Rancher To The Rescue. Barbara Phinney

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      Noah’s jaw tightened and his brows pressed together. “And if your parents don’t come home?”

      Clare flinched but refused to waver. “I’ll deal with that when the time comes.” She cleared her throat, knowing it sounded like she was denying the obvious possibility, but she wasn’t. She was simply being strong when she needed to be. “I don’t need anyone, thank you very much. I can handle this situation as well as any man.”

      “We’re not discussing the virtues of your gender, Clare, just your ability to keep going in your current state. You’re not going to make it.”

      She flared up. “I can and I will. I’ve already told you I can solve my own problems.”

      A deep crease forming between his brows—those perfectly shaped ones, Clare noted—Noah leaned forward, closer to her. “You don’t need to do this alone, Clare,” he said softly.

      Temptation tugged at her, and she battled it back with tight words. “Are you just saying that to ensure you have a good employee who’s ready to work?”

      Clare watched as hurt flickered over his features. It was quick, and disappeared as quickly as it appeared. But in its wake was a tight jaw with narrowing eyes. They were also brief as he schooled his expression. “Clare, I have only your best interests at heart here. Nothing more.”

      Did he? Clare was hardly a master at reading people, for her life here had been sheltered and college had seen more of the same. But for a few moments after his words, she wondered about their veracity.

      She should stop the suspicion. Of course, he would not want her to lose her brothers, or end up in the poorhouse. But still, was there something more behind his words? Clare wasn’t sure.

      One thing she was sure of was how his soft words and strong expression drew her closer to him. If she just leaned forward a mite and reached out her hand, she could brush his cheek, feel his warm breath on her face and revel in the deep attraction she was feeling right now.

      Pulling herself together against the nonsense, she stood abruptly. How dare he assume she’d fail and need his help! Then she marched into the hall, returning to the parlor doorway with Noah’s Stetson and coat. “I think you should leave. Thank you for stopping by. I will be at work as expected tomorrow.”

      Noah sighed and his tone softened further. “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to.”

      “I do. I need the money, and I obviously need to prove to you that I am going to persevere.” She would. She had no idea how, but she would. “Good day, Mr. Livingstone.”

      His mouth set grimly, Noah donned his coat and took his Stetson and his leave. Clare kept her gaze steady on the interior of her family’s parlor. Only when she heard the front door open and shut, did she cross over to her chair and sink into it with eyes closed against the tears that were already forming there.

      Lord, what am I going to do?

      Only silence answered. Stiffly, she rose and plodded into the kitchen. She bent to stir the cool embers in the firebox of the stove, knowing hot water would be needed to clean her brothers’ clothes. Not to mention needed for supper. She could hear the boys upstairs, the renewed bangs and thumps telling her that they were doing more than cleaning up. She’d get their evening meal started and then investigate the situation up there.

      In the pantry, she glanced around. For the last few weeks, she hadn’t had much time to shop for staples, leaving their meals sparse and lean. Today, as suppertime approached, she lifted the lid on the corned beef barrel.

      Empty save for one small scrap of fat. Supper would be biscuits and milk with the few winter vegetables she had left. She could braise them in that bit of fat. Then she would boil some eggs for the boys’ lunches, reminding herself not to eat any biscuits so they could take the remainder in the morning. Squaring her shoulders, Clare walked over to the small tea canister on the shelf at the entrance to the pantry. Mother always kept grocery money in it, in a small pouch under the leaves. She hadn’t had time to check how much was there.

      Her heart sank as the realization hit her.

      The pouch was missing. Father had taken it.

      A loud crash followed by a whomp and a riotous screech startled her. “Clare!”

      She raced upstairs, growing ever more horrified as the smell of burning kerosene met her nostrils halfway up. Tearing into the boys’ room, she gasped. Their small rug was on fire, the overturned kerosene lamp nearby fueling it!

      Yanking the half-dressed boys out of the room, Clare lunged for the lamp to right it, snapping back her hand before she burned it. She then grabbed the water basin, dumping it onto the fire. It sprayed burning droplets of fuel in every direction.

      She let out her own scream.

      She grabbed the boys’ bedspread and smothered the fire, falling on her knees to smack the last few errant flames beyond one corner of the spread.

      Reaching behind her, she poured the rest of the water from the jug onto the floor, the bedspread and the rug that peeked out beyond another corner. Then she scoured the whole room to ensure no wayward embers smoldered, crawling on her hands and knees the entire way. Satisfied there was no more danger, she rolled up the rug and bedspread to take them outside.

      Still on her knees, all she could manage was to drop her head. Thank You, Lord. Thank You for not allowing this to become worse. Thank You for keeping Tim and Leo safe.

      Only after repeating her prayer several times, in utter gratitude, did Clare look up toward the door.

      Tim and Leo were peeking into the room. Their faces were still smeared with dried mud. Filthy and anxious, they looked like they’d fallen out of their favorite Henry Castlemon book, the one where the boys chased a raccoon through a swamp.

      “You didn’t need to light the lamp!” she told them harshly.

      “I’m sorry. It was cold in here and we’re not allowed to start a fire in the stove.” It was the older brother, Tim, who spoke as he pointed to the small potbellied stove nearby. “Don’t get mad at us. Please?”

      Fighting tears, she struggled to stand, but sagged again when she saw the section of her skirt below her apron was smeared with wet ashes from the burned rug. Her only work skirt was ruined. In fact, her entire outfit was soaked and rumpled, save the section protected by her apron. Clare whimpered when she noticed a burn hole at the sleeve of her blouse. She sank down farther.

      And looked at the floor. Although the damage was minimal, the black, scorched area would need to be repaired. How did one fix such a large scorch mark? Not to mention how much water had seeped down through the plaster ceiling below.

      Helplessness washed through her. How was she supposed to mind her two brothers when they couldn’t even be trusted with the simple task of cleaning themselves up?

      Clare dropped her head into her hands and shut her eyes. As she knelt there, she could feel her brothers creep in and sit down on the floor near her.

      One boy laid his head along her left side and gripped her arm. The other shifted in front and hugged her knees, dropping his head into her wet lap. Automatically, Clare reached out with her right hand and stroked his hair. The straight, silky strands СКАЧАТЬ