“It’s in your blood, then,” she commented. “Like this farm’s in ours.”
“I guess so.” Emily had paddled over to join them, and Ridge smiled from one kid to the other. “I’ll bet this is a great place to grow up.”
“The best,” Kyle agreed as the kids climbed the ladder and sat on the towels spread on the dock beside their mother. “Where do you live?”
Ridge thought for a second, trying to simplify his complicated history. “I’m from Colorado, as I said earlier, but I’ve lived all over. California, Montana, Texas. I spent most of last year in Alaska.”
“Alaska?” Kyle echoed. “What did you do there?”
“I was a bush pilot. Took people out on wilderness tours, delivered supplies to the way-out villages, stuff like that.”
“Why do you move so much?” Emily asked.
No one had ever asked him that quite so directly. Maybe, like Marianne, adults figured it was too personal a question. “I like to explore different places, I guess.”
“I like it here,” Kyle said simply. “Someday this place will be ours. Right, Mom?”
“Definitely,” she assured him with a proud smile.
Kyle nudged his sister’s shoulder. “We’re gonna take real good care of it, aren’t we, Emmy?”
Emily’s vivid blue eyes glowed with brother worship, and she nodded somberly. She probably had no idea what she was agreeing to, but it was about the cutest thing Ridge had ever seen.
“How old are you again?” Ridge teased Kyle.
“Ten and a quarter.”
Impressed by the very precise way he gave his age, Ridge recognized the serious demeanor from his own childhood. He knew firsthand that when dads were out of the picture, little boys grew up fast. Sadly, his own experience had taught him there were worse things than an absent father.
Pushing those memories aside, he smiled at Emily. “How ’bout you, sweetness?”
“Oooh, I like that name,” she cooed. “I never had a special name before.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
Score one for the new guy, Ridge thought with a grin. Welcoming as the Sawyers had been, he still felt like an outsider looking in on the close circle of their family. Because he moved around so much, he was used to that. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why it was bothering him all of a sudden.
Pulling her Cinderella towel around her shoulders, Emily said, “I’m six. I was born a long way away from here.”
“Really? Where?”
Emily glanced up at her mother, who nodded. “Chicago. Daddy didn’t want us, so me and Mommy and Kyle came back here to be with Granddad.” She frowned. “He’s with Gramma in heaven now.”
Marianne smoothed her hair with a comforting hand, and Kyle put an arm around Emily’s shoulders for a quick squeeze. The way she’d skimmed over her father’s rejection of them just about stopped Ridge’s heart. While he’d already guessed that Marianne’s ex had left them, it hadn’t occurred to him just how much that would have affected her children.
What kind of man pushed away a beautiful woman and fantastic kids like these? Emily’s revelation made the Westons’ family situation painfully clear to Ridge, but he reminded himself that it was none of his business.
“Your uncle Matt told me all about your granddad,” he said gently. “He sounds like a great guy. I wish I could’ve met him.”
What would his life have been like if he’d had a generous, loving father like Ethan Sawyer? Grandpa did his best to fill the void, but all his life Ridge had known he was missing out on something. Since there was no remedy for his very flawed past, he did what he always did when thoughts like that popped up. He pushed them aside and focused on the here and now.
“We miss him all the time,” Emily continued sadly. “We loved him a lot.”
“I love my grandpa, too. He taught me everything I know.”
“Like what?” Kyle asked.
“Like how to pick off a runner at first base or throw a good, tight spiral with a football. How to fix an engine. How to fly,” he added with a fond smile. “All the important stuff.”
He almost expected Kyle to ask about his father. He braced himself for it, but the question never came. Young as he was, Kyle struck him as an old soul who understood more than any ten-year-old should. Ridge wondered if somehow the kid sensed that they shared father trouble and had decided to give him a break.
“I hate to do this, but we need to get you two into some dry clothes.” Marianne stood and held her arms out for them. For Ridge, she had a gracious smile. “Are you hungry yet?”
Remembering the manners Mom had pounded into him all his life, Ridge got to his feet. While he appreciated Marianne’s hospitality, he sensed that after the long day she’d had, she wouldn’t mind some time alone. “Actually, I need to do a few things with Betsy. Thanks, though.”
“The offer stands. My kitchen’s always open.”
As the three of them walked toward the house, their voices trailed back to him, punctuated by the kids’ laughter. Despite her gracious behavior, anyone could see that Marianne was exhausted. All day, she’d been a real trouper, managing one thing after another with a lovely smile he suspected had taken her years to perfect.
Did women practice that kind of look? Ridge wondered as he strolled toward Betsy’s makeshift runway. Came in handy when they decided it was time to cut you loose but didn’t want to mortally wound you. He had no trouble imagining the very proper Marianne Weston dismissing a guy that way.
A rose with thorns, he mused as he pulled his tool kit from Betsy’s storage compartment. Grabbing what he needed, he began degreasing the rebuilt engine he’d installed last month. Full of original parts and expertly machined reproductions, it had cost him a small fortune. But, with care, it would last for years. Like anyone else, Betsy was at her best when she got the attention she needed.
Speaking of which, Tucker trotted over and sat in front of Ridge, shamelessly begging for some love. Ridge hunkered down and fluffed his damp ears. “You’re quite the character. Dogs don’t usually take to me so quickly.”
The Lab cocked his head with a curious look, and Ridge laughed. “You don’t know you’re a dog, do you?”
In response, Tucker yipped and spun a quick circle before taking off for the woods. As Ridge watched him go, he took a minute to admire the Sawyer homestead. Over two thousand acres, Matt had informed him proudly when he’d asked about it. The land had been in the family since the mid-1800s, and every square inch was obviously worked with care, even the fallow field he’d used as a landing strip.
A well-worn dirt path wound past John’s cottage and up to the main house. There it joined up with a wide driveway that split two rows of fence and trees on its way out to the road.
