Page 21 of If the Boot Fits

He sat up and leaned toward her. “Your mama wanted the best for you, and she had very specific ideas of what that entailed. Some days I thought her dreams were too lofty, too . . . far-flung. She talked of you becoming the wife of a steel baron or a senator. Of using your position in society to make a difference in the world. Personally, I just wanted you to grow up to marry a local boy and stay close to home.” He shrugged.

“If you wanted me to stay, why did you still make me go to Boston? Mama was gone. Her dreams were gone.”

Her father pinned her to the back of the sofa with his gaze. “I made your mama a promise as she lay dying, Samantha. I had to carry it out. Even if you and I both hated it.” He fell silent for a long minute, then finally slouched back in his chair, the action releasing the tension that had held her captive. “Can’t say I was disappointed when you showed no interest in any of them Eastern bigwigs and came home anyway.”

He grinned, and for the first time in a long time, Samantha found herself grinning back at him, sharing a moment of camaraderie.

“Mama might have raised me to be a socialite,” she said, “but I’ve got too much of your Texas blood in me to be happy in that kind of life.”

He chuckled softly. “Yeah. You might’ve gotten your good looks and your determination to make a difference in the world from her, but you got your grit and orneriness from me. I still remember how you screamed the house down when I told you that you couldn’t ride with me anymore. You were about four, I think. Chased me out of the house and into the barn. Stood in front of the stall with your arms above your head, refusing to let me leave without you. ‘My turn to ride, Daddy. Up!’ I nearly gave in. Probably would have if your mother hadn’t caught up to us. She scooped you into her arms and took you to the house. You kicked and screamed the entire way. I felt like the worst parent on the planet. But then, I knew nothing about raising a little girl. I let your mama take the lead with that. She read enough of those etiquette books and magazine articles to be an expert. When she read that it was considered vulgar for a young lady to ride a horse astride, she insisted I cease taking you up on my horse. Wouldn’t even let me buy you a pony. She said you’d learn to ride sidesaddle like a proper young lady when you were older. Maybe if she had still been alive when I hired that instructor, you would’ve actually completed the lessons.”

Samantha clutched the sofa arm as she fought to get her bearings in a sea that suddenly seemed to be in an entirely different hemisphere. The stars that had been her navigational guideposts had vanished. New stars glimmered in the darkness, pointing out a path she didn’t recognize but somehow knew to be true.

“She told me that girls ran houses, not ranches.” The words slipped from Samantha’s lips almost without her awareness as she tried to view the past through different eyes. “She said you would have a son one day and would train him to run the ranch, but that wasn’t the place for me.” Her vision blurred, and she blinked back tears as she found her father’s face. “All this time, I thought you didn’t want me. That I had no place in your life because I was a girl.”

“Oh, darlin’, nothin’ could be further from the truth.” He left his chair, sat next to her on the sofa, and opened his arms. “Come here, sweetheart.”

She hesitated a moment, then fell against him. She wrapped her arms around her daddy, buried her face in his shirt, and sobbed out two decades of hurt. And when a warm wetness penetrated her scalp from where her father’s cheek pressed against the top of her head, the last bit of crustiness dissolved from the edges of her heart.

10

“Asher? Would you come into the house for a moment?” Mama Bess’s call stilled Asher’s hammer.

“Be right there!”

He swung the hammer two more times, driving a nail through the siding of the chicken coop. Four more along the edge ought to secure the patch. Holding the gaping board flat against the coop with his hip, he pulled a nail from the wide-mouthed jar by his feet, then pounded one after the other into the board until it hung flat and sturdy.

It had been two days since he’d run into Miss Dearing in Patterson’s Hardware, yet he hadn’t gone back to order those shingles. Foolish, really. The woman didn’t live there. The chances of running into her a second time in the same week were practically zero. Still, he’d been avoiding the place. He’d purchased a couple of pounds of nails from one of the general stores in town, but he’d have to go back to Patterson’s tomorrow if he hoped to get the shingles in time for him to complete the repairs before he had to head back to the Bar 7. The coop needed a new roof even worse than the house did, and he wasn’t about to leave Mama Bess and the boys with a roof that would let in the wet and cold once the seasons changed.

Asher dropped his hammer into his father’s old toolbox, grabbed the jar of nails, and did a quick scan of the work area to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything unsafe behind before heading up to the house. Chickens squawked as he crossed the yard, and Mrs. Merriweather raised her bovine head to watch the undignified parade of man and fowl. One would think the feathered ladies would show more appreciation to the man refurbishing their house, but these particular birds preferred lying in wait and ambushing him the moment he entered their territory. Made a man wish there were such a thing as a chicken-herding dog. If he could employ one, maybe he’d be able to walk in a straight line between the shed and the house once in a while.

Thanks to peck-proof work boots, Asher made it through the yard relatively unscathed. He set the toolbox down on the back porch, then took a minute to wash up at the basin Mama Bess left out for that purpose. He banged the heels of his boots against the edge of the porch to knock off the worst of the dirt before walking into the kitchen.

Mama Bess stilled the broom she’d been wielding and greeted him with a smile. “Poured you a glass of water.” She nodded toward the table as she propped the broom in the nearest corner.

“Thanks.” Asher hung his hat on the wall hook and rubbed the sweat from his brow with his sleeve before reaching for the refreshment.

He’d never understood why children’s stories portrayed stepmothers as selfish and evil. Mama Bess was an angel in calico as far as Ash was concerned.

He gulped down half the water before he noticed the tentative look in Mama Bess’s eyes, one very similar to the look she’d worn before she’d admitted to not telling him about the increased rent. Asher lowered his glass. “What is it?”

She gestured to the chair nearest him as she slid into one herself. “Nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

Ironic how that statement intensified the very thing it had been designed to eradicate.

Asher took a seat, steeling himself for whatever bad news was coming. Mama Bess didn’t have many faults, but she did have a frustrating tendency to ignore or postpone unpleasantness until the last possible moment, leaving a man precious little time to prepare for whatever battle loomed.

“Mrs. Stephenson called on me yesterday afternoon.”

The preacher’s wife? That didn’t sound too bad. Although, from what little interaction he’d had with her from his few visits over the years, she struck him as one of those organizing and interfering types. Always with the best of intentions, of course. Yet once she set her mind on a path she believed to be right, turning her from it was like trying to turn a stampede without a horse—impossible to avoid getting run over. A woman as gentle-natured as Mama Bess wouldn’t have stood a chance.

Asher set his water glass down and focused on keeping his tone mild. “And . . . ?”

“And she presented me with a wonderful opportunity. One I was happy to accept for Jonathan’s sake.”

Asher frowned. “This isn’t another job, is it? Jack already works more than he should at the livery.”

It still stuck in Asher’s craw that his little brother had to work to help make ends meet. When Mama Bess had mentioned Jack’s job in her letters, she’d made it sound like it was just a few hours a week. A way for him to earn a little spending money. He’d had no idea that Jack’s earnings were going toward family necessities.