then he’d been a skinny kid, perpetually shorter than she was. Not anymore. He was most definitely a grown man...and she was no longer the one with all the power. When her father died a few months ago, he’d left Easton a piece of property.

      “Easton.” She smiled tiredly. “Would you mind picking up Bobbie there? She needs a cuddle.”

      Her personal grudge against the man would have to wait.

      “Yeah...okay...” He didn’t sound certain, but he crossed the room and squatted in front of the car seat.

      “You know how to pick up babies, don’t you?” she asked.

      “Uh...sort of.” His face had hardened, his jawline now strong and masculine. He used to have acne as a teenager, but there was no sign of it now. Looking at him squatting there, she realized that she’d missed him more than she’d realized—and that wasn’t just the fact that she didn’t have enough hands right now. And yet, while she’d been away in the city, he’d been here with her dad, building a relationship that her father would reward him with her great-grandparents’ homestead. Bile rose every time she thought about it.

      “Support the head and the bottom,” she instructed. “The rest will take care of itself.”

      Easton undid the buckle then cautiously scooped up the baby in his broad, calloused hands. Bobbie settled instantly as Easton pulled her against his chest. He looked down at the baby and then up at Nora.

      “There,” he said. “That worked.”

      “Thanks...” Nora heaved a sigh. The quiet was more than welcome.

      “Bobbie?” he asked. The babies were all in pink sleepers.

      “Her full name is Roberta. But she’s my little Bobbie. It suits her.”

      Nora had only had the babies in her charge for a few days of her twelve-week parental leave from work, but she was already attached. They were so sweet, and so different from each other. Rosie was the quietest of the three, and Riley couldn’t abide a wet diaper. Bobbie seemed to have the strongest personality, though, and Nora could already imagine their sisterly dynamic as they grew.

      “Yeah, I guess so,” he said. “Hi.”

      “Hi.” She gave him a tight smile. “Nice to see you again.”

      Last time she saw him was at the reading of the will. She pushed back the unpleasant memory. Regardless, Easton was a fixture around here. They used to be good friends when they were younger, and they’d spent hours riding together, or just sitting on a fence and talking. When times were tough, Easton always seemed to materialize, and his solid presence made a difference. Apparently, her father had had equally warm memories.

      Easton met her gaze, dark eyes softened by a smile. “You look good.”

      “Babies suit me, do they?” she joked.

      “So the word around town—it’s true, then?” he asked.

      There it was—the beginning of the town’s questions. There would be a lot of them, and the answers were complicated.

      “What did you hear?” she asked warily. “How much do people know?”

      “That you came back to town with triplets,” he said. “That your dad had an affair, and you had a half sister...” He winced. “It that part true? I find it hard to believe of him. I knew your dad better than most—”

      She chafed at that reminder. The homestead was an old farmhouse her great-grandparents had built with their own hands. Over the years, the Carpenters had maintained it and Nora’s parents had used it as a guesthouse. It mattered, that old house. It was Nora’s connection to her family’s СКАЧАТЬ