on his face, then stilled and listened for the sounds of Heather and Gracie in the kitchen. Pots and pans clattered, noises he hadn’t heard from that area in years. With only men on the ranch since his ma’s passing, they ate in the bunkhouse.
A band of emotion squeezed around his heart. Even a decade after her death, he was acutely aware of the loss of his ma.
His parents had met and married because the social structures had shifted following the war. His pa had married above his station, and his ma’s money had funded the fledging ranch. They were cordial to each other but never affectionate. Not that he’d paid much attention to that sort of thing as a child.
All in all he had no complaints about his upbringing. They’d had the nicest house in the territory, the largest barn and the best piece of land in Montana. His father had been a hard and unyielding man, but as the second son, Sterling had escaped the worst of his temper. Dillon, on the other hand, was being groomed for his place at the helm of the Blackwell family legacy, and there was no time for cosseting.
The scent of brewing coffee wafted from the kitchen, and Sterling wiped the last flecks of shaving lotion from his face.
Gracie perched on two Montgomery Ward catalogs with a towel secured around her middle and tied to the rungs of the chair. Her concentration intense, she pinched an edge of toast and aimed for her mouth. After a few misses, she managed to devour the bite.
The child was miniature perfection with tiny hands, long-lashed eyes and a perfect little button of a nose. Because of the separate spaces in the house, their interactions had been limited, but the child struck him as smart and amiable.
Heather turned from the stove and his heart did an odd little flip. Tendrils of damp hair clung to her forehead, and her cheeks were flushed from the heat. She wore a gingham dress in blue with a floral embroidered apron wrapped around her waist.
She’d made it clear the marriage arrangement was strictly for the child, and he’d accepted the terms. A part of him held back too, sensing their union was temporary. The circumstances surrounding Grace’s arrival haunted him. Last evening he’d stared at the Return of Birth, examining the handwriting for any clues to the origins.
The practical side of him wanted to solve the mystery and learn the truth. But another part of him feared that if he discovered the truth, he’d wind up hurting Heather. She’d convinced him the child was better off not knowing who had abandoned her, and he agreed. Mostly. There was an underlying tension in the house they both felt. He kept waiting for a change in the wind, a darkening of the clouds that portended another tornado.
“You look lovely this morning,” he said, hiding his discomfort behind a layer of amiable pleasantries.
“Would you like flapjacks?”
With an offhand smile in his direction, she wrapped a scorched flour sack around the handle of a pan on the stove, then lifted the skillet.
She hadn’t even acknowledged the compliment. Perhaps it was too early in the morning for charm.
“Please,” he said.
He took a seat across from Gracie. With brisk efficiency, Heather served him a plate of flapjacks and a side of bacon. Next she poured coffee, taking care to place the cup well out of Gracie’s reach. As a finishing touch, she added syrup and a jar of applesauce to the table.
He might as well have been a stranger dining in a café. He braced his wrists on the edge of the table. If they were going to spend the rest of their lives together, or even just the rest of the month, he wanted to at least feel like a member of the family and not a boarder in his own home. They might have been rushed into the situation, but there was no reason to act like strangers.
She cocked her head toward the door. “Someone sounds angry.”
Sterling tuned into the sound of a dog barking. “That’s Rocky, the new sheepdog.”
He left the details vague, inviting her to make a comment about the dog. Instead she took the seat beside Gracie and held out a spoonful of applesauce toward the child. Gracie gummed the offering, revealing her two lower teeth.
Sterling gestured with his fork. “When does she start feeding herself?”
“I don’t know.” Heather’s shoulders stiffened. “I suppose when she can hold a spoon.”
“I didn’t mean anything by the question,” he said, sensing her uptight manner. If he spoke out against the child at this stage, he feared he’d start an argument. “Just asking.”
Heather was fiercely protective of the child. Even considering the little contact between the three of them, he’d discerned that much. If he didn’t know better, he’d question her attachment. But he did know better. While in Butte, he’d visited the family she’d stayed with during her time in town. They’d been adamant that Heather wasn’t pregnant during her visit. Their shock at the mere idea had bordered on comical. Living in close quarters with Heather and Gracie this past week had reinforced his conclusion.
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