The Cowboy's Twins

He’d given her his standard answer: “Older than you are now.”

Nodding at Will, the twenty-one-year-old who kept up the stables for him and fed the horses Spencer boarded to help make some extra cash, he walked up to the stall Will was mucking out. “You seen the kids?” he asked.

“Nope.” Will kept right on raking. “Not today. But I heard about a foal that’s going to be available for sale,” he said, giving Spencer an over-the-shoulder glance.

“I’m not in the market for a foal.”

“She won’t be ready to ride for at least another year,” Will said.

He had to find his kids. Not talk about horses. “If you see the kids, tell them to get back to the house, pronto,” he said on his way out.

“My grandpa says you were riding by the time you were five!” the young man called.

Spencer ignored him. Because he had his children’s safety on his mind. And because he was not ready to risk Tabitha’s life on a horse. No matter how good a trainer Will Sorrenson might be turning out to be.

The tractor barn was empty of human life. He took a turn from there and, at a jog now, went down the row of cottages—some empty, some occupied—that housed married cowboys. And on to the bunkhouse. Justin had been known to wander in there a time or two, in spite of Spencer’s strict instructions that he not do so.

If he’d taken his sister in there, he was going to get the first hiding of his young life.

The bunkhouse was empty, too. As it should have been. Most of his men were out on the range this week—their absence scheduled purposely to coincide with filming.

And that was when it hit him. He’d told the kids that absolutely, under no circumstances were they to go near the outer barn that had been changed into a television studio for the next six weeks.

But they were seven. And it was TV.

Not sure if he was praying that the kids were there or not, he sped up, his boots kicking up dust on the dry ground as he switched course.

“Today I’m giving you my best peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” Cocking his head, Spencer picked up his pace even more as he heard his daughter’s voice coming out loud and clear from a location that was still some distance away.

A mixture of stunning relief—they were safe!—and tense disappointment—they’d not only disobeyed him, they’d involved the one place on the farm he wanted them the least—flooded him. No one had prepared him for the emotional roller coaster of parenting.

“I have the best bread—white—and I have two pieces of it...” He’d always served his kids wheat bread because it was healthier, but Betsy had white bread at home, and when they ate there...

His step grew heavier, frustration growing right along with dread. He’d heard that the Family Secrets crew had gone into town for the afternoon and evening—and had been relieved to have the place to himself. If Tabitha had found a way to make a mic work, he could only imagine the damage Justin had done.

Was doing.

“I have peanut butter—just the butter part, no peanuts.”

She liked it smooth.

“And jelly—we use grape because Daddy likes it best, not jam with the lumps in it.” The note of authority in her childish voice was growing in leaps and bounds.

Spencer started to leap, too, or at least it felt that way as he took the last few yards at a dead run.

He couldn’t afford to repair an entire studio.

Nor did Family Secrets have time to build another one. Contestants were due to arrive the next day.

Rounding the corner in the barn, his worst imaginings became reality. There was Justin, sitting at what could only be some kind of sound board—or control center. His hands were on knobs. Turning.

“I take a knife, this kind, because I’m not allowed to use the sharp ones...” Tabitha’s voice was loud and clear—far too loud and clear—coming from somewhere on the other side of a temporary wall. He didn’t want to think of the mess she was making.

He’d seen her “cook.”

Justin hadn’t noticed him yet, and Spencer had to rein himself in before he approached his recalcitrant son. The boy had gone too far this time.

He was going to be meting out some serious discipline.

As soon as he trusted himself not to lash out first.

His good day had just gone really, really bad.

* * *

“JUSTIN GERALD LONGFELLOW, please take your hand off that board. Now.”

Natasha froze. And watched as seven-year-old Tabitha, with a rather large glob of peanut butter dangling from her table knife, stopped moving, as well. Rising from her seat in the middle row of the bleachers in their makeshift studio, Natasha kept her eye on the child but spoke into the headset she was wearing.

“Justin, are you okay?” She hadn’t recognized the voice she’d just heard issuing an order to the boy in what could only be termed a threatening tone.

But then, the only men she’d spoken to on the farm, other than her own crew members, were Spencer Longfellow and the cowboy, Bryant.

“No, ma’am.” She’d known the child only for about an hour, but long enough to tell her that the vulnerable tone in his voice was not common.

“Who are you talking to?” The male voice came again. But Natasha recognized it that time.

“Spencer?” she called as she rounded the corner of the wall in back of the stage. Locating the control booth behind the stage had not been anyone’s first choice, but for remodeling cost effectiveness and electric concerns, they’d made the decision to put it there. Monitors allowed views of the stage from every angle. Monitors that were not currently turned on.

“Natasha?” The cowboy in dusty, faded jeans, a red plaid shirt and the inevitable boots stood there, his gaze piercing as he looked between her and his son.

“I’m so sorry...” Words came tumbling out of her mouth. “It didn’t occur to me that I should have told you I was keeping them awhile,” she said. “It should have. I apologize.”

His frown deepened. The opposite of the effect for which she’d been aiming.

“Tabitha? You can join us.” Spencer’s tone, though not as fierce, still remained unrelenting.

The little girl, knife still in hand, though free of peanut butter, came around the corner of the stage. She didn’t walk down the steps.

And Natasha’s heart gave a little twitch. She’d told both children they weren’t to climb those stairs unattended because the safety rail had been defective—the wrong size had been sent—and the new one wasn’t being installed until the morning.

Moving forward, she took Tabitha’s hand and held on while the girl slowly descended the four steps to the linoleum laid temporarily on the barn’s dirt floor.

“I’m sorry, too, Daddy,” Tabitha said. But while Justin’s face was pointed at the floor, his sister’s nose pointed straight at their father. Natasha’s heart noted that, too.

What in the heck was wrong with her, getting emotional all of a sudden? These children were interlopers who’d interrupted her only afternoon with solo access to the studio. She had much to do to satisfy herself that the set was ready to welcome contestants the next day.

And...