What was she thinking?
“No. Of course there’s nothing wrong.” Ivy hugged her arms to her chest, fracturing small chunks of dried mud from her garment, just like the crusty shell that had started breaking from her heart the moment she’d arrived in Boulder. “I’m just struggling to understand what, exactly, Violet meant by her desperate language regarding my father. Quite honestly, I was under the impression that he was very ill.”
“He’s not a mmmman to show weakness, but I have caught him feeling poorly a couple of t-t-times.” His jaw visibly tensed. “Maybe Violet has been witness to more.”
Stepping up to the yawning porch that stretched in a lazy fashion at the front of the house, she tentatively padded over to the corner where the old porch swing hung.
“Your father sits there sometimes, after a long hard d-d-day.” His voice was low and laden with certain respect. “It’s a p-perfect place to see the sunset.”
Reaching from beneath the blanket, she ran her fingers over the weathered wood. Gave the swing a soft push. The familiar, faint creaking beckoned memories. She couldn’t even begin to count the times when her father would sit here and snuggle her close on crisp fall days. Like today.
“I’m surprised it’s still here, after all of these years,” she whispered, picturing her father sitting there reading to her from many a book or telling her a fascinating tale of honor, love, bravery. She’d developed a deep appreciation for literature because of him.
Zach cleared his throat, easing her from the memory. And for some very tangible reason, having him standing there, right beside her, gave her a solid sense of comfort.
“I d-d-did a little repair work on it a few months ago,” he forced out, the strained and determined way he worked to speak piercing her heart. “It’s as good as new.”
She swallowed past the emotion clogging her throat.
She’d wept a spring-flooded river of tears right on this swing when her father had announced that he was sending her to school in New York. Despite her protests and her insistence on staying, he’d stubbornly, almost angrily, ignored her request, saying that he knew what was best for her. The startling sting of that on the heels of her mama passing, and the blame he had cast Ivy’s way, had been indelibly written on her heart. No matter how much she’d prayed, it seemed the guilt only grew deeper and wider.
Pulling her hand from beneath the blanket, she 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.