Marc knew what he was looking for. Had known it all along.

He needed someone who could handle the rigors of the North Country, who put common sense before fashion. When Marc got serious, he wanted someone at peace with the land, at home in his house.

A vision of Kayla’s coat hanging next to his zipped flannel had him squaring his shoulders.

He couldn’t deny the attraction. She invaded his thoughts despite his best efforts. With his father’s impending death, Kayla Doherty, R.N., was a wonderful asset. But that was it, he told himself firmly.

Thoughts of Kayla’s face came to mind. She was spunk and spice, tucked into one great package.

It was no good. They had nothing in common. She was free flight. He was tied to the land. She looked at the bright side of things, while he took careful measure.

There wasn’t much to keep a pretty thing like Kayla happy in the North Country. No cool designer shops, no trendy malls.

His heart hitched. Would she need all that if she had the right man? A husband to love and cherish her all the rest of her days?

RUTH LOGAN HERNE

Born into poverty, Ruth puts great stock in one of her favorite Ben Franklinisms: “Having been poor is no shame. Being ashamed of it is.” With God-given appreciation for the amazing opportunities abounding in our land, Ruth finds simple gifts in the everyday blessings of smudge-faced small children, bright flowers, fresh baked goods, good friends, family, puppies and higher education. She believes a good woman should never fear dirt, snakes or spiders, all of which like to infest her aged farmhouse, necessitating a good pair of tongs for extracting the snakes, a flat-bottomed shoe for the spiders and the dirt….

Simply put, she’s learned that some things aren’t worth fretting about! If you laugh in the face of dust and love to talk about God, men, romance, great shoes and wonderful food, feel free to contact Ruth through her Web site at www.ruthloganherne.com.

Winter’s End
Ruth Logan Herne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

—Ecclesiastes 3:1

This book is dedicated to the Visiting Nurse Service of Rochester, New York, for their loving hospice care of my mother, Mary Logan Herne.

And to M. E. Logan Herne, from whence my talent came.

This one’s for you, Mom.

Acknowledgments:

Thank you to the Canton-Potsdam communities for sharing with a stranger, and a special nod to Canton-Potsdam Hospital for their care of my son, Seth. Their professionalism helped during a difficult time.

Sincere gratitude to Kathy Kennel for her guidance and equal thanks to Mary Connealy, dear friend and beef farmer, who advised proper terminology for Marc’s endeavors. All mistakes are mine.

I’m also grateful to the Seekers, our amazing writing group that does whatever proves necessary to help ensure the writing success of each member. You gals rock.

Special thanks to Sandra, Tina, Glynna and Janet and to Alice Clary and OKRWA, whose “Finally a Bride” contest put this manuscript on Melissa Endlich’s desk at Steeple Hill Books. Their contest got the ball rolling and I’m forever in their debt.

Thanks and love to my family for their never-ending support, belief and sacrifices. They’ve overlooked crowded shelves, messy bathrooms, refrigerator science projects and thick dust. Their joy when “The Call” came was heartfelt. I couldn’t ask for a better gift from God.

And warm thanks to my beloved pastor,

Father Frank Falletta. His counsel, advice and humor are a blessing.

And of course my heartfelt thanks to Melissa Endlich, my editor, who paid me the ultimate compliment when she said I made her cry. Her enthusiasm is positively contagious, and I am ever grateful for her strong vote of confidence.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

He stood hard and unyielding, one arm stretched across the entry as if to block Kayla’s approach. Light spilled from the angled door of the old farmhouse, warming the mold-hashed porch with a splash of gold, backlighting his rugged frame.

Disadvantaged, Kayla stopped, wind-driven snow chilling her legs despite her well-fitted Ann Taylor pants. Note to self: If clients leave you in the snow, spend the bucks and buy some of those cute, girly, long underwear. Soon.

The broad-shouldered man remained shadowed, while lamplight bathed her approach. Well. She’d seen this often enough. The word hospice scared people, especially at first. With a small nod, she extended her hand. “Kayla Doherty, Visiting Nurse Service.”

Eyes tipped down, he didn’t give way, just stood for long seconds, contemplating her hand. Then he moved back, allowing her to enter while ignoring her gesture.

Kayla stepped into coffee-scented air. She breathed deep, wishing she’d had time for a caffeine fix, but weather reports had spurred her to this farm before conditions worsened. Sniffing the air with appreciation, she stood in a sparse but clean entry. The kitchen lay ahead, while a stairway hugged the wall to her left. A throw rug took up one corner of the polished hardwood floor.

Various footwear stood along the colorful weave. Reading the silent message, she placed her bargain-basement-priced short-boot Sudinis next to taller, hardier boots. Setting down her tote, she slipped into jeweled, open-toed clogs. She’d tricked-out the shoes herself, using a flashy array of sequins and beads. Her older female patients loved the effect. Fun shoes became an easy conversation starter, and often jogged memories of easier times. She hoped so.

“In January?”

The deep, masculine voice showed disbelief and…scorn? Sure sounded like it.

Kayla didn’t try to examine the vibes as she eyed rugged work boots and their tall, rubber companions. Proper barn wear for a man of the fields, a person who faced the prolonged winters of St. Lawrence County, New York, on a personal level. She assumed a look of patience and straightened, facing a good-looking man about her age, his features dimmed by shadows of anger and death, a formidable combination. “They’re comfortable for working with patients, Mr….DeHollander?” She ended on an up-note, making the statement a question, hoping he’d introduce himself.

Um…no.

She’d heard of Marc DeHollander. Women loved to talk about men, and the gals comprising the medical community of greater Potsdam were no exception. The rumor mill labeled Marc total eye candy, with a great personality.

Well. One out of two ain’t bad.

She’d dated one of Marc’s friends several years back, but Marc had never crossed her path. This man was the right age, but the taciturn expression didn’t fit the image. Imminent death had a way of changing a person. Kayla understood that. He’d probably lighten up as time went on.

He glared at the outside thermometer through semi-frosted glass. “Six degrees. Wind chill’s at least twenty below. Who wears foolish shoes like that in the dead of winter?”

Kayla scratched her whole “lighten up” theory. Some clients were just downright ornery, regardless. Marc DeHollander’s name just got tucked under the heading “resident jerk.” She ignored his negativity and swept the small room a glance. “Warm enough in here.”

“It’s comfortable for Dad.” Face taut, he headed into the kitchen. Kayla followed as he tugged the collar of a black turtleneck layered beneath a green plaid flannel. The inside temperature was a little much for his mode of dress.

Kayla understood. End-stage patients often suffered effects of temperature. Extremities chilled, causing discomfort. She glanced around the kitchen.

The room lay spare, like the entry, but neat other than some breakfast clutter. Old-style, glass-fronted cabinets marched in formation around the upper level, offset by wood-fronted, thicker partners below. The cupboards wore a soft shade of green, faded with time. A chipped but uncluttered laminate counter met a backsplash of ivory tile. The effect appeared old and utilitarian, but cared for.

A man’s house.

Kayla glanced up at the disgruntled man nearby. A big guy, about six feet and one-eighty, she wondered if he meant to intimidate her. If so, he was doing a good job. She hoisted her work case, determined to make nice. “Would you like to talk first, or introduce me to your father?”

His facial shadows deepened. A muscle in his right cheek twitched. He worked his jaw, then grimaced. “Dad’s through here.”

Thank you, Mr. Congeniality. Kayla followed him through a dining room into a small bedroom beyond.

A hospital bed dominated the space. The patient opened his eyes as they approached. His look darted, confused. Sighing, he settled into the pillow.

Dreaming, Kayla decided. Normal sleep or drug-induced, she couldn’t quite tell, but the startle-awake reflex was not unlike a newborn. Cradle to grave, full circle.

“Your nurse is here.” The son’s tone left no doubt she wasn’t here by his grace.

Kayla bit back a smart remark and focused on the sick man. She approached the right side of his bed, cheerful. “Mr. DeHollander?”

He nodded. His eyes cleared somewhat. “Yes.”

She broadened her smile. “I’m Kayla Doherty from Visiting Nurse Service. Dr. Pentrow requested our services. Did he explain that to you?”

The older man glanced Marc’s way. “He told us, didn’t he, Marc?”

Gone was the look of antagonism that greeted Kayla’s arrival. Marc leaned down and brushed a thin lock from his father’s brow, his big hands gentle against his father’s pale skin. “He did. And a home health aide to help out.”

“Having people come to the house could get expensive.” The dying man sent a look of concern his son’s way. The bottom line had obviously ruled his decision making a long time, a concept Kayla comprehended.

“Your insurance covers both, Mr. DeHollander.”

“Does it?” His frown deepened, trying to reason things out.

“Have you had pills this morning?” Kayla inquired. She angled her head and waited for his response.

“Yes,” Marc answered, but didn’t meet her eye. “Around five-thirty. I gave him two of these.” He reached across his father’s bed to hand her a bottle.

“You started this yesterday?”

Mr. DeHollander frowned.

Marc nodded. “I picked it up around four when I went into town to get my sister,” he explained. This time he looked at her. “Is it the right stuff?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “It’s a hydrocodone and acetaminophen mix,” she continued, including both men in her explanation. Successful hospice care meant developing a strong working relationship with the caregivers and the patient. At some point the patient would likely lose the ability to participate in his/her own care. A satisfying hospice experience blossomed from establishing good rapport all around.

Kayla was good at working both sides of the bed, and that made her an effective hospice nurse, a fact she’d realized during her first years in the North Country. One of her hospital patients had brought her to faith, to hope, and eventually to her present gig.

She raised the container. “Effective for moderate pain. Side effects generally ease after a few days.”

“Side effects like…?” Marc’s look sharpened. He glanced at his father, then back to her.

Kayla addressed her patient. “Sleepiness. Confusion. Dreams.”

Her list relaxed Pete DeHollander’s features. “All of the above.”

Glad to have relieved his mind, Kayla offered a proposal. “Since you just started this, I’d like to see if the side effects level out. They usually do as the body acclimates. Can we try that, Mr. DeHollander?” She posed the question with a look of inquiry. “I don’t want you to think this is an automatic trade-off. Less pain for a state of confusion. We have lots of things at our disposal. Your care will be based on what works for you. Adjustments in meds are common.”

He contemplated her words, then looked at Marc. “I’m not thinking too clear,” he admitted. He fiddled with the uppermost blanket, nervous. “What do you think?”

Kayla met Marc’s eyes across the bed. She read the look in them. His expression offered resignation and little else. He’d do what he had to do, but it was plain he didn’t like the choices. Whether his unease stemmed from the question or the situation, she had no idea. His gaze narrowed. “If we keep Dad on this medicine, the side effects might clear up?”

“Yes. If they don’t, I’ll call the doctor and we’ll modify the meds. Our goal is to provide sufficient pain relief with minimal side effects.”

“And it can be done?”

She scrunched her face and offered Marc a firm nod. “Absolutely.” She hoisted her tote onto a side table. “I have an amazing bag of tricks, gentlemen.”

The old man smiled. When he did, his gray-green eyes sparked with life. For just a moment, Kayla envisioned the man he’d been before his long battle with cancer.

Her throat tightened. She controlled the impulse to sympathize too much by dragging a chair alongside the bed. “You boys could at least ask a girl to sit down.”

The old man looked affronted by his carelessness. “I don’t know where our manners have gone,” he exclaimed, surprised.

Marc’s look hardened. He kept his eyes trained on Kayla, studying her. Fighting the rise of negative emotion, she addressed them both. “We should talk. I want you to know what to expect of me, what kind of care I’ll be giving and what choices you have.”

“Do those choices include a nurse who isn’t afraid to get dirty and knows enough to wear sensible shoes midwinter?” Condescending, Marc swept her pert, polished nails and well-fitted blazer a look of disdain, his expression intimating she didn’t have enough muscle to get the job done.

Ouch. The young farmer’s cutting appraisal hit home. Striving to remember why peaceful conflict resolution was a good thing, Kayla faked a look of calm. She’d dealt with antagonistic families before. His anger wasn’t all that unusual. Death managed to bring out the best in some people, but that wasn’t a universal reaction.

She kept her voice confident, but didn’t negate the hint of challenge in her reply. “We have a group of hospice nurses, male and female. We work individually, concentrating on specific cases. But—” she added, strengthening the note of reassurance “—someone is always on call so there’s no lapse in service.” She addressed her words to the older DeHollander. “If your nurse is off or away, you’ll still have help regardless of the day or the hour.”

“Makes sense,” the older man agreed, his expression serious but accepting.

“Of course you can request a different nurse,” Kayla continued. Her gaze encompassed father and son. “That’s not a problem, because your nurse acts as your case coordinator, overseeing all aspects of your care.” She turned and met Marc’s eyes, unflinching. “Facing the loss of a loved one is difficult enough without personality clashes making it worse. Our job is to make things easier for you, Mr. DeHollander.” She shook her head. “Not rougher.”

Pete struggled more upright. “Why would we want someone different?” He glanced from one to the other before his gaze settled on Marc. His voice lost the fog of confusion. “What’s going on?”

Marc squared his shoulders, eyes narrowed. “Nothing, Dad. I just want to make sure your treatment is taken seriously, every step of the way.”

Kayla stared him down. He didn’t squirm. She lifted her left brow. “Laughter is the best medicine. Haven’t you heard?” Deliberately slow, she winked at the older man. “It aids in pain reduction, increased glucose tolerance, emotional bonding and vascular function.” She gave Pete a perky shrug and a smile. “All for the price of a belly laugh. Fairly cheap, I would say.”

“The price is right, sure enough.” Pete grinned back at her, restoring the twinkle in his eyes. The smile made him look more vibrant, more alive.

Marc’s expression noted that. His look softened. He reached out a hand to his dad’s head in a gesture of comfort. “I’ve got to take care of some things in the barn. My cell phone’s on.” He patted his side clip. “Call if you need anything.”

“I will,” Pete promised. “Sorry about that business last night.”

Marc frowned. “You remember that?” At his father’s look of surprise, he added, “You were pretty confused, Dad.”

“I’m not dead yet,” the older man retorted.

“But definitely incapacitated,” Kayla inserted. She kept her tone helpful and amused.

Pete DeHollander joined the game with a look Kayla’s way. “Under the weather.”

“Down, but not out.”

“Rounding third and heading for home.”

“And the crowd goes wild.” Kayla raised her arms and widened her smile.

Marc stood, glowering. “I’m glad you two find this so—” Face tight, he drew a sharp breath, his jaw rigid. “Whatever. Some of us have work to do.”

He strode out, his footfall decisive against the wide-planked floor.

Kayla watched him go with regret. She’d hoped a little humor might lighten him up, but no. She’d only angered him. Obviously the tact and diplomacy she’d been praying for needed fine-tuning.

Fine tuning? Her conscience prodded. How about major structural repairs? Run after him, Doherty. Maybe the guy’s got a paper cut. You can apply a salt-water rinse followed by a splash of fresh lemon. Really make his day. Kayla sucked a breath and sighed.

“He’ll be fine.”

She turned back to Pete. “You think?”

Pete nodded. “Had a rough night. Lost a cow and a calf. She got bred in the wrong season and Marc didn’t pick up on it. A lot going on, you know?”

Oh, Kayla knew. Doctor visits, hospitalizations, surgeries, tests, meds. All time consuming. And scary.

“By the time Marc realized she needed a C-section, it was too late.”

“They died?” Kayla opened her laptop and stood to record Pete’s vital signs. “They both died?”

“It happens.” He shrugged. “Not often with Marc’s cattle, though. He’s got a good eye for line and crossbreeding. Hybrid vigor. He’s made a nice business of it.”

“Has he?” Kayla tried to shroud the doubt in her voice. From the looks of the farm buildings, Marc could use a lesson in painting, and dead cows didn’t sound all that successful. And two at once? How sad.

“Farming’s like life,” Pete spouted, drawing himself up so she could examine him. “Full circle. Birth, death and everything in between.”

“I guess.” Kayla thought of the choices available in this day and age. Why would anyone farm?

She had no idea. Extremes of weather, fluctuations of market, never-ending days of slogging through muck and mud, snow and slush. What normal person chose that over climate-controlled nine-to-five, paid vacations, full benefits and a 401(k)?

Huh. She’d just answered her own question.

In her brief interlude with Marc DeHollander, she recognized normalcy as a relative feature. The father had it in abundance. Warm. Kind. Sociable, despite his illness.

The son was fresh out.

Chapter Two

Marc finished loading the carcasses as his cell phone rang. He tugged off his gloves and fumbled the narrow instrument, his broad fingers awkward in the cold. “DeHollander.”

“It’s Stu,” the truck driver reported. “I’ve finished at Brall’s. I’m heading your way.”

Marc worked his jaw, regretful. Last night’s time glitch had cost him the life of a young cow and her calf, no small thing in the beef business. Even one as strong as his. “They’re loaded. I’ll wait for you at the end of the drive.”

“I’ll pull alongside,” Stu replied. “Sorry you lost ’em.”

“Me, too.”

They both understood how disease could spread from one farm to another via contaminated wheels and equipment. Even soiled boots could track pathogens into a barn. Marc took no chances. He’d worked too long, too hard to get his beef operation up and running. As a result, his business had grown strong, a credit to his time and patience.

Marc kicked himself for not calling his veterinary friend out sooner. He hadn’t notified Craig until it was too late, the calf trapped too long in the birth canal. A stupid mistake. Slipshod. And he was never careless with his business. That was why he turned a profit on both the feed store and his cattle production.

But Jess had mustered a bee in her bonnet over something crucial to a fourteen-year-old girl, Dad was disoriented after his new medicine and Marc hadn’t made it back to the barn in time to see something was dreadfully wrong.

He revved the engine and edged the tractor bucket off the ground. The animals jerked as the shovel lurched. The cow’s hock shifted and hung, midair. Marc frowned but relaxed as the bulk of the body settled into the crook of the shovel. Sighing in resignation, he shoved the tractor into gear and headed up the drive.

Looking way too stylish for a harsh North Country winter, the slim, blonde nurse approached her car as the tractor rumbled toward her. She watched him navigate the big John Deere, her blue-eyed gaze sweeping the sad load, the hock protruding from the bucket’s edge.

Her eyes narrowed. She stood still, despite the cold, the trendy pea coat no match for the frigid temperatures. The spunky jacket looked good on her, reminding Marc that appearances outweighed everything for girls like Kayla Doherty. Her face tightened at the sight of his loaded bucket. Disgust? Dismay? From his vantage point atop the enclosed tractor, Marc couldn’t be sure.

He winced. Was this what he wanted for his father’s care? His buddy’s old girlfriend, with her insensible shoes, expensive clothes and saucy attitude? Oh, yeah, he remembered Craig dating her, bemoaning her panache and love of style. Definitely not North Country material. No way. No how. But here she was, pert and pretty in his driveway, cringing at the thought of death.

Why did they need a nurse, anyway? Why was his father so anxious to throw in the towel? Was he that tired of the fight, that worn?

Where there’s life, there’s hope.

The adage came straight from Pete’s mouth, and Marc put stock in the saying. He’d brought some pretty sick animals back from near-death experiences. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much to wrestle the reaper and lose as he had last night.

The idea of waging a similar battle for his father had been wrested from his hands, and Marc didn’t like that. Dr. Pentrow tossed around terms like visiting nurses. End stage. Translation: Give it up. Party’s over. Call the undertakers, have ’em ready a spot.

Shoulders tight, Marc continued along the drive, not pausing until he braked at the road’s edge. As the nurse pulled next to him in her sporty red car, he averted his face. He didn’t need her disapproval at the nature of his work. In a way, it wasn’t much different than hers. You battled, you toiled and in the end, death came regardless.

But at least he had sense enough to wear proper footwear.

“Horses all set?”

Jess nodded as she shrugged out of her coat. She kicked off her boots, pegged the khaki-green jacket and headed for the kitchen.

“Jess.” Marc angled a look to the entry floor.

Jess groaned, turned and righted the boots, exasperated. “Better?”

Marc hid a smile as he stirred a pot of simmering soup. “Much. How old do you have to be before you just do it?”

She laughed. “An indeterminate factor.” Grinning at the shake of his head, she hugged him around the waist and slid a look to the foyer. “You’d probably have to care, first.”

No joke there. Marc mock-scowled. “That much I understand. I’ve seen your room.”

“I know where everything is,” she claimed, grabbing a cookie from the counter. After the first bite, she snatched another. “Usually.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Marc rejoined, skeptical. Hadn’t they been late for church because she couldn’t locate her favorite pants?

It seemed peculiar to walk into the white clapboard building after so much time, then late, besides. They’d drawn looks as they proceeded to the front instead of sliding into the empty last pew. His fault for letting Jess pick the seat.

Dad had gone with Jess these last years while Marc busied himself with farmwork. Always something to do on a cattle holding, regardless of weather, and Sunday mornings were no exception. Neither were Wednesday evenings. Or Saturday potlucks. Busy times, all.

But their current situation altered things. Pete’s weakness minimized his options, so Marc was pressed into a new fraternal duty. He’d accompanied Jess at Christmas and this past week, feeling hypocritical. Attendance at church wasn’t high on his priority list.

But there was nothing he’d deny his father, even taking his adolescent sister to a service that meant little.

“Grace looks huge,” Jess commented around bites. More through them, actually. “I can’t wait to see the foal.”

“Next month. Valentine’s Day, I figure. Thereabouts.”

“If it’s a girl, we’ll name her Sweetheart,” Jess declared.

“Boys can’t be sweethearts?”

“Please.”

“Well, not at your age,” he added, firming his voice.

That brought a glare. “I’m nearly fifteen.”

“Six months,” he corrected.

“Five-and-a-half,” Jess shot back. “In a little over a year, I’ll get my driver’s permit. Then I can work toward my license.”

Marc sent her a teasing look. “If your room’s clean.”

“Grr.”

A third voice interrupted them. “Have you gotten so old you don’t kiss your dad anymore?”

Jess crossed the room in a flash. “I didn’t want to wake you.” She grabbed her father into a gentle hug. “You were sound asleep when I got home.”

“Pills.” Pete’s voice sharpened. He sounded disgusted.

“But you’re up,” she continued, “and dinner’s almost ready.”

Marc gave Jess extra points for her positive outlook. She always saw the bright side where their father’s care was concerned. “I’ll set another place at the table.”

Marc gave his father a once-over. “You don’t seem as foggy. Not like last night.” He didn’t add how scared he’d been, to see his father dazed and confused. Pete DeHollander had been a caricature of his true self. Not pretty.

Pete shook his head. “That part’s better.”

“Good.”

The phone rang. Marc grabbed the receiver, one eye on the stove, the other on the sports section. The Division One hockey team of St. Lawrence University was pouring on the steam as their season progressed. Sweet. Hockey and North Country were synonymous. If you lived in a climate rife with snow and ice, you better find something to make winter palatable.

“Mr. DeHollander?”

“Yes?” Marc pulled his attention from the scores with effort.

“Kayla Doherty,” the voice continued.

Marc bit back a groan. She still sounded perky, even this late. Was it a blonde thing? At the moment he wasn’t sure. And really didn’t care. As he turned to his father, she continued, “I wanted to follow up on the meds situation from this morning. Are the side effects still as strong or are you feeling more in control?”

“Wrong man.” Offering no explanation, Marc handed the phone to his father, fighting the rise of disapproval. “Your nurse.”

Pete’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Doherty?” His features relaxed as he listened. No way could Marc miss the ease in tension that had been prevalent the past few days, as if the nurse held all the answers.

Yeah. Right.

“No, that’s fine,” Pete told her, a brow shifting up. “We do sound alike. Everyone says so.” He glanced Marc’s way, paused, then bobbed his head again, eyes crinkling. “Yes, much better, thank you. Tired, but not confused.”

Marc listened, unabashed, as his father continued.

“I’d like that, too, Miss Doherty.” A brief silence followed, then Pete shrugged assent, his look intent. “Kayla, then.” His face relaxed, his eyes taking on a youthful gleam at whatever she was spewing, then he chuckled out loud. “I expect that would work with man or beast.” He nodded once more before he firmed his voice. “That would be nice. Thursday’s good.” Pete said his goodbye and disconnected.

Marc’s inner turmoil shifted upward. “What would work?”

“Hmm?” Pete turned Marc’s way while Jess hung up the phone.

The younger man pushed down impatience. “You told her something would work with man or beast. An odd thing to say to a nurse, Dad.”

Pete laughed again, a good sound, no matter what inspired the reaction. Or who. “She’s feeding cookies to a neighbor’s dog who offered to take a chunk out of her as she approached her apartment. Seems the owner’s away and the gate latch is broken.”

“Cookies?” Why did he not have a hard time picturing that? Marc humphed. “Who gives cookies to a dog?”

“It would work on me,” Jess proclaimed. “I could live on cookies.”

“Empty calories,” stated Marc, his voice gruff. Somehow the picture of the leggy, blonde nurse thwarting a dog attack with cookies increased his ire. Too late he realized his tone and words might be misconstrued.

Jess’s look confirmed his fear. Weight was an issue since puberty set in, and he’d just put his size twelve shoe in his big, stupid mouth. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Her eyes clouded. She looked away. “I’ll pass on supper, thanks.”

“Jess, I—”

“I’ll be upstairs. See you later, Daddy.” She swiped a kiss to her father’s cheek before charging from the room, her lower lip thrust out. Marc was pretty sure it trembled, too.

“Oh, man—”

“Marc, you’ve got to use a little sensitivity around her,” Pete protested.

Marc shot him an incredulous look. “I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. My mind was on cows, how we strive to balance energy food versus nutritional needs to achieve a proper ratio of fat to lean. Good marbling.”

His father eyed him, his features a blend of amazement and disbelief. “I don’t think that explanation’s going to do it for her,” Pete chided. “Comparing her to a cow might make matters worse. If that’s possible.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I’m still trying to figure it out myself.”

“She’s too sensitive,” Marc returned.

“She’s fourteen.” Pete’s tone stayed matter-of-fact. “That’s how they are.”

“And how am I supposed to know that?” Marc asked. He slid into the chair opposite his father. “My experience with adolescent girls is limited to what I gleaned seventeen years ago in eighth grade, and let me assure you, I was more caught up with the physiological than the psychological.” He hoped his arched eyebrow clarified his declaration.

Oh, yeah. A grin tugged his father’s mouth.

“So my training is zip,” Marc went on. “Zilch. Nada.” He raised his hands up, palms flat, displaying their emptiness. “Knowing that, you might want to discard any notion you have of dying, dial up Kaylie or Kylie or whatever her name is, and tell her you’ve decided to outlive us all because I can’t raise Jess on my own and not make a complete mess of things.”

His father met his gaze. His voice stayed level. “I can’t change the inevitable, Marc. I would if I could, at least ’til my work’s done. You know that.”

That was part of the trouble. Marc didn’t know that. He heard his father’s words but couldn’t believe them.

Pete’s body was wearing out from choices the older DeHollander made long ago. A steady smoker, Pete’s actions probably brought this cancer on, and Marc had no clue how to rationalize that. In Marc’s mind, sucking poisons into your system was asking for trouble. Marc didn’t understand the choice and he sure didn’t like it.

Everyone else seemed okay with the eventuality of the prognosis. They used terms like natural. Understandable.

Their acceptance exacerbated Marc’s anger. His father’s cancer wasn’t inevitable, but avoidable. Watching the fabric of his family torn by years of bad choices, Marc tried to deal with both sides of the issue and came up short.

Jess had come to terms with Pete’s illness, on the surface at least. She seemed determined to make her father’s last months stress-free. Quite a commitment for a hormone-stricken teen. A teen who shouldn’t be left with no one but Marc to steady her path to adulthood. At fourteen, Jess needed an understanding mother and a thriving father. Through no fault of her own she had neither.

Resentment choked him. He knew his feelings were counterproductive, but had no clue how to change them. Mounting thoughts swelled, emotions he didn’t dare show. Suppressing the urge to throw something, he stood to finish supper, his fingers tight, his shoulders tense, a rod of anger anchoring his steps.

In one day he’d managed to lose a pair of livestock, insult his father’s nurse, ruin his sister’s wobbly self-esteem and add weight to a dying man’s pressures.

And it was only the dinner hour. If his streak continued, he might be able to instigate World War III by bedtime. Nuclear holocaust. Plagues of locusts.

As long as his luck held steady.

Chapter Three

A welcome blast of heat greeted Kayla as the pneumatic door of the VNS offices swung open.

Christy Merriton glanced up, dropped a questioning look to her leather-strapped wristwatch and compressed her lips. “What are you doing here?”

Kayla met the supervisor’s frown with a half grin. “I, um, work here.”

“Not at six-oh-five,” Christy argued. “At six-oh-five you should be home making supper. Or on a date. Maybe curling up with a good book. Having a life.”

“About that…” Kayla indicated her boss, then tapped her more feminine timepiece. “You’re here.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Christy stood, stretched, then leaned down, her fingers tapping computer keys. The main drive shut down as the printer kicked in, the sound marking the end of a long day. “I have an excuse. Brianna gets picked up from basketball practice at six-thirty, so it didn’t make sense for me to drive home and come all the way back. What’s your story?”

“Supplies.” Kayla raised her tote. “I saw the lights and figured I could restock. Save time tomorrow.”

Christy looked unconvinced. “I’d have bought that line an hour ago. It’s after six, Kayla.” She studied the younger woman, then nodded toward the door. “Go home.”

“Consider me gone.” Kayla opened her case and moved to the supply cabinets. “Right after I load up.”

Christy stepped to the printer and retrieved a fresh pile of assignment tickets. She handed a slim stack to Kayla. “Tomorrow’s schedule.”

“Awesome. Now I don’t have to stop by at all. Thanks.” She eyed the uppermost printout and tapped a wild rose pink nail against the second name, the glossed color reminding her of summer. Sun. Sand. Flowers. “This one came back from Arizona, and this one,” her finger scaled down, “from Florida. Why would they do that?”

The simplicity of Christy’s look underscored her meaning. “To die.”

Her words rang true. Several of Kayla’s recent patients had sought the softer climes of southern states after retirement, opting away from the snow and ice. But in those final months, when fate held the winning hand, many came home, wanting the familiarity of what they knew first. Family. Friends. Church.

Back outside, the storm pelted her with slanted snow, stinging cold. Shoulders hunched, she headed to her Grand Am, its warmth a respite.

She was a Thomas Kinkade girl caught in a David Morrow canvas. Winter lovers esteemed Morrow’s work. His snow-filled landscapes offered haunting insight into the breathtaking reality of upper latitude cold. Thought-provoking. Windswept. Sometimes brutal. North Country, through and through.

Kayla preferred sprigged cottages and thatched roofs. Decorative grasses, grown in abundance. Sources of light, teeming with hope.

Winters at the forty-fifth latitude outlasted their welcome. She hadn’t given that proper consideration when she’d made the move north after graduating from the nursing program in Syracuse. Her goal then: financial, financial, financial. The Potsdam community had offered to forgive student loans and extend her a nice paycheck in exchange for years of service. The proposal sounded good to a young woman who’d struggled to make ends meet for as long as she could remember.

But now her contract was nearly up. What next? She had no idea. She put the car in gear and aimed for Route 11, her headlights battling the snow.

Numerous options lay open to an experienced nurse. She’d spend the next few months exploring them. Because her after-work life was fairly nonexistent, she’d have plenty of time.

That thought could have drawn a sigh, but she resisted the pity party. Focused, she gripped the wheel and peered through the snow, wondering how warm a person would be to be warm enough. Someday she’d find out firsthand.

Kayla wiggled her thermostat on Wednesday night, listening for the magic click that promised heat.

Nothing.

She thumped a corner of the radiator and paused, hopeful, glad she didn’t chip her polish with the useless maneuver.

The upright, ivory-painted contraption maintained its silence, barely warm. The effect across the room proved negligible. Brittle weather stripping, designed to bind the storm window to the frame, was equally ineffective. The flow of chilled air across the ice-encrusted pane made her living room frosty.

The bedroom stayed warmer. The windows in that room actually sealed. And she had a comforter she’d bought two years ago, her one concession to comfort, down-filled, thick and cushy. She’d made a duvet cover for the layered blanket, one of her first sewing projects, and she’d been proud of the careful work. Of course the piece was comprised of straight lines, intersecting, and who couldn’t sew a straight line with today’s machines? Still, it became a job well done. A new skill learned.

She faced the living room, hating her choice. Skip the hour of television she’d promised herself, or drag the comforter to the couch and shroud herself in cumbersome down fluff, the only way she’d be warm enough to enjoy the show. Moving the dinosaur-era TV to the bedroom wasn’t an option.

Grumbling, she trudged to the bedroom, dragged off the heavy throw, and retraced her steps. With care she arranged her nest and climbed in, hot chocolate steaming at her side.

She’d be toasty warm someday. She’d made herself that pledge nearly two decades back, a mere child, and now the woman stood on the verge of the goal. Warmth. Hearth. Home. And flowers in abundance, blooming here and there. The kind of life she’d wished for, longed for, prayed for. Normal, by most people’s standards.

Close. So close.

Vi Twimbley’s attic apartment wasn’t the most reliable home, but the price was right. Every two weeks Kayla banked wages toward a place of her own. Her own little bungalow, well-lit, a cottage rigged out just for her. Flowers in the summer. Vines, creeping upward, covering craggy surfaces. Ornamental grasses waving in the breeze.

And maybe, just maybe, a cat.

Thursday’s dawn gave Kayla a better look at the DeHollander home. Thin light shrouded the farm, making the rough exteriors look worse against the pristine snow. What could be a pretty porch offered woebegone protection from the biting wind under peeling paint. Kayla snugged her collar close as she climbed out and surveyed her surroundings.

A sign on the nearest barn proclaimed the wonders of scientifically blended dog food and medicated chicken feed. She pursed her lips as she scanned other outbuildings.

Barns. Sheds. Grain bins. A light in a distant barn drew her attention, its glow fighting through an upper window hazed with dirt. Her gaze locked on the dingy, light-enhanced glass as her thoughts tunneled back to cold, hungry, silent nights, fed by the unreachable square of light and the chill of her limbs.

Nope. Not going there. Not now. Not ever.

She set her jaw and withdrew her gear, pushing memories aside, then strode up the shoveled walkway.

“How’re we doing today?” Kayla didn’t wait for an answer when Pete opened the door himself. His tranquil features spoke for him. She smiled, knowing his reprieve might be short-lived, but grateful for his increased comfort. “Better, I’d say.”

“Much.” The older man swept the door wide. “Come in. It’s cold out there.”

“It is,” Kayla agreed. The interior warmth enveloped her again. For an old house, this one held its heat well. Either that or the DeHollanders had massive heating bills. “That makes your entry twice as welcome.”

He smiled back, pleasing her. With the host of medicinal combinations at her disposal, there was no reason Pete DeHollander should suffer. She appraised him as she peeled off her boots. “You’ve been up and around?”

“Yup. Feels good.”

“I bet.”

Pete hesitated, then shrugged. “Can’t do much, though. Get tired easy.”

“Understandable.” Kayla slipped into her jeweled clogs and caught his glance as she straightened. “Yes, these are the shoes your son objects to.”

“Pretty,” Pete offered, his tone easy. “Your toes don’t get cold?”

Kayla laughed. “Not here. I couldn’t wear these at my place because my apartment’s like an Arctic wasteland. I double my socks to avoid frostbite.”

“Heat don’t work?”

“That’s debatable,” Kayla answered. He turned toward the kitchen. She followed. “My landlady claims it works fine, but my place is on the third level of a three unit. The hot water rises through two other families before getting to me. By then, it’s barely warm.”

“She won’t fix it?” Pete eyed her, surprised, as if wondering how such a thing could be. Huh. In Kayla’s world of never-ending landlords, Vi Twimbley ranked pretty high, though that wasn’t saying much.

“Says she can’t fix what ain’t broke,” Kayla quoted verbatim. “She offered me the second floor apartment last year, but the rent is higher. I decided I’d deal with the cold and guard my cash flow.”

“Smart girl.” Pete sank into a kitchen chair. He sighed a hint of relief, his only concession to his grave condition. Kayla drew up the chair next to him and slid a small box his way. “From the Main Street Bakery.”

“Them wafery things?” His smile made the effort to stop worthwhile.

“Yes.” Kayla laughed at his description of Rita Harriman’s tender French pastries. “Would you like coffee to go with them, Mr. D.?”

The use of his familiar nickname hiked his smile. “Yes, I would. Will you have a cup?”

“Absolutely.” Sharing the hospitality of her client families bridged a gap that could hinder care. She rose and eyed the carafe. “I’ll brew fresh, if that’s all right?”

Pete laughed. “Yes. Those dregs are the remnants of Marc’s early pot. He likes to get up and out once Jess catches the bus. And before, truth be known. You might want to make a full pot, though. No doubt he’ll be up for some before long.”

“Okay.” Reaching into the nearest cupboard, Kayla withdrew a bag of fair trade coffee and a fresh filter. The bag snagged her interest. Pretty cool. A farmer supporting other farmers on an international scale. Marc gained a point in his favor. Then she recalled his Monday morning attitude.

Make that half a point.

“How old is Jess?” Kayla asked as she measured.

“Fourteen.”

“Interesting age.”

“It is that.” Pete paused, then added, “But Jess isn’t too bad. Does us proud in school and on the farm. Like Marc, she got her mama’s brains.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short,” Kayla argued while the coffeemaker sputtered. “You seem pretty quick on the uptake, Mr. D.”

“Not like my wife.” Silence followed the assertion. He drew a deep breath, his gaze on his hands. “There was a brilliance about her.”

He missed her. Kayla understood loneliness, even in a room full of people. “How long were you married?”

“Seventeen years.”

Kayla frowned. Pete read her expression. “You aren’t from around here.”

“No.”

“Ari left about fifteen years back. Made for interesting talk.” Ouch. “A dubious honor.”

“Yes.”

“But Jess…”

“Was an infant. Rough time, all around.”

“I guess.”

“But we did all right,” the older man testified. “Between Marc and me, we did okay by Jess.”

Kayla laid a hand over his. “I’m sure you did. She’s in school?”

“Freshman at the high school.”

“Does she play any sports?” Kayla rose as she asked the question. The coffeemaker had gone silent. Feeling at home, she retrieved two hefty mugs.

“Jess rides and does horse shows,” Pete explained. “Marc trucks her and Rooster around, using time he probably should spend here.” Pete raised his gaze to the sprawling farmyards. “A farmer only gets so many good days and fine weekends, but Marc had Jess on a horse before she could walk. She rides like she was born to the saddle.”

“That’s very cool.” Kayla weighed the time frame. Summers never had enough weekends to accommodate everything slated for good weather. Work, home repair, social functions. From Pete’s depiction of Jess’s pastime, Kayla caught a glimpse of the younger DeHollander’s conflict. He was a one-man band, without the juggling monkey. Filing the information, she raised a thick-based cup into the air. “Guys’ mugs. I love ’em.”

“Nothing fancy.”

“But they hold a solid cup of joe.” Kayla flashed him a smile as she poured. “Smells good.”

“You’re not going to lecture me on the evils of caffeine?” Pete teased, pretending surprise. “What kind of nurse are you?”

“The kind that picks her battles,” Kayla retorted. She crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out a plastic jug. “Besides, I’d have to point the same finger right back at myself. You buy milk?” She turned to face him. “When you’ve got all those cows?”

“Beef cattle.”

The deep voice startled her. She turned. Marc’s flat and unfriendly expression did little to enhance his gasp-out-loud good looks, and that seemed a crying shame. For a moment she wondered if God had been distracted by some urgent need when Marc DeHollander moved to the front of the “winning personality” line, then reminded herself that blaming God was unfair. Jerks generally achieved their status on their own, and most deservedly. She arched a brow his way.

“Dairy cattle give milk,” he continued, his stance rigid.

“They’re mammals,” she corrected. “They all give milk. Those of the female gender, that is.”

His expression toughened another shade. “Not for commercial purposes.”

“I see.” She slid her gaze to the pot. “Would you like coffee, Mr. DeHollander?”

The formal name tightened the hard set of his eyes, but his lips twitched. Either he’d actually considered gracing her with a smile or he had some mild form of palsy.

Kayla put her money on the palsy.

“I’ll get it.” He moved through the room with the outdoor elegance of a man comfortable with himself. He’d left his boots at the door and his socks were a heathered blend of brown, ivory and gray. They looked warm. Kayla eyed them with a hint of envy, then glanced up. “Excuse me.”

Marc didn’t bring his cup to the table. He stood with his back to the sink, arms folded, waiting for the coffee to cool. He frowned, then glanced around. “Who? Me?”

Difficult man. Could you try being nice? Kayla nodded. “Your socks.” She pointed down.

“Yes?”

He drew the word out deliberately, his voice tinged with dis-belief. She ignored the cool bite. “They look warm.”

He paused too long, stretching his response to make her feel awkward. No way would she let him see his strategy worked. She held her ground and her tongue until he answered. “They are.”

“Where did you get them?”

He swept her feet a glance. “Your toes cold?”

She fought back a retort and counted to five. Why were her sassy clogs such an issue? Couldn’t he answer a simple question without being a jerk?

“I walk for exercise,” she answered. She didn’t mention she needed the socks to keep her feet warm at home. That would give him an opening to make some schlocky remark about her shoes. “Warm socks would be nice.”

“Ostrander’s.”

“The bed and breakfast?” Marc DeHollander didn’t seem like the B and B type.

“They have a wool shop beneath the house.”

“Really?” Kayla pictured the farm’s bucolic setting. Tourists spoke highly of the accommodations. “Thanks.” She nodded. “I’ll stop by.”

“Better check the hours,” Pete warned. Kayla turned his way. “During winter, the family might not be around as much.”

“Good point. I’ll call first. Were they expensive?” She turned back to Marc.

He looked as though he wasn’t sure what to make of her or the discussion. “Quality has its price. They do the job.”

And the award for warm and fuzzy personality goes to…anyone but you, Farmer Boy.

Kayla swallowed words she would have voiced short years past and nodded. “That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

His eyes pierced, the gray-green color flint and flat. Long seconds ticked by before he switched his attention to his father, the move dismissive. “I’m picking Jess up from Nan’s later. Anything you need from town?”

Pete patted the small package. “I had a hankering for some of them filled wafery things. Kayla got some for me.”

“Wasn’t that nice?” The edge in Marc’s voice told Kayla she’d stepped on his toes again.

She bit back a groan. What was it with this guy? Wasn’t anything easy? Did bringing his sick father a box of Napoleons constitute war?

Marc rolled his shoulders. With one long swig, he drained his cup and plunked it onto the scarred counter. “Anything special you’d like for supper, Dad? I can defrost the meat.”

Pete mulled, then said, “Stew.”

Marc smiled.

Whoa. Secret weapon, highly effective. Definitely part of his arsenal that should be kept sheathed, only to be revealed with a mandatory warning to all females within relative proximity. Kayla’s heart beat a rat-a-tat-tat against her breastbone, a totally adolescent reaction. Stop. Stay cool. Distant. Step away from the smile. Avert your eyes. Whatever it takes.

The grin held a high-amp flash of teeth and a dimple that should have made him look soft, but didn’t. Just the opposite. The man looked good. Self-assured. Confident and happy.

His father grinned in response. Kayla looked from one to the other, mystified. “Is there something I’m missing? A private joke?”

Marc shifted his weight. “Family stuff.”

Her spine tightened. The rebuff was meant to keep her in her place. He’d drawn a line in the sand, a marker of domination.

She didn’t need his marker. She knew her place. Always had. With an audible intake of breath, she reached into her laptop bag and withdrew papers. “Are you up to doing paperwork, Mr. D.?”

He nodded. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” She smiled at him and worked to focus on the more rudimentary aspects of her job. Sparring with Marc would get her nothing but aggravation. She didn’t need that. With his father’s terminal condition, Marc didn’t either. The guy was spoiling for a fight, and she refused to give him the satisfaction. Maybe she could suggest a night at the gym, a bout with a punching bag. Did gyms still have punching bags?

She didn’t know, but figured Marc might feel better after an evening-long session with one. Hours of repetitive thrashing could release his anger at a situation beyond his control. And beyond hers, for that matter. She’d been assigned to do a job, and had every intention of performing her task to the best of her ability.

With or without Marc DeHollander’s approval.

Chapter Four

Marc pulled into Nan Bedlow’s at 5:40 p.m. He’d spent the better part of the day moving rotational fencing, allowing the herd new winter grazing on old cornstalks. His shoulders ached and his back knew the strain of bending and shifting, but he’d finished the job.

The task wasn’t rhythmic like when he partnered with his dad. Then, one would drive, one would stake and unspool the wire to the plastic insulators, and they’d leapfrog one another to keep the installation moving. They could encircle a cornfield in a few hours time.

Quick compared to today, anyway. Setting fence was a two-man job.

He’d hired help for the feed store so he could have more time with his father. Even with the midwinter slump in business, he couldn’t be in the store, the barn and the house at the same time. Superman, he wasn’t. But he couldn’t justify paying two hands with the decreased work, so the store got the extra hands and Marc got the farm labor.

He smiled as Jess swung open the passenger door.

“Cold?”

Jess tugged off her gloves. “Oh, yeah.” She placed her hands palms down over the dashboard vents. “Thanks for having the truck warm.”

“It’s all right. Good session today?” Jess worked Rooster several times a week. The saucy paint had been a relatively inexpensive purchase five years past. He’d proven to be a good horse, with instinctive showmanship. The gelding loved an audience.

That made him perfect for Jess’s needs. Rooster defied the laws of gravity with his leans and Jess had no problem eyeing the arena’s dirt floor with him. They made a team, with the show ribbons and acclaim to prove it.

Jess kept her eyes trained ahead. “Good enough.”

Uh-oh. “But?”

“He needs to work.”

Ah. January doldrums. Working horses didn’t like being put to rest. They’d stabled Rooster with Nan so they wouldn’t have to trailer him. Jess worked off his feed by helping Nan. It seemed a good plan, but Rooster was a “go” horse. Hanging out with the pampered babies of weekend riders wasn’t his cup of tea. Marc understood that. “You’re probably right.”

“But trailering him here takes a lot of time.”

“Not so much.”

Jess started to object. Marc raised a hand. “We want to do what’s best for him, right?”

“Yes, but you’re doing everything on your own. That’s hard.”

She didn’t add that the advanced state of their dad’s cancer not only removed a capable set of hands, but added a pall to everyday life. They both recognized that. She continued, “I wish I didn’t have to go to school. I’d rather stay home and work with you. Ride. Feed. Muck.”

“Castrate.”

Jess laughed. “That, too.”

“You’re a born rancher, kid. And when those calves start dropping, I’ll put you to work.”

“I know.” Her voice was smug. “I’m a chip off the old block.”

Marc tuned in more carefully. Something else was going on. Something unspoken. “Problems?”

“Nope.”

She answered too fast. Marc mulled the possibilities. Jess was a good student. High honor roll, a favorite of teachers. He frowned as a thought occurred.

She rarely brought friends around. She’d meet up with other riders at the ring and sometimes hang out with them, but that was different.

School friends? None he could picture. Did she feel funny bringing them home with Dad sick? “Why not have some friends over this weekend? We can do a winter barbecue.”

Jess’s careful smile set off warning signals. “I’ve got to get ready for first semester finals and work Rooster, plus help you. And I’d rather spend time with Dad right now.”

Marc couldn’t argue. Time with Dad was growing short, although his father seemed more energized today. Still, the feeling he was missing something stuck with him. Resolving to figure it out, he turned into the drive.

The nurse’s car sat in his spot. He frowned, parked and followed Jess in.

“You must be Jess.” As he crossed the threshold, Marc saw the nurse offer her hand. “I’m Kayla Doherty, your dad’s nurse.”

“Nice to meet you.” Jess’s voice mirrored the sincerity of her smile. She grabbed the nurse’s hand in a firm grip. “Dad says you’re wonderful.”

The nurse laughed. Jess’s dimples deepened at the carefree reaction. Marc cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “The door, Jess.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Jess stepped in farther so Marc could close the door. Turning, he caught the nurse’s eye. “Is Dad okay?”

“He’s fine,” she replied. “He asked me to come by and meet Jess.” She smiled Jess’s way. “We hadn’t met and your dad wants you comfortable around me. That way you can ask me questions, approach me about anything. If I don’t have the answer, I’ll find it for you.”

“You came back to tell us that?” Marc stared, trying to read her angle. Women like her always had an angle. Part of the inborn metabolism that fed her need for stylish clothes and trendy shoes. Not to mention sassy nails.

“And for stew.”

Marc fought a groan. She met his look and continued, “Your dad invited me.”

“That’s great.” Jess’s voice pitched up. Obviously her taste was less discriminate than his. She grabbed Kayla’s hand, excited. “There’s never another girl around here.”

“Imagine that.” The nurse leveled Marc a look that said nothing and everything.

Marc narrowed his eyes. Her gaze offered a challenge. Silent, he pushed his boots into the corner and strode into the kitchen as Jess exclaimed, “Great shoes. I love wedges, any time of year. Where’d you get them?”

The nurse’s answer was lost to him as she and Jess headed toward the living room.

Great shoes, my—

Marc clamped the thought. With Jess growing up, it was normal for her to like girl things, right? Although tempted, he couldn’t keep her in flannel forever. Girls didn’t wear barn clothes to the prom. Or on dates. But he fought inner panic at the thought.

He didn’t want Jess to be like their mother, more concerned with appearance than substance. He wanted her to be a woman of merit. Women like that didn’t wear insensible shoes in January.

Responsibility tugged as he tended the stewpot. He didn’t know anything about raising a girl. How would he talk to her about…stuff? Girl stuff? Boy stuff?

Laughter from the front room caught his attention. Didn’t the nurse say she’d answer Jess’s questions? Hadn’t she just made that offer? Nurses were trained for that, right?

After all, Jess was raised on a ranch. She’d seen animals mating in a natural dance of life from the time she could walk. Truth be told, she could probably tell the nurse a thing or two. They’d raised dogs, cows and horses. Jess had been present at births and deaths and everything in between.

Even knowing that, he couldn’t bring himself to talk to her about the facts of life. No way, no how.

He grimaced as he withdrew a loaf of Amish bread from the oven. To approach the nurse, he’d have to be nice to her. Ignore her foolish shoes and her Meg Ryan haircut. The saucy look. And the “notice me” fingernail polish. For a moment he wondered if she painted her toes to match, then pushed the thought aside.

He was a tough guy. A farmer and rancher. He could be nice to a woman who placed looking good above everything else if it meant help with Jess.

But it wouldn’t be easy.

Chapter Five

“Great stew,” Kayla announced, but didn’t wait for Marc’s customary gruff acknowledgment. “I’ve never had better.”

Marc met her gaze, surprising her. “Thanks. Dad and I came up with this.”

Pete laughed, his fork aloft. The sound inspired a quick smile from Jess. “After too many failures to count,” he lamented, grinning. “Our early attempts were disasters. We’d have never made it in the restaurant business. Jess being little, we could always mash something up for her.”

Jess groaned.

“But for us, we had a long spell where we grilled everything,” Pete continued. The memory deepened his smile. “Steak, chicken, burgers, hot dogs, chops. I bought a propane grill so we wouldn’t have to mess with charcoal in the dead of winter.”

“Makes side dishes a challenge,” Kayla offered.

Once again Marc surprised Kayla by looking right at her. “Frozen veggie casseroles you stick in the microwave.” He arched a brow that would have done Pierce Brosnan proud. “And baked potatoes.”

“Always baked potatoes,” agreed Pete. “Peeling and mashing was too much work.”

“Exactly.” Marc exchanged another smile with his dad before turning back to her.

Kayla nodded in appreciation. The fact that he wasn’t growling pushed her to make the look more sincere. “That sounds all right, though. A good meal, all in all.”

“Every night.”

She laughed out loud. “Seriously?”

Marc leaned her way. The green flecks in his gray eyes were joined by points of gold surrounding a jet-black pupil, a myriad of muted color, very Monet. He held her gaze. “Every single night for over a year.” Then he flashed the smile she’d seen once before and she couldn’t help but grin in return. Maybe he had a personality after all.

She was a smart girl and she’d been raised in an environment that made her examine other people’s motives. That made her reasoning simple.

Marc DeHollander wanted something.

Kayla tamped down the feeling. She could be wrong. He may have had a change of heart in the quarter hour she chatted with Jess, sitting on the worn but comfy sofa. Maybe he’d come to realize she wasn’t evil personified.

Not likely. Lifting her coffee, she let her eyes meet his.

Strength. Ambition. Focus. She read the attributes in his expression and couldn’t find them lacking. They were good qualities. There was a potency about Marc DeHollander that lent itself to aspirations.

He was a goal-setter. Whether he had the gumption to reach those goals was another thing, but she sensed the determination from that one look.

So why the sudden change to nice? Was he trying to smooth things over for his dad’s sake?

Possibly. He clearly loved his father.

Or maybe Jess’s presence inspired him. Perhaps he shelved rude behavior in the presence of impressionable teens.

More likely.

Kayla set down her mug and appraised him.

He met her gaze with no animosity. Different, in a nice way.

But Kayla had learned to study the motives behind behavior rather than accept actions at face value. She knew better than to trust the surface. She liked the more relaxed demeanor he offered, but wouldn’t be fooled by it.

As long as he put a lid on that “sit beside me” smile. The wattage alone was enough to ruin a girl’s resolve. Luckily, Kayla’s self-generated “I’m leaving in six months for places unknown” force field was firmly intact.

“Dinner was good.” Kayla shrugged into her coat with careless ease. “I know you were surprised to find me here. Your father didn’t mention he called me?”

Marc shook his head. “He was asleep this afternoon, and I ran errands before I picked up Jess.” He watched as she positioned her scarf, long fingers snugging the ends beneath the coat. “You wear open-toed beach shoes in the house and bundle up to walk thirty feet to your car.”

“They’re not beach shoes,” she argued. “They’re comfy shoes, with quiet soles that don’t disturb resting patients. And the car,” she nodded toward the drive, “has been sitting for over two hours. It’ll barely be warm by the time I get home.”

“Your heater doesn’t work?” Why did that bother him? A professional woman ought to have sense enough to service her car, shouldn’t she?

“It’s pokey,” she replied, pulling on her gloves, “and I’m not patient enough to wait for it to warm up.”

Because he did the same thing, he couldn’t say much. Still the thought that her windows might not fully defrost gave him a nudge of unease. He pushed it aside and cleared his throat. “You’ve got cookies?”

Her hands paused. She frowned, puzzled, her bright blue eyes shading darker.

“In case the dog’s out.”

She flushed, but didn’t lose her cool. “A good Scout is always prepared.”

“You were a Scout?”

The flush tinged deeper. “Just an expression.” Her voice toughened to a more pragmatic tone. “I was never in one place long enough to do things like scouting.”

“A gypsy,” he mused out loud. “Or an Army brat.”

“Neither applies.” Her closed expression said he’d get nothing more. She nodded toward the kitchen. “Thanks for giving me time with Jess. She’s a great kid. Does your dad always beat her in Scrabble?”

Marc acknowledged Jess’s losing groan with a wince. “Not always. The kid’s got a hefty vocabulary. She’s a reader,” he added. “And a loner.”

“Really? That’s surprising.”

“It’s true enough,” Marc rejoined. He stuck out a hand in what he hoped was a peace-making gesture. He didn’t like the reasons that brought the stylish nurse to his house, but he needn’t make her task tougher. “Thanks for coming.”

She slipped a glove off and grasped his hand. “I was glad to do it, Mr. DeHollander.”

Her skin felt soft between his work-roughened fingers. Nice. Warm. He dropped her hand with a minimum of finesse and stepped back. “Marc.”

Her eyes sparkled at his gesture of peace. “Then feel free to call me Kayla,” she told him, her voice low. She leaned forward as if sharing a secret. “Instead of ‘that nurse.’”

Her sassy smile reminded Marc why women like Kayla should be avoided. High-maintenance women didn’t belong in the North Country, much less on a farm.

There were good reasons why Marc avoided savvy women. His mother had been brilliant and beautiful. Arianna DeHollander reveled in the latest trends, a fashionista before the term became a buzz word.

Nope. No way would he repeat his father’s mistakes. Pete married a woman too worldly to be tied to the ruggedness of northern New York. She’d never learned to love the rock-strewn land and the simplicity of the population. She was destined for bigger and better, and let everyone know it. That made her desertion less a surprise, but still devastating. Throw a five-month-old baby into the mix, and you had an interesting family dynamic. Two men and a baby, one guy short of a movie title.

They’d made it work, treasuring the baby to lessen the trauma of her mother’s disappearance.

And Jess was just fine, Marc assured himself. A strong girl, an accelerated student, sure-seated on the back of a horse.

Marc pushed aside the signs he’d noted earlier. Her lack of friends, her singularity. Her anxiety over her appearance. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? Was that normal for girls going through puberty?

He had no idea, but he was rethinking the notion of having Kayla talk with Jess. Jess was a commonsense kind of girl, unafraid to put her hand to work, unlike Miss I-Think-I-Chipped-My-Nail Doherty.

The nurse was smart. And sure of herself. She maintained her equilibrium when challenged, and he’d seen that firsthand because he’d been the challenger.

But she was beautiful and knew it. Saucy and unapologetic. Self-composed, a quality that seemed achieved rather than intrinsic.

But too concerned with her mode of dress, style of hair. She was Reese Witherspoon pixie-pretty, not Julia Roberts gorgeous, but either aspiration was beyond Jess’s caring.

Wasn’t it?

As he headed for the shower, Marc tucked Kayla’s image aside. He’d be nice to her. That was the least he could do.

But that was as far as he’d go. He wouldn’t ask her help with Jess. That would be too personal. Allowing that intimacy could ingrain her. Better that she do her job, he’d do his and they’d face whatever happened as it came.

He nodded, satisfied, then frowned as he grabbed the water knob. Were there fourteen faint freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, or fifteen? He pictured her face and did a mental scan.

Sixteen. Evenly spaced and divided, right to left.

Not that he cared.

Chapter Six

“How’s your dad doing?” Craig Macklin watched as Marc latched the stall door enclosing the spry but very pregnant horse.

“Like you’d expect. Some good days. Some bad.”

“Have they given you a time frame?”

Marc stared. “For?”

“His prognosis.”

Marc swore under his breath. Why was it that everyone else accepted Pete’s fate? Was his family last night’s feature on the late-breaking news?

“This just in: End-stage lung cancer patient Pete DeHollander has a short time to live. Let’s visit the family and see how they’re doing.

“Excuse me, Miss, you’re Jess DeHollander?”

“Yes.” Jess nodded to the man with the mic while a cameraman jostled for position.

“Tell me, Miss DeHollander, how do you feel knowing your dad is at death’s door?”

Jess’s smile revealed the gentle spirit within, a hint of pathos strengthened by faith. “I feel blessed to have been his daughter all these years. He raised me when my mother abandoned me. He fed me, clothed me and saw to my education at the highly rated local school. And he gave me a horse.”

Suddenly Rooster appeared, his head bobbing equine agreement. Jess cradled the paint’s neck and cuddled him, cheek to cheek, both facing the camera. “We’ll miss Dad dearly, but he’s going to a better place.”

The reporter nodded, then turned Marc’s way. “And you, sir? You’re Marcus DeHollander, Pete’s son and soon to be the sole proprietor of DeHollander Hereford Holdings and the De-Hollander Feed and Grain. How do you feel about your father’s impending demise? Will you be able to handle the work of two thriving businesses, raise your sister, keep a home and maintain the kind of social life a thirty-year-old man craves?”

Furious, Marc broke the imagined camera into a thousand pieces and strode briskly away.

“Marc? Where are you, buddy?”

Marc sucked a breath and tried to calm his feelings without much luck. “Your old girlfriend is working here.”

Craig frowned. “My old— What are you talking about?”

“The nurse. The Doherty girl.” As Craig’s expression changed, Marc raised a brow. “Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten now that you’re married.”

Craig laughed. “They won’t let me forget. Sarah and Kayla are friends. Sarah taught Kayla to spin and knit.”

Marc nearly choked. “Awkward at best.”

Craig disagreed. “Naw. Kayla and I only dated a few times. It was never going anywhere. She and Sarah got friendly once Kayla joined our church and the rest is history. She even watches the baby now and then. When she’s not working,” he added.

Craig’s words painted a picture for Marc, of Kayla and little McKenna Rose, a year old now. The image of the baby’s dark curls pressed against Kayla’s fair skin made his fingers tingle. He clenched his hands. “Still weird.”

“Why?”

“Wives and old girlfriends are an odd mix, Macklin. Oil and water. Can’t possibly work.”

“It can if you know Sarah.”

Marc frowned. “I know Sarah. What’s that got to do with—”

Craig interrupted, laughing. “Housed in the lowest level of my well-mortgaged country home are three lambs that needed warming, a barn cat due to deliver and a nephew who is rapidly becoming a dedicated farmer like his aunt.” When Marc looked confused, Craig punched his arm. “Sarah’s good with strays. Kayla fits right in.”

Marc pictured the feisty nurse. “Are we talking about the same woman?” He met Craig’s eye and raised a hand shoulder level. “So high, short blond hair, big blue eyes, crazy shoes and an attitude that barrels into next week?”

Craig’s brow shifted up in interest. “Sounds like the same girl to me. She’s good at her job, Marc.” He shook his head, his face out-turned. “That doesn’t mean we’re solid inside. You know that.”

They’d reached the west-facing door of the barn. Slanted beams from the early setting sun shone through the glass upper. Marc worked his jaw before facing Craig. “Life’s plenty full around here. Between Jess’s schedule and Dad’s illness keeping him up at night, the feed store, the cattle…” Marc shook his head. “I can’t imagine squeezing one more thing in.”

“Some things don’t take space or time. They just make the rest easier to handle.”

Craig was talking faith and fellowship. Marc refused to take the bait.

Wasn’t it enough that he was taking Jess to services, standing by her side as their minister droned platitudes from a contradictory ancient book?

Nope. He’d count on good fortune and hard work. They’d held him together so far. He opened the door and stepped into the last rays of daylight. “I appreciate you coming by. It would break Jess’s heart if anything happened to Grace. Or the foal,” he added.

Craig clapped a hand to Marc’s shoulder. “Glad to do it. And you haven’t been over in a while. When can we expect you? Saturday?”

Marc exhaled, his breath a cloud of ivory steam. “It’s tough, with Dad and all. I feel bad if I leave. And Sarah sounds busy enough.”

“True on all counts. But you don’t want your dad to feel guilty about you hanging around, either. And I’m not averse to helping Sarah in the kitchen.” Marc’s look inspired Craig’s laugh. “Being nice in the kitchen brings rewards.”

Marc hid a stab of envy.

Craig was different now that he was a husband and father. Calmer. More focused. Was that because of marriage or his strengthened faith? Marc refused to ask. He dipped his chin. “Dad mentioned that this morning, how he hates to have us tied up, waiting.”

“Come over on Saturday,” Craig urged. “Have supper, play with the baby.”

A night away sounded good. Marc smiled. “Which one? The kittens, the lambs or the human?”

“All of the above.” Craig’s tone was half teasing, half lament. “That’s what I get for marrying a sheep farmer. A personal petting zoo in the basement.”

Marc laughed. “Not so bad, considering the sheep farmer.”

Craig’s smile deepened. “No argument there. We’re good, then?”

Marc hesitated.

“It would give Jess a chance to have some private time with Pete.”

He hadn’t thought of that, but Craig made a good point. It wouldn’t hurt for Jess to have Dad to herself for a while. And he wouldn’t mind an interruption in the constant round of casseroles the good women of the church seemed bent on providing. Marc nodded. “What time and what can I bring?”

“Six, and don’t bring a thing. Let Sarah spoil you. It’ll make her day.”

Marc surrendered, hands up, palms out. “I would love to be spoiled.”

“Good.” Craig climbed into his car and started the engine before opening the window. “Tell Jess everything’s looking fine. She’s done well.”

Grace and her foal were the end result of a 4-H project. The paint mare had won several ribbons with Jess as a mount, but this was her first breeding. First-time mothers were unpredictable, and Marc wanted to avoid more trauma right now. Their father’s illness was enough for Jess to handle. Having her big brother smooth the barn path was the least he could do.

“Kayla? How’s your time frame?”

Kayla groaned. “Why do I suddenly wish I’d taken a different route out of this place?”

Christy smiled. “Ask the busy person…”

“Or the last one out the door,” Kayla mused. “Whattya got?”

Christy’s expression sobered. “A new intake in Gouverneur at one-thirty.”

“Tricky to be in Norfolk at two if you’re in Gouverneur at half-past one.” Gouverneur and Norfolk were at opposite points of St. Lawrence County.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“If I do the two o’clock at Maeve Morris’s, you’re okay with the intake in the southern sector?”

“Forever in your debt,” Christy declared. She held up a candy bar like the grand prize of a church raffle. “Would chocolate settle the issue?”

“From your private stash in the dark gray filing cabinet marked ‘No unauthorized entry’?”

Christy handed over the bar. “So much for private. Anyway, if you take Maeve, I’ll be clear for this. Who else do you have this afternoon?”

“Mr. DeHollander, so it works out since he’s up that way,” Kayla told her. “I’ll see if I can back him off an hour. That will give me time with Maeve, then off to the beef farm, then back home to Potsdam. Keeps me in the northern quadrant for the afternoon.”

“And we live in the largest geographic county in New York State because…?”

“We love piling miles on our cars while we travel inhospitable backcountry roads for hours on end.” Kayla returned Christy’s chagrined smile and shrugged. “My answer’s simple. They pay me and forgave my student loans. Sweet deal, all around. What’s your excuse?”

Christy winked. “Fell in love with a guy who thought the North Country was a great place to raise a family. I decided he was right.”

Kayla leaned in. “Fifty states, Chris. I’m gonna go way out on a limb and wager there are other great places to raise kids.”

Christy shrugged. “I’m sure there are. Heaven knows we get sick of winter up here about two-and-a-half months before it officially ends—”

“In June,” Kayla spouted.

There was no denying that. May nights got downright cold. Kayla tried not to picture her chilly living room, the comforter that was a mainstay on the couch for simple warmth. Christy grinned, noting, “Good snuggling weather.”

“Since I’m single, I’ll take your word on that.” Kayla rolled her eyes, hefted her workbag and headed for the door.

Chris’s voice followed her. “Romance hits when you least expect it, kiddo. You wanna hear God laugh? Tell Him your plans.”

Biting her tongue, Kayla waved as she bumped her way out the door.

Romance. Hello? Haven’t had a date in too many months to count. Definitely a downside to dealing with a primarily geriatric crowd.

At the hospital she’d been surrounded by people her age. Well, okay, surrounded was generous. Canton-Potsdam Hospital was small, but well-run. A tidy operation, all told. The busyness there, nestled in Potsdam’s center, had provided her with the occasional flirtatious moment.

Hospice? Not so much. She laughed at the differences as she climbed into her car. The car had chilled back to deep-freeze status, but the heater sprang to life easily this time. Kayla shot a look heavenward. “Thank You. And ignore what Christy said, okay? I’m not looking for anything up here. I’ve got a date with destiny coming up, and the one thing I can guarantee is that winters will be short or nonexistent. I give my word on it.”

She waited for the promised laugh and didn’t hear it. Good. She and God were on the same page. Before exiting the lot, she dialed the DeHollanders.

No answer. Wishing she’d gotten hold of someone, she left a message on Pete’s machine, explaining she’d be late, then headed to her first call of the day.

“Where have you been?” Marc’s harsh tone had Kayla taking a step back. His shoulders blocked the kitchen light. In shadow, she had a hard time assessing his expression until he turned. The darkened countenance became an easy read then.

“Seeing patients.” Shrugging off her coat, she tried to size up the situation but fell short. Marc’s face showed anger and fear, heavy on the former. “I got your voice mail.”

“But didn’t answer it.” His tone was ragged. Accusing.

“I just got it,” Kayla corrected herself. She kicked off her boots and faced him. “Let’s see what’s going on.”

“Your shoes.”

“I was hurrying when I got your message. I must have left them at the Morrises’.” Sliding her glance to the kitchen, she dipped her chin. “Where’s your dad?”

“Where do you think?”

Kayla bit her lower lip hard enough to pierce it. The guy was obviously worried and scared. She’d cut him some slack for the moment. Next time he met her at the door and acted like a first-class jerk? She’d let him have it, both barrels, no holds barred.

Okay, probably not, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t want to. Moving to Pete’s side, she laid a cool palm against his skin. “Fever.”

“Yes. High.”

Kayla nodded as she retrieved her thermometer. “What are his other symptoms?”

Marc frowned. “He’s not making much sense. Confused. Almost a little—” his breath hitched as though he hated to say the word “—crazy.”

Kayla met his gaze, sympathetic. Sometimes she forgot that family members might come into hospice with no nursing skills, especially in a house without a woman. She checked Pete’s pulse and blood pressure, then eyed the thermometer. “103.6.”

“I told you it was high.”

“Probably an infection,” she explained. “Has he been emptying his urostomy bag daily?”

Marc’s blank look was all the answer she needed. “You have no idea, right?”

“It’s not dinner table conversation,” he retorted.

“It will be.” Drawing back the sheet, she puckered her lips. “I think we’re dealing with a UTI.”

“In English, please.”

“A urinary tract infection. It’s not uncommon. I’ll let the doctor know. He’ll probably phone in a prescription for an antibiotic. Amoxicillin’s a common treatment for this. Your dad has no allergies to antibiotics, does he?”

“I’ve answered that question a dozen times in the past three months, but, no. He doesn’t.”

Kayla retrieved her phone. “What about his bag care? Has anyone trained you on how to empty the urine bag?”

Marc’s face paled under the late-day growth of beard. “Why should they?”

She drew a short breath and counted to five, then decided she might want to go the full nine yards and make it ten.

Ah, yes. Ten was better. Fighting a scowl, she looked up at him. “Your dad needs help with it. This is a small crisis overall, but keeping the site clean and irrigated is important. The bag needs to be emptied daily and we’ll change it every week or so. I’ll do that part,” she added. “Has your dad done total care of his bag since his surgery a few years back?”

“Yes. Dad would be mortified to have me…” His voice faded as he contemplated the situation.

Kayla returned his look of angst with one of compassion. “But he’s sick now. He’s going to need your help.” With a flash of insight, she nodded her head to the window. The big barn rose beyond the glass, its walls dark umber in the late-day light. “You’ve dressed animal wounds, haven’t you?”

“Of course.”

She shrugged. “Same thing. An easy but firm touch, clean and antiseptic. I’ll show you how.”

He didn’t look thrilled by that pronouncement. “Now?”

“No.” Turning back, she smoothed a gentle hand across Pete’s brow. “Let’s cool him off, get the antibiotics in him and go from there. We want him comfortable, and he isn’t.”

She drew off Pete’s extra blanket. Marc moved forward. “Would cool rags help?”

“To sponge him?”

“Yes. My mom did that when I was a kid and Dad did it with Jess.”

“Of course.” Kayla nodded encouragement. “Bring cool water and a washcloth. That way you can chill the cloth off as it heats up.”

Marc looked relieved to have something concrete to do. “All right.”

As he strode away, Kayla pressed her eyes closed. I’m too harsh, Lord. I’ve grown tough because I do this every day. I forget that for some people the simplest forms of care are mountains to be scaled. School me in my faults so I don’t get caught up in his. Give me patience. Compassion. Mercy.

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