Page 38 of The Rancher Who Swore Off Love
“For a man who takes such pride in keepin’ things in order...” Pa tucked the rifle under his arm and pulled the front door open. “...you got a helluva talent for breakin’ the things that matter.”
Chapter Eleven
The tent smelled like mildew and river mud, like canvas that’d lain folded inside a trunk for over a decade.
About a mile off the main road, in a clearing tucked between two pines that leaned together like drunks propping each other up, Jonah had done his best with what he had. On the left side, the whole structure sagged where a cracked pole met a branch and a length of twine that served as his idea of a splint. Every time the wind kicked up, the canvas billowed inward and popped back out.
Their parents had hailed this tent across the Atlantic, in the belly of a ship, packed beneath quilts and a sewing kit. It had survived the crossing and eleven years stuffed behind Jonah’s winter coat in a closet that reeked of boiled cabbage.
Now, it sheltered Grace Linton Foster in the Colorado dirt for what had to rank as the sorriest chapter of her life… including the rat.
Outside the tent flap, Jonah crouched over a ring of stones he’d built from the creek bed, coaxing a fire out of damp kindling. The creek burbled about twenty yards downhill. He’d chosen a decent enough spot. If decent had shrunk to meannot actively falling apart.
Against her chest, Miriam squirmed inside the sling. All afternoon, the baby had fussed and grabbed at the bottle, refused it, then taken it and then spit half of it onto the one clean corner of Grace’s dress. By the time Jonah got the fire going, Miriam had cried herself into a hiccupping half-sleep that jolted her awake every few minutes.
“Here.” Jonah ducked through the tent flap, holding a tin cup of creek water he’d heated over the fire. “Drink somethin’. You ain’t had a drop since we left.”
She took the cup and pressed it to her lip. The tin burned, and the water tasted like smoke and warm metal.
“There’s some jerky in my pack, too, if you want. Ain’t fresh, but it’ll fill a hole.”
“I ain’t hungry.”
“Gracie.”
“I said I ain’t hungry.”
So, he dropped cross-legged onto the ground next to her, and the tent swayed with his weight. Outside, the fire crackled and threw orange light through the canvas in shapes that crawled the walls. Up on the ridge, a coyote yipped, a second answered from the tree line, and those two voices calling backand forth across all that empty dark just about cracked Grace open.
Because, three hours ago, she’d stood in a kitchen with a stove, a mantel clock that ticked, the dresser drawer, and people filling the rooms with all the stupid ordinary sounds a house makes when it holds a family. Three hours and many miles ago.
Now she hunched in dirt while coyotes traded calls over her head.
She pulled her knees tighter and pressed her back against the tent pole, which shifted under her weight and sent the whole left wall sagging another inch. The cold had gotten into her boots during the walk and turned her toes stiff inside the leather.
In the sling, Miriam pressed her face into Grace’s collarbone, breathing damp heat through the cotton. Through Logan’s shirt. The flannel Grace had thrown on over her nightdress when the shouting had started. She hadn’t peeled it off all day because Miriam buried her nose in the collar every time she fussed. It calmed her right down. Which meant Grace couldn’t strip it off without triggering another round of screaming.
So, she wore Logan Foster’s shirt while sitting in the dirt, hating Logan Foster.
If that don’t sum up this whole mess, I’ll eat my boot.
“You wanna talk about it?” Jonah stretched his legs out and crossed his boots at the ankle. “Or you wanna just sit there murderin’ that cup with your eyes all night?”
“I’m thinkin’.”
“You been thinkin’ for three miles straight. Your face’s been doin’ that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That thing where your jaw goes sideways, and your eyebrows pinch up, and you look just like Pa right before he’d tell Ma the rent came up short.”
Rather than dignify that, she shoved the cup into the dirt between two roots and pulled her knees to her chest. Beside her, Jonah tore a strip of jerky with his teeth.
“Can I hold her?” He nodded toward the baby. “My arms have been itchin’ to meet her proper since I come off that trail.”
She loosened the sling and eased Miriam into his arms, tucking the baby’s head into his elbow. In his arms, the baby worked her mouth in her sleep, sucking at air, chasing a bottle that lived inside whatever dreams babies dreamed.
“Lord, she’s little.” Jonah dropped his voice to a hush. “Ain’t hardly bigger’n a Sunday roast.”
