A Family for the Farmer (11 page)

“Paul! Don't pester.”

“He's not pestering.” Abel wiped his mouth carefully with his napkin. “After spending some time with you two, I've been kind of wondering the same thing myself.” He smiled, and her children grinned back, not noticing how neatly he'd sidestepped their question.

Emily noticed, though, and she turned the question over in her mind as her children and Abel finished eating. Why hadn't Abel ever married? She considered the man seated across from her. He was listening seriously as her daughter told him a wildly exaggerated tale about her chick and a caterpillar. Paul was growing impatient for his turn, and he tugged hard on Abel's sleeve. Without turning his head from Phoebe, Abel covered Paul's hand gently with his own and patted it, silently reassuring the boy that he would be next. Paul settled back down in his seat to wait, and Emily shook her head slowly.

The man was great with kids. Some woman should have snapped him up years ago and filled that cabin of his with a tribe of sturdy little black-haired children.

It could be he wasn't the marrying kind. Some men weren't, and Abel had always seemed to like his solitude more than most.

She was still pondering it later as she was washing the dishes. Abel had insisted on helping, and he was patiently drying each plate as she handed it to him, stacking them on the countertop in neat piles. He was being kind, but she really wished he'd sit down a nice safe distance away. Standing here right next to him made her feel...well,
crowded
, and the way their fingers kept brushing as she handed off each dish wasn't helping.

“So, why don't you?” she blurted out. “Have any children, I mean.”

“Not married.” Abel shot her a sideways glance, and his mouth quirked up. “Miss Sadie would have skinned me alive if...” He trailed off, his face coloring. “Aw. Emily, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by that.”

He was so obviously upset that Emily had to laugh. She skimmed a handful of the foamy bubbles off the top of her dishwater and flung them at him. “Oh, quit choking. It's all right. Truth is, she came awfully close to skinning me alive the day I told her I was expecting. Not that I blame her.”

Abel smiled faintly as he wiped the bubbles off his face, but his lean cheeks stayed brick red. “I'm sorry just the same, Emily. That's me. Any time I open my mouth I stick my boot straight in it. I do better when I don't talk. You want to know why I never got married? That's most of it right there. I just never got the hang of sweet-talking girls. I either bore 'em to death or make 'em mad every time.” Emily made a scoffing noise, but Abel shook his head. “It's true. Last girl I took out for supper wanted me to take her home before we even got to the restaurant.”

“You're kidding me!”

“Nope.”

“Abel Whitlock! What on earth did you say to her?”

“Nothing much.”

“You must have said
something.
”

“Well...” He hesitated, looking guilty. “I told her she had ringworm. Well, now, she
did
,” he said defensively when Emily began to sputter. “On her wrist. She probably caught it from her cat.”

As Emily struggled not to laugh, she heard Abel protesting.

“I didn't think she'd get so upset over it.
I even gave her some athlete's foot cream I had in the glove box of my truck.”

Emily gave up and whooped helplessly, pressing her hands hard against her aching stomach.

“What?” Abel sounded genuinely bewildered. “Why's that funny? That clears it right up! Like I told her, I put it on the goats all the time.”

Emily sank down to the floor, snorting. Above her Abel sighed heavily and added another dry plate carefully to his stack.

“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head. “I do better when I don't talk.”

Chapter Seven

“P
lease, Mama?”

Two weeks later Emily was once again looking from two pleading twins to Abel's face, this time in the front yard of the farmhouse. Abel was grinning that irresistible lopsided grin at her again, and some very inconvenient butterflies in her stomach were fluttering furiously. She fought to keep her frown in place, but the corners of her mouth kept tilting upward.

“We're not babies anymore, Mama.” Paul sounded insulted.

“You'll always be
my
babies,” Emily retorted automatically.

“But we don't want to go to town with you. The grocery store is boring. We want to stay here with Mr. Abel and play with our chickies.” Phoebe set her chick down on the grass and watched as the small bird pecked curiously at a green blade.

As usual Abel had known what he was talking about. The cute little downy balls of fluff had turned into gangly, half-feathered birds almost overnight, but the twins' affection for them hadn't wavered. Chickadee and Puff were still perfect as far as the twins were concerned. It warmed Emily's heart to see how tenderly her children cared for the ugly little birds, but she also worried that it was going to be awfully hard for the twins to leave them behind at the end of the summer.

“I'll be glad to keep an eye on them, Emily, and it'd probably be easier for you to run your errands without them. Wouldn't it?” Abel lifted an eyebrow at her, and she almost laughed out loud. Easier to run errands without two bored five-year-olds in tow? Understatement of the century.

She was tempted, but she knew better than most that when one person shrugged off responsibility, somebody else had to take it up. Her children were most definitely her responsibility, not Abel's. “They'll slow
you
down, though. And I'm sure you've got plenty planned out to do this morning. Too much probably. I'm afraid you're working too hard.”

“Have to earn my keep.” He smiled again, and his blue eyes, just the color of the shirt was wearing, sparkled. “I feel like I should be pulling longer hours to pay for the food I'm getting. I haven't eaten this good in...well, ever.”

That did it. Emily lost her battle with the corners of her lips, and she could feel a foolish smile spreading across her face. Ever since that first pot roast, Abel had been unfailingly enthusiastic about her cooking, and she had to admit it was nice to feed an appreciative man. Last night she'd even tried the new casserole recipe on him, and he'd raved over it. More important, he'd eaten three generous helpings.

Talk was cheap, but three helpings meant something.

“Anyhow, these two don't slow me down all that much,” Abel continued. His expression warmed as he glanced down at her children. “Truth is, I've gotten used to having them around. I get kind of lonesome when they're not here.”

“See? Mr. Abel gets lonely without us.” Phoebe smirked up at her mother.

“Yeah,” Paul inserted, picking up his chicken and putting her down gently in a more desirable patch of grass. “It's sad to be lonely. We should stay here.”

Abel reached over and rumpled the boy's blond hair with an affectionate hand. Paul grinned up at the tall man, and Emily's heart gave a leap and lodged itself solidly in her throat. Lately those little interactions between man and boy were becoming more and more common, and Emily couldn't decide whether to be thankful or concerned.

It warmed her heart to see her children, particularly her son, behaving so naturally with Abel. Paul was starved for adult male companionship, and he was drinking up Abel's attention like a thirsty little sponge. And Phoebe had only to blink her big eyes in Abel's direction, and Emily could see every bit of the big man's willpower melt like a pile of sugar in the rain. The little girl adored Abel and followed him around the farm like a puppy.

That was all fine for now, but she could see trouble coming. Abel was a good man and a kind one, but this relationship the twins were coming to rely on had a built-in expiration date. She was afraid the chicks weren't going to be the only thing the twins would find hard to leave behind in Pine Valley.

But today the sun was shining, and her morning chores were all done. Her children were happy and healthy, and the end of the summer was still a good while away. Abel was looking at her with a hopeful gleam in his eyes, so she gave in.

“All right. If you're sure and if the twins promise to behave themselves.”

There was an immediate flurry of happy promises, and Phoebe squeezed her chick so enthusiastically that it peeped in protest and had to be rescued.

Phoebe's face crumpled. “I didn't mean to hurt her!” she cried as Abel inspected the chick carefully.

“You didn't. She's okay. She just didn't like being squeezed. Tell you what, I'll carve you a little chick just like Puff here to go with your hen, and you can squeeze her to your heart's content.”

“Cool! When?” Paul immediately went on high alert, a calculating gleam in his little eye. He was fascinated with Abel's carving, and he'd been fingering Phoebe's wooden hen ever since they left the workshop.

“How about now? I've got some tools in my truck and a little hunk of wood that I was just thinking looked an awful lot like a baby chick.”

“Can I watch?” Phoebe wanted to know.

“Can I help?” Paul asked at the same time.

Abel laughed. “Yes and yes. If that's all right with your mom, I mean.” He glanced up at Emily.

She hesitated, torn between a mental image of cuts needing stitches and the hope shining on Paul's face. “I guess so. But be careful and do just what Mr. Abel tells you!”

“Thanks, Mama!” He clenched his arms tightly around her in an enthusiastic hug.

Abel walked with her to her little car. Emily was so distracted by the man striding beside her that she forgot to watch where she was going and stumbled clumsily over a clump of tough grass.

“Careful there,” he murmured, reaching out a strong hand to catch her elbow. He leaned over and pulled the car door open. “I took a look at this engine for you yesterday evening while you were cooking supper,” he said. “I added some oil, but it needs a good tune-up. I'll get to it this afternoon when you get back.”

Emily frowned as she slid into the hot seat. “Fixing my car wasn't part of our agreement. Of course, for that matter, neither was babysitting.” Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

“I've got to do a little something extra to pay you back for that lemon pie you made last night. If that wasn't going above and beyond, I don't know what is.” One side of his mouth tilted up. “Anyhow, I like tinkering. And spending time with the twins.”

A burst of childish laughter came from the yard. One of the little chicks must have done something funny. Emily loved to hear her children laughing. When she saw the echo of her own affectionate smile on Abel's face, her heart bobbed and dipped crazily, and she felt her cheeks start to burn.

She'd never had anybody in her life before to share parenting moments with, and there was something about the intimacy of it that unsettled her, making her feel like all her most vulnerable spots were unprotected.

She had to get out of here. “Whew. It's hot,” she said brightly, and reached over to start the ignition.

Abel's smile faded, and he leaned closer so she could hear him over the noisiness of the engine. “Listen, Emily, don't worry. I'll keep both eyes on the twins while you're gone. They're safe with me.”

She knew it was true. He would keep her babies safe because he was that kind of a man. He was so close she caught the aroma of wood shavings that always seemed to cling to him, and she could smell the faint scent of the coffee she'd made earlier on his breath. Her eyes dipped down to his mouth—a mouth that somehow melded strength and gentleness in its crooked smile—and suddenly she found herself wondering what those lips would feel like on hers.

What was she doing? Emily snatched her gaze away guiltily and focused hard on the dashboard clock. “Wow! Look at the time! I'd better get going if I want to be back in time to fix lunch.”

The clock hadn't worked since she bought the car, but hopefully he hadn't noticed that yet.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think you'd better get going.” There was a strange tone in his voice, and when Emily dared another glance back up, she saw a stunned intensity in Abel's eyes that struck her like an electric shock.

Emily flashed him a mechanical smile, banged the car door closed and barreled down the gravel drive, her heart pounding like a jackhammer.

This was bad. Those silly little sparks that were flashing between them weren't as one-sided as she'd assumed. Abel was feeling them, too, and that could only mean one thing.

Trouble.

* * *

“Wow.” Paul settled next to Abel on the top step of the farmhouse porch, carefully holding the square of sandpaper he'd been entrusted with. “How do you do that?”

Abel shaved off another sliver of wood with his carving knife. The little chick was taking shape. “Well, now, it's hard to explain. I've always been able to do it. I never could understand why everybody can't, but I guess it's like singing. I can't sing, but other folks sure can. It's just the way God made us, I reckon.”

“Mama can sing.” Phoebe picked up a curl of fragrant wood and twisted it around her stubby little finger.

“I know.” A memory flitted back through Abel's mind like a hummingbird zipping past. As a teenager, Emily used to sing while she cooked. He remembered snatches of her songs drifting out of the half-open kitchen window. He'd listened while he'd weeded the garden. “I've heard her. She has a real pretty voice.”

“Mama doesn't sing much anymore. I guess she likes cooking better now.” Paul spoke without taking his eyes off Abel's hands. “Can you teach me to do that?”

“Teach you to carve?” Abel considered. “Well, for this kind of carving you've got to have some really sharp knives, so I guess we'd better check with your Mama first. But if she's willing, I am.”

“Maybe she'll let me if you say it's all right.” Paul sounded hopeful. “She worries a lot, but she likes you.”

“Well...” Abel floundered for something to say. “That's good. I like all of you, too. Very much. Now, see this little piece sticking out here? I'm fixing to make it Puff's little beak.”

His trick worked. Both twins leaned in closer to watch the tiny beak emerge from the wood. They dropped the subject, and Abel was glad.

He'd never been much for conversation, but to his surprise he'd found talking to the twins easy. Not today, though. Today he didn't particularly want to chat with Emily's children about how much he liked them. The truth was, he was starting to figure out that he cared about all of them a little too much.

Especially Emily.

It had been lurking around in the back of his mind for the last couple of weeks, this feeling that was a mixture of longing and hoping and something else he wasn't quite ready to put a name to. Last night he'd felt it again when he joined them for supper at Miss Sadie's big oval table. He'd seen his place set just as if he belonged there. There'd even been a sprig of fresh mint set beside his napkin because Emily knew he liked mint in his tea.

He'd been keeping a lid on those feelings as best he could, but it wasn't easy. He'd always had a soft spot for her. He knew that as well as anybody else. He'd even spent a fair amount of time years ago daydreaming about scenes just like last night's supper table.

Of course he'd had enough sense to know Emily was out of his reach. He knew the gap that separated families like the Whitlocks from decent ones like the Elliotts. He'd been reminded of it often enough by other folks in Pine Valley over the years. Miss Sadie might act like there was no difference between them, but Abel knew where the line was, even if she didn't.

Or he'd thought he did. He had to admit sitting down to supper with Emily night after night had blurred that line some. Then today out by the car, she'd smiled at him, and her eyes had dropped down to his mouth and she'd gone all nervous. A pretty little blush had crept up her neck to stain her cheeks, and that old longing had risen up in him until it had blocked out everything else.

He'd wanted to kiss her just then more than he'd ever wanted anything he could remember. And unless he was sorely mistaken, Emily had been thinking about kissing him, too. That alone was incredible enough that he'd felt the jolt of it clear down to his boots. In fact, he wasn't sure he'd recovered yet, and he'd been sitting on this porch step for the better part of two hours since then.

He heard the crunch of tires on gravel, and he looked over, expecting to see Emily's dinged-up little car creeping up the drive. Instead he saw Jacob Stone's pickup truck.

Abel got slowly to his feet, brushing a snowfall of wood shavings off his jeans, and handed the finished chick to Phoebe, who clutched it happily. Then he reached up and stowed his carving knife safely on a ledge of wood at the top of the porch column. That'd keep the little ones away from it while he talked with Stone.

Although he didn't imagine the pastor had driven all the way out to Goosefeather Farm to talk to him. He'd have gone to the cabin for that. Unless Abel missed his guess, it was Emily who Stone was looking for, and it must be something pretty important to lure the busy preacher this far out of town on a weekday morning.

* * *

Emily pulled up to the farmhouse and frowned. There was a strange truck parked in the driveway, and Abel and another man were standing on the front porch talking with the twins milling around their feet. Abel had one hand gently resting on Phoebe's shoulder. Emily wrestled her gaze away from that appealing picture and forced herself to focus on the visitor. Was that the minister?

Abel left the porch and met her at the car. “I'll get the groceries on into the kitchen. The preacher seems to want to have a talk with you.”