willed herself to stay strong. She’d stick around for a while and make the best of the situation. When the time was right she’d return to New York, where she’d left behind friends, and the assistant editor position that was awaiting her at The Sentinel, and Neal—a gentleman she’d gone on several grand outings with.
“I’ll see you inside then g-get the rest of your things,” Zach said, easing her back to the moment. “Violet will have dinner ready shortly.”
She could do this. Surely after six years, her father would be pleased to see her.
Wouldn’t he?
The few letters he’d written over the years had been short and to the point, and after a time she’d found it easier to author the same kind of correspondence. He’d kept her bank account stuffed full, but he’d never once come to visit, nor had he suggested that she travel home for a stay.
She was very likely the last person he ever wanted to see.
At the moment, Ivy was grossly unsure of herself. She’d learned to live with her guilt, and had spent the past years abiding to every aspect of life with the tightest of reins. She’d been successful, and had flourished with strength and perseverance she didn’t even know she possessed. She couldn’t allow her fears and misgivings and guilt to override her good sense—not when she’d come so far.
“Let’s g-go inside, Ivy. Your father will want to see you.” When Zach gently grasped her arms and began directing her toward the front door, Ivy wrenched free from his touch, and from his misguided statement.
She pinned him with an admonishing glare, and from the way his brow creased in confusion, she knew she’d overreacted. But she was scared to death that if she softened to the comfort of his strong and sure presence, she’d crumble in the face of her guilt, losing the woman she’d become in order to survive.
Scared even more that, if she denied herself the comfort she yearned for, the comfort she found in his touch, she’d never make it through this homecoming.
Chapter Three
Zach had only just left Ivy in Violet’s care and stepped outside when a sharp whistle from the wide barn entrance caught his attention. “Zach!” Hugh Bagley, one of the ranch hands, yelled. “Come quick!”
Hugh didn’t worry about much, so the frantic way he was waving, his long arms flapping about like wind-whipped flags in the early evening, gave Zach pause.
Zach took the porch risers in one leap and raced out to the barn, each step a weighty reminder of the responsibility he carried on this ranch.
“What is it?” He pulled up beside the lanky man, scanning the solid structure, half expecting to find some horrible disaster awaiting him inside. “What happened?”
Hugh swiped a chambray sleeve across his mouth. “I was checking over the stalls when I found Mr. Harris down on all fours, heaving.” His thin lips grew rigid as he turned and stared down the long corridor.
Zach yanked the man that direction. “Where is he now?” The earthy scent of fresh hay and dank hard-packed ground filled his senses the moment they entered the barn.
“The last stall.” Hugh stopped midstride at the hub of the three rows of stalls, dimly lit by day’s waning light and several lanterns hung securely on rod-iron hooks. He blanched a sickly white, pointing down the row to the right. “I’m no good when it comes to others being sick, Zach. Honestly, I’ve never been able to handle that sort of thing. I’ll be down on all fours with Mr. Harris, if I stick around.”
Zach struggled to hold his frustration in check at the way Hugh was nearly gagging just talking about it. “I’ll see to him. You go and fetch Ben. Just make sure you don’t let this slip to others, do you hear?”
Zach’s stutter was all but gone—at least now that he was nowhere near Ivy. Ever since he’d dragged her from the mud a good hour ago, he’d tried to reason that his broken speech was a coincidence appearing at the very same moment he set eyes on that little lady. But the fact that he was speaking clearly now screamed otherwise.
She was the cause of his stutter.
And the sooner he shoved her tempting image from his mind and grabbed hold of his flailing confidence, the better off he’d be.
That task would be manageable, too, if not for seeing the moisture that had rimmed her eyes when she’d held Shakespeare. Or the vulnerability etched into her gaze when he’d pulled the wagon into the yard.
“You sure you want me to get your brother?” Hugh angled a questioning glance up at Zach as the low moo of cattle sounded in the distance. “The boss probably won’t want a doctor involved. He was furious that I was going after you.”
“If he’s sick, then he needs to see a doctor,” Zach reasoned. Mr. Harris had to be worse off than he’d thought if he let a ranch hand see him in that condition.
Hugh draped his arms about his chest. Nudged up his chin. “Your call, boss,” he measured out in a that’s-not-what-I’d-do-if-I-were-foreman kind of way that stuck Zach like a big prickly burr.
“That’s right.” Zach held Hugh’s challenging gaze, unwilling to look weak in front of the man—not when Hugh had played a big part in the years of struggle Zach had faced when he was young. “This is my call.”
Mr. Harris was sure to object to the matter. The ranch owner was an unyielding strength on this spread and abhorred looking weak in front of anyone. But as foreman, it was Zach’s responsibility to make sure Mr. Harris was taken care of. Zach had been humbled when the responsibility of foreman had been handed to him after only a year of employment as a hired hand. He wasn’t going to let his employer down.
“Well, I don’t want the big boss throwing any blame my way when your brother shows up carting his black bag.” Hugh arched one blond eyebrow beneath his brown wide-brimmed cowboy hat.
“Just get Ben.” Zach shrugged off his impatience, turned and ate up the rest of the corridor with long resolute strides.
Slowing, he entered the dimly lit stall to find his boss hunkered down against the wall, his arms wrapped tight around his middle. “Mr. Harris? Are you all right?”
The man angled a glance up at Zach. “Never better.”
Zach knelt down next to him, his concern heightened at the way perspiration beaded the man’s pale face. “That’s not what Hugh seemed to think. And now that I’ve seen you—”
“Hugh should learn to keep his observations to himself, and that flap of a mouth he has shut.” Mr. Harris tipped up his black Stetson, his squared jaw set in that steadfast way of his. “It’s nothing.”
“This appears to be more than just nothing,” Zach carefully challenged. To see how gaunt, tired and out-of-sorts he looked made Zach almost feel guilty for noticing.
With an irritated huff, Mr. Harris yanked his hat from his head. “I told Hugh not to make a fuss about this.”
He stuck his boss with a narrowed gaze. “By the looks of you, it was a good thing he did.”
“I’ll be fine.” When Mr. Harris slowly
