The kids would be in so much trouble.
She struggled to smile. “The twins are fine, but thank you so much for checking on them. If you’ll tell me where they left the ax, I can go pick it up.”
“No need, we already did it,” Paul said. “And we finished cutting the tree down, too. We’d rather do it than see them get hurt. They’re just little kids still.”
Harley shut the kitchen door, wondering if she should tell Brock about the ax episode or not. He should know, but it should also be the twins who told him.
She glanced down at the beautiful rustic wreath the ranch hands had made her. It was wonderful, thoughtful, and charming and it’d actually look perfect in the kitchen, hanging on the big river rock fireplace above the mantel.
She carried the wreath toward the mantel, and was standing on tiptoe, trying to decide where the wreath would look best, when Brock entered the kitchen.
He’d changed into black plaid flannel pajama pants and a gray knit long-sleeved shirt that clung to his muscular chest and torso, before tapering to a narrow waist. “Thought I heard some of the boys,” he said, glancing around.
She nodded, trying to ignore how his flannel pajamas hung from his lean hipbones, revealing several inches of bare skin and taut, toned abs between the pajama waistband and the hem of his shirt.
Her mouth dried. He had quite a hot body. Goodness knows what else all those layers of clothes hid...
She licked her upper lip, moistening it. “Lewis and Paul just left. They brought back the dishes, and this.” She lifted the wreath. “The boys made it for me.”
“They made you a wreath?”
She nodded, remembering how he wasn’t one who liked Christmas fuss. “It’s a thank-you for taking care of them.”
One of his black brows lifted. “They know you’re leaving then?”
She carefully placed the wreath on the seat of the rocking chair. “No.”
“They just made you a wreath for the hell of it?”
“I think they like my cooking.”
He made a rough sound deep in his chest. “I think they like you.”
“I’m not encouraging them—”
“Didn’t say you were. I meant it as a compliment. They do like you, and I don’t blame them for being appreciative. Maxine kept their bellies full but she didn’t care too much about making them comfortable, or trying to make anyone happy. That wasn’t her job.” His lips curved ruefully. “Or so she’d say when the boys complained.”
“I can’t imagine those boys complaining about anything,” she said, filling the tea kettle with water and putting it on the stove.
“They certainly didn’t complain about her cooking ever again after she poured a cup of salt in their stew, and overcooked their biscuits by an hour or two, so that when the biscuits reached their table, they were hard as bricks.”
Harley laughed. “She didn’t!”
“She did. You don’t mess with Maxine.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “You eat what she cooks, you stay out of her way when she’s cleaning, and you wear your clothes however you find them... wet, dry, stinking of moth balls, or smellin’ of bleach.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“She definitely runs a tight ship. JB calls her Warden behind her back.”
Harley spluttered. “As in a prison warden?”
“That’s the one.”
“No wonder they’re hoping Maxine won’t return,” she said, glancing at the kettle, waiting for it to come to a boil.
“They said that?”
She shrugged. “More or less. But it was probably just a joke—”
“It probably wasn’t.” He sighed, and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I will have to do something eventually. Just not ready yet. She’s known the kids since they were toddlers, and she knows her way around the place.”
“So Maxine is like family to the twins.”
He grimaced. “I wouldn’t say that. She doesn’t remember their birthday or talk much to them, but she’s familiar and I trust her. She won’t spoil the kids, but she won’t hurt them, and she’s honest to a fault. So I’ve put off making changes.” Brock looked at her, shrugging wearily. “As you can tell, I’m not a fan of change.”
No, it didn’t sound like it, Harley thought.
For a moment there was just silence and then she drew a quick breath. “Speaking of the kids... have you checked on them?”
“No. Why?”
“They’ve been in their rooms for hours.”
“They’re supposed to be. I sent them to bed.”
“I know, but they didn’t have much lunch as they were too eager to get back outside to play—”
“If they’re hungry, that’s their problem, not mine.”
Harley bit the inside of her lip.
But he saw her face, could read her worry. “They’re in trouble. There have to be consequences for their actions,” he said.
“I know, and I agree that there must be consequences, but I don’t think it’d hurt to talk to them, hear what they have to say. They’ve been gone for months and they only just got home.”
“Then they should have made different decisions. They didn’t have to go to bed without dinner. They could have told me what they were doing when Molly got hurt, because I know they were up to something. Molly didn’t get hurt from a snowball fight. That was a cut next to her eye, a clean cut, with clean edges. Something made that cut and I want to know how it happened, and the kids know. But they’re not talking, so they’re in their room. End of story.”
She nodded, wondering if now was when she should tell him what Paul and Lewis had told her, about the ax and the tree, but she didn’t want to get the kids in more trouble.
“What’s wrong?” Brock asked. “You think I’m too hard on them?”
The kettle whistled, saving her from im
mediately answering.
She grabbed a pot holder and moved the shrieking kettle to a back burner. The kettle fell silent. “Would you like a cup?” she asked, motioning to the kettle.
He shook his head. “But I am interested in your opinion. You’ve been here a few days with them now. Do you think I’m too hard on them?”
She squeezed the pot holder. “I’m not the best person to ask.”
“Because you don’t know kids?”
“Because they’re your kids. I think you have to raise them according to your values.”
“My brothers say I’m too hard on the twins, but they’re bachelors. They don’t know what it’s like to have a child, to be the only one responsible for a child, never mind suddenly becoming the only person responsible for two infants still just breastfeeding when their mom is killed.”
Harley couldn’t imagine what it’d been like for him to bury his wife even as he had to become both mother and father to two babies. “Must have been awful,” she said quietly.
“It was hell.” His brow furrowed and he stared blindly across the kitchen, grief etched across his features. “Amy was such a good mom, too. She was such a natural... calm, and patient. Nothing flustered her.”
“Good thing, considering you had twins.”
“That was a surprise, but not a huge shock. Twins run in the Sheenan family, I have brothers who are twins—Troy and Trey—and my dad had brothers who were twins, but Amy and I were a little overwhelmed when Mack and Molly were born. They were small and needed round-the-clock feeding, and Molly had colic. She was so fussy.” He smiled ruefully. “She still is.”
“But Mack was easy?”
“Mack was born easy. He’d just sit there in his infant seat and chill while his sister wailed.” Brock shook his head. “Thank God Mack was so good-natured. I don’t think I could have handled two fussy babies on my own.”
“You’re a good dad,” Harley said quietly, meaning it.
“I make mistakes.”
“Everybody makes mistakes.”
“I guess we are managing, the three of us, but I thought the hard years would be the baby years. Instead, it’s getting tougher as they get older. They’ve got ideas and opinions and they’re starting to test me—”