Page 108 of The Rancher Who Swore Off Love
“I SAID I’M COMIN’!”
She pulled back. Her hand stayed on Logan’s collar for one extra beat, and her fingers pressed warm against his neck. Then she let go and stepped away, bending down to tie her boots—both of them, tight double knots—before looking up at him with that grin.
“Don’t think I’m lettin’ you off the hook, Foster.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She turned and marched toward the porch, where Rafe held Miriam out at arm’s length like a ticking bomb. Grace took the baby, tucked her into the crook of her neck, bounced twice, and Miriam’s screaming cut to a whimper and then to nothing. Rafe’s shoulders sagged about six inches.
“How?” Rafe stared. “How in theSam Hilldo you do that every single time?”
“Trade secret.” Grace kissed Miriam’s head. “Mornin’, baby girl. You givin’ Paw-Paw trouble again?”
Logan stood in the garden with dirt on his knees and mud on his boots, and the first real light of the day spilling over the ridge and painting the yard gold. Grace swayed on the porch with the baby, humming something tuneless, and Rafe grumbled his way back toward the kitchen, muttering about coffee and ungodly hours and babies with no respect for an old man’s sleep schedule.
Grace glanced back at him over her shoulder.
“You comin’ in, or you gonna stand out there communin’ with the gophers all mornin’?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jonah leaned against the porch rail with his arms crossed and that grin he got when he wanted credit for something he hadn’t done yet.
“Go on, then. I got it handled.”
“You gotwhathandled? You can’t even keep Gerald from chasin’ you across the yard.”
“Gerald and I reached an understanding.”
“Since when?”
“Since I started throwin’ corn at him before he sees me. Preemptive diplomacy.” He waved her off. “Go win your little vegetable prize. I’ll mind the ranch, feed the stock, and keep the gates locked. Scout’s honor.”
“You ain’t never been a scout.”
“It’s thehonorpart that counts.” He stepped forward and straightened the collar of her good dress, the blue one she’d mended three times and pressed with Logan’s flatiron that morning, which still smelled faintly of whatever starch Logan used on his Sunday shirts. “You look real nice, Gracie.”
She smiled. “Just don’t burn the house down.”
“No promises.”
She punched his arm. He pulled her into a hug, the kind he’d given her since they’d shared that cold little room off the Hudson with newspaper stuffed in the window cracks. Same arms. Same ribs she could count through his shirt. But steadier now, somehow. Less sharp.
She climbed onto the wagon bench next to Logan, who held the reins in one hand and Miriam in the other, because Miriam had decided five minutes ago that she needed to grab the horse’s tail and nobody could convince her otherwise.
“Ready?” Logan glanced at her.
“Born ready.”
“You got your entry crate?”
“In the back.”
“The squash too?”
“Logan, if you ask me one more time about the squash, I’m gonna shove a zucchini so far up your—”
“Just checkin’.”
