A Daughter's Place, page 8
“No more carpooling,” she said, as if it were a good thing, when the truth was she would miss seeing his truck pull up in their drive.
“No more carpooling,” he agreed. Then, struck by an idea, he snapped his fingers. “Hey, we should celebrate.”
“We should?”
“I’m not a great cook, but I can throw together a decent barbecue. What do you say?”
The girls had been trying to pet the old tabby that lived in the barn, but tuned in quickly to the prospect of a party.
“Great idea, Daddy,” said Allie. She faced Nicole. “He makes the best burgers—with no little bits.”
Libby glanced at Gibson. “Little bits...?”
“Onions.”
She should have known. Distrust of all things vegetable in nature was a universal trait in kids.
Allie, impatient at the interruption, began speaking again. “We’ll have lots of time to play and—say, Dad, could Nicole sleep over tonight? It is Friday.” Both girls turned pleading eyes to their respective parents. Libby couldn’t help feeling apprehensive. Nicole had never spent a night away from home. But clearly from the longing in her daughter’s eyes she felt no concern about doing so.
“It’s fine with me,” Gibson said. “How about it, Nicole? Would you like to stay the night?”
She nodded shyly and smiled at Allie, who was by this point dancing wildly around the truck. “Yay! Yay! We get to have a sleepover!”
“Thanks, Gibson,” Libby said, warmed by her daughter's quiet happiness. This was just what she’d wanted for Nicole. Friends and sleepovers and the feeling of belonging.
‘‘They’ll have a blast. And I’ll try to make sure they spend at least a portion of the night sleeping.” He moved closer, touching a finger to the collar of her blouse. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the other day. I was out of line—”
“No.” Libby shook her head. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have said—” she hesitated, then began again “— that thing about not needing another brother. I’m really sorry....”
“Hey. Forget it.”
She was very aware of his fingers—so near her skin. And she wanted to touch him, too. To put her hand over his, pinning it against her body. She knew it didn’t make sense. She’d been so angry with him earlier. And he’d been so angry with her.
But his offer of a celebration party had caught her off balance. It was neighborly and thoughtful—she didn’t dare read more into it than that.
“Can I bring a salad?”
“That would be great.” Gibson let his hand drop, then moved back to his truck. “Come on, pumpkin. We better go home and start getting organized. Six o’clock okay?”
“Perfect” Libby put one arm around her daughter’s shoulders and waved at the departing truck with the other. A celebration party. For her. Whatever Gibson’s motives, she was looking forward to the evening. A lot. And that scared her almost as much as it made her happy.
Moira Plant was in the kitchen, whipping cream for strawberry shortcakes, when Libby walked into the house with her bowl of potato salad. She’d left Nicole outside, by the barbecue pit with Gibson and Allie.
“Hi, Moira,” she said, speaking loudly over the motor of the hand beater. She slipped her salad into the spotless fridge. “Need any help?”
Moira turned off the mixer and put the whipped cream in the fridge beside the salad. “You could clean the strawberries.” She handed Libby a knife. “I hear you’re going to be the new school bus driver.”
“That’s right.”
“Better you than me. I couldn’t take the screaming and yelling....”
Libby shrugged. She was sure it couldn’t be worse than the noise levels at some of the factories she’d worked at in Toronto.
“So how are you enjoying being back in Chatsworth? I bet your dad is glad to have you back again.”
“It’s nice to be home. Nicole is settling in all right”
“Having a friend close by is a good change for Allie. I often worry about her. This farm’s so isolated. If only she had her mother, even a brother or sister...but I guess you know what raising an only child on your own is like.” Her shrewd gray eyes assessed Libby knowingly. “Owen been gone a long time?”
Libby’s fingers slipped, and she hacked off the end of one of her fingernails. She should have known better than to offer to help. Should have known Moira would seize the opportunity to subject her to more questions.
“Yes...yes, he has,” Libby replied. He’d been gone as long as she had, hadn’t he? It wasn’t really a lie. She sliced out the green top from the strawberry in her hand, then dropped the red berry into the glass bowl on the counter.
Of course it was a lie, Libby’s conscience asserted. Here she was, letting the whole of Chatsworth believe that she’d run off with Owen, that he was Nicole’s father and that he’d deserted them both, when the truth was Owen and she had been nothing but friends.
So it was a lie. No one would be hurt by it, least of all Owen. He and his parents were gone; they had no ties left to the community. She doubted Owen would care what anyone here thought of him.
That still didn’t make it right.
Moira rinsed the sink and hung up the dishcloth. “Spoon those berries onto the biscuits, will you, Libby? I’ve got to get going. It’s bingo night, and I’ve still got to feed Fred. I’ve got the stew all ready to be heated in the microwave, but do you think he can transfer the bowl from one place to another and press a few buttons?”
Libby sat in one of the plush, swivel kitchen chairs, relieved at the sudden quiet once Moira left. Was this what the next few months were going to be like? Everywhere she went she was met with questions. Some well-meaning, others less so. How long could she continue to dodge the issue of Nicole’s parentage?
Gently she removed the tea cloth and split the golden biscuits into halves, then spooned berries generously on each. As she worked, she glanced around the kitchen. Rita had remodeled, all right, and she’d done a good job of it. Libby admired the pale-oak cupboards, butcher-block counters and blue and yellow decorative accents. The kitchen was both attractive and practical, though it bore little resemblance to the cluttered, homey room she remembered from childhood. All the appliances were supersize, and the stove even had a wood-burning component that added to the farm atmosphere. Maybe Rita hadn’t been much of a country girl, but she’d certainly nailed the look.
The kitchen door opened again and in came Gibson.
“Time to put on burgers. Would you like a beer?”
She covered the dessert and accepted a can, refusing his offer of a glass.
Gibson had changed out of his work clothes into a fresh pair of jeans and a yellow cotton T-shirt. The yellow contrasted nicely with the blue of his eyes and drew out the gold highlights in his hair. The jeans suited him, too, molding his lower body and legs like a comfortable second skin.
“How are the girls doing?”
“They’re feeding the bunnies. I told them the burgers would be ready in about twenty minutes. Do you mind grabbing that for me?” He nodded toward a large wooden tray laden with fresh buns, condiments, napkins and utensils.
“Sure.” She followed him to the back patio and set the tray on the outdoor table, then joined him by the fire. He was carefully lifting the patties, which sizzled as he placed them on the freshly cleaned grill.
“You've always had a way with flames, haven’t you?" She sat on a chair near the pit, enjoying the heat radiating from the red-hot coals. “Didn’t you and Chris start a little grass fire one year down by the slough?"
“You would have to remember that, wouldn’t you? At least we had the sense to start it close to a good source of water."
“Yes, very thoughtful of you."
“That’s just the kind of kids we were." He pulled up a chair next to hers and popped the tab on his own can of beer. “Thoughtful, considerate..."
“Fortunately you could run fast, too. As I recall you and Chris made it home in record time, yelling for water and buckets."
“At least we didn’t need the fire department"
“Only because Dad called half the neighbors."
“True. Chris and I had to work a month of Saturdays to repay them." If he’d resented the punishment then, he sure didn’t now. She hadn’t seen him looking so at peace since she’d returned.
The sound of the girls’ laughter floating from across the yard added to the air of relaxation. “Seems like they’re having fun," Libby said.
“They always have a good time together. Just like—"
He didn’t say, but Libby knew he was thinking of Chris.
“Hell, it’s good to see Allie happy. I don’t know about you, but this being a single parent—it’s a lot of pressure. I keep worrying I’m screwing up somehow.”
“It is tough. At least Allie talks to you. Nicole is so quiet I never know when she has a problem.”
“She’s a serious little girl.”
Libby nodded. It was true. She’d tried to keep the worries of managing as a single mother to herself, but she’d obviously failed. So often when she looked at Nicole’s face, she saw every one of her own insecurities reflected there. It wasn’t right, but Libby didn’t know how to fix it.
“My deepest fear,” Gibson said, “is that something will happen to Allie when I’m not around to protect her. Even letting her go off to school was a struggle for me. Dumb, right?”
“Maybe a little overprotective. But understandable.” Especially given the way he’d lost his wife. “What was Rita like? I can hardly remember her.” Gibson’s gaze shifted to the field he’d just finished seeding that morning. “She was pretty. And talented. You saw what she did with the kitchen.”
“Nice enough to be in a magazine. But comfortable, too.”
“Yeah. And practical the way a farmhouse ought to be.”
“I must admit I miss that old wallpaper of your mother’s.”
“The vegetables?” Gibson grinned. “Chris used to complain that seeing all those carrots and broccoli dancing on the walls ruined his appetite.”
“I thought they were cute. I especially liked the little radishes.”
Gibson flipped the burgers. “Cute wasn’t the word Rita came up with.” He glanced back at the house, hesitated for a moment, then said, “Sometimes days would pass without Rita coming outside except to water her flowers or put out food for the cats. She never did get the hang of gardening, wasn’t keen about farm life in general. That’s what was so maddening. Why did she have to wait until I wasn’t around?”
Libby didn't want to hear the details of the accident, but she thought maybe Gibson needed to talk about it “What happened?” she asked quietly.
“I was out combining in the northeast section.” Gibson’s eyes traveled across the fields, as if he could actually see himself there. “I’d left the truck loaded with grain in the yard, and I guess when Rita got Allie down for her afternoon nap she decided she’d unload it into the granary for me. She’d seen me work the auger many times before, although she’d never done it herself.”
Gibson ran his hand over his face. “She was wearing a loose dress—sort of a granny style, which she favored because she still hadn’t lost all the weight from her pregnancy.”
Libby shuddered. Loose clothing and an auger. She was enough of a farmer’s daughter to know it was a deadly combination.
“Later they figured her dress must have caught and she hadn’t been able to slip out of it fast enough.”
Libby had known it was coming, but that didn’t make it less dreadful to hear. “Oh, Gibson...”
“When I came home, I could hear Allie crying as soon as I got out of the pickup. I gave her a bottle, then called for Rita. There was no sign of her inside, which was strange enough. So I went out in the yard....”
Libby stared at the grass by her feet, knowing what he must have seen. His wife’s body, mangled and bloody.
An auger was just a machine; it wouldn’t have reacted to Rita's screams. Without someone to throw the switch, it would have pulled on Rita’s dress, then on her body, the blade curving like a corkscrew, driving whatever it held in its grasp upward, until finally, overloaded, the engine would have broken down and stopped.
Rita had probably died from loss of blood. It wouldn’t have been quick, and would definitely have been painful. The poor woman.
“Harvest was slow that year. We’d had a wet fall and I was getting desperate to get the crop off. Rita was feeling bad that she wasn’t much help. She knew most wives worked hand in hand with their husbands during combining.”
“But you never asked her to unload the grain.”
“Of course not. I guess she wanted to surprise me. To prove something.”
He blamed himself. Of course, someone like Gibson would. Just as his mother blamed herself for the pressure she'd put on Rita. Poor Connie. No wonder she was so reluctant to offer her opinions to her son.
Finally, it seemed that the space between Gibson and her was intolerable. Libby went to stand by him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, Gibson. I know you feel it’s your fault, but Rita used really poor judgment, and you can’t hold yourself accountable for that.”
Gibson pressed her hand against his cheek. “Thanks for listening, Libby. I’ve missed Chris for many reasons over the years, but when Rita died, that was when I almost went crazy.”
Somehow Libby was pulled into his arms, her cheek tight against his chest as he buried his face in the softness of her hair. Libby allowed her hands to wrap around his broad back. Gibson was so big, tall and thick around the chest that she almost felt lost in his arms. It was a nice feeling. Safe and warm.
“Libby.”
His breath was in her ear, and suddenly she wasn’t sure who was doing the comforting anymore.
“You know all about heartache, don’t you, Libby? You were crying this afternoon.” He tipped her head up. Gently his thumb stroked her chin, then glided down her neck to rest at her collarbone. “Did Owen hurt you very badly?”
She closed her eyes, tired of the lie. She couldn’t be in Gibson’s arms like this and continue to pretend that she’d run off with Owen Holst.
“Gibson, I never—” Words died on her lips when she saw the way he was looking at her. She felt a pressure in her chest that had nothing to do with the strength of his arms around her but was more of a yearning for something she wasn’t even aware she wanted.
How long had she known Gibson? All her life. And although there’d been a period—quite a long period, between early adolescence and Gibson’s engagement—when she’d daydreamed of Gibson falling in love with her and the two of them getting married, she’d never seriously believed she would one day be in his arms, wanting nothing more than for him to kiss her. And having him look at her as if that were all he wanted, too.
Kissing Gibson Browning was beyond the realm of possibility. Yet it was happening. His head was lowering, his mouth moving toward hers. She could feel her heart ballooning, and the impulse to tilt up her face and close her eyes was undeniable.
Gibson was a strong man, but he touched his lips to hers gently. The scent of his skin was subtle, sunshine and prairie wind rolled together. She nuzzled her face against his cheek and smelled the charcoal in his hair, the fabric softener in his shirt
He whispered her name, so quietly she could hardly hear him.
And then, from the corner of her eye she caught a movement from the barn. And in the next second, the cry of a panic-stricken child. “Mommy!”
In an instant they were apart.
“Gibson! Mommy!” Nicole called. “Allie fell off one of the ponies!”
Fear flashed across Gibson’s face in the split second before he turned to dash for the barn.
They found Allie lying in a mound of straw on the barn floor, alternately crying and yelling at the ponies to stay away from her. The two gray Shetlands seemed in no danger of doing otherwise. They were huddled in the far corner of the stall, looking just as unhappy as Allie about the whole situation.
“Are you all right?” Gibson jumped the wooden gate and bent over his writhing daughter.
“Sporty bucked me off! All I did was slide onto her back from the side of the stall, and she started rearing!”
Libby glanced at Nicole and could tell that there was, perhaps, a different version of the story, but both of them stayed silent, watching as Gibson gently probed his daughter’s limbs.
“You aren’t supposed to ride the ponies unless I’m around to supervise.”
“I know, Daddy. I’m sorry.” Allie held out her arms and her father lifted her and carried her outside.
They were halfway toward the house when the smell of burning meat rose up to meet them. “The hamburgers!” Gibson ran, but it was too late. Four charred black disks sat on the grill, obviously inedible.
“Never mind. More where those came from.” Gibson settled his daughter comfortably in one of the chairs, then scraped the burned burgers off the grill and added four fresh patties.
He glanced sympathetically at Allie. “Feeling any better?”
She shook her head, bottom lip thrust out, eyes red with the threat of more tears.
“Next time you want to ride the ponies, please remember to call me for help, okay?"
Maybe the scare of the fall would be enough to teach Allie her lesson, but something in the little girl’s expression when her father turned back to the grill made Libby doubt it. She was only seven, but Allie knew how to pull her father’s strings in order to get her own way. Which was exactly what Gibson’s mother had been talking about the other day at the soccer game.
Libby checked out her daughter, who was sitting quietly at the patio table, legs swinging, hands folded neatly in her lap. What must she think of these ploys of Allie’s? Or of the little girl’s wealth of possessions?
Maybe this new friendship was not as ideal as Libby had initially supposed.
Just then, Allie piped up with a new line of conversation. “Can Nicole come to my birthday party, Daddy?”
Gibson was just flipping the new batch of perfectly cooked burgers onto a platter. “Well, of course she can. It’s next Saturday.” He looked at Libby questioningly. “If it’s okay with her mom.”
