Page 9 of If the Boot Fits

A large hand curled gently around her shoulder. “Never underestimate the power of heart, Samantha. You feel things strongly and care deeply. It’s how God made you.” His hand lifted from her shoulder to rub the back of his neck while his gaze slipped away from hers in favor of staring at a spot on the wall. “I’m more of a doer than a feeler. It’s why I struggle to understand you sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t admire your passion.”

Tears misted her eyes as his approval soaked into the scars left from past hurts. He admired her? Why had he never said so? Why had he let her believe she held no particular value in his eyes?

“I’m more of a doer than a feeler.”

Could it be that he truly had no idea how she’d been feeling all these years? She’d not exactly been subtle in depicting her displeasure, especially during those last few years before being sent away to school. Thinking back on her sullen moods and angry tirades made her blush with chagrin. Missing the rift spreading between them would be like missing Palo Duro Canyon on the way to the JA Ranch—impossible. Yet a person couldn’t fix something if he didn’t understand what had been broken.

Fathers were larger-than-life. Capable of fixing anything. Or so she’d believed as a young girl. If he had the power to fix the problem and chose not to, it must mean he didn’t care enough to try. Looking at him now, his uncertainty and nervousness in her presence evident, her childish beliefs fell away. He wasn’t larger-than-life. He was just a man. One with weaknesses and flaws. One who probably had no idea how to relate to a daughter who shared virtually nothing in common with him outside of the Dearing name. Yet he’d paid her a rare compliment tonight. Two, in fact. Perhaps the time had come to cease waiting on him to fix what was broken between them and take on some of the responsibility for bridge building herself.

She lightly clasped his arm. “Hearing you say that means a lot to me, Daddy. Thank you.”

He started to open his arms, and for one heart-stopping moment, she thought he might hug her. The child inside her longed to be wrapped in those bearlike arms, to be her daddy’s little princess again. But the moment passed. His arms returned to his sides. He cleared his throat and stepped back.

She tried not to be hurt. She really did. But something inside her shriveled at his withdrawal.

“The, uh, doctor told me he expected Clint to make a full recovery.”

Samantha nodded, accepting the change of subject and the distraction it provided. “He recommended that Clint not exert himself for the next few days in order to give his lungs a chance to recover.”

Her father straightened, a glow of pride coloring his face. “If I know my boy, he’ll be champing at the bit to get back to ranchin’.”

“But you’ll insist he rests,” she said pointedly. “Won’t you?” It really wasn’t a question. More of a demand for consent.

Her father arched a brow. “I’ll let you and Mrs. Stewart coddle him tomorrow, but after that, if he shows no signs of lung fever, and if he feels strong enough to get back to work, I ain’t gonna force him to stay in the house with the womenfolk.”

Her jaw tightened. As if the house were the only space “womenfolk” were allowed to occupy. Her sense of justice bristled. Samantha might not agree with all the rhetoric espoused by Lucy Stone and the Massachusetts Woman Suffrage Association, but she’d attended enough lectures to conclude that it was constrictive assumptions like this that kept men from viewing women as viable candidates for the vote.

That’s a fight for another day. You’re supposed to be building bridges, remember, not taking an ax to the few support beams still standing.

Some of her displeasure must have shown on her face, though, for her father got that bulldog look of his that typically predicted the arrival of a bout of stubbornness.

“I ain’t gonna argue with you on this, Samantha. He’s my son, and I’ll decide what’s best for him.” He opened his mouth to say more, then stopped himself. His shoulders slowly lowered, like a pair of barking dogs being ordered to stand down. When he finally spoke, a deliberate calmness colored his tone. “I promise not to run the boy into an early grave. Duke and I’ll keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t overdo.”

“I know you will.” And she did. Clint was his whole world. He’d never do anything to jeopardize his son’s well-being.

She fiddled with the sleeve on the loose housedress she’d donned after changing out of her sodden ball gown.

“I meant to ask you,” she said, taking a page from his book and switching topics to avoid delving too deeply into uncomfortable waters, “did you discover what our uninvited guest took from your study?” Uninvited guest sounded so much better than thief. The man had saved her brother’s life, after all. That should earn him a more favorable descriptor.

Her father shook his head. “I must’ve chased him out before he could take anything. Far as I can tell nothing’s missing.”

He wasn’t a thief. Even better!

As if that bit of knowledge unlocked the door she’d pushed his memory behind, a vision of him rose in her mind’s eye—his strong strokes propelling him across the pond, the way he pulled Clint from the water, the aid he’d administered, taking time to ensure her brother’s fitness, even though it hampered his escape. She couldn’t imagine any of the self-important dandies of her acquaintance back east making such a sacrifice. His actions had been noble, heroic.

“So you won’t be reporting him to the sheriff, then?”

He gave her a look that made her feel like a naïve schoolgirl. “He’s still a trespasser and a housebreaker, Samantha.”

She deflated a bit at the reminder but held firm to the most important truth she knew about the intriguing intruder. “He saved Clint’s life.”

“Yes, and if he’s found, I will ask the judge to be lenient with sentencing because of that, but I can’t let a crime go unreported.”

If he’s found.

Samantha twirled a lock of her hair around her index finger. “Martin didn’t uncover any clue to his identity, did he?”

“Nope.” Her father peered at her oddly, as if he suspected her growing interest in the stranger who’d invaded their home. “Whoever he was, he’s no concern of yours. Understand?”