Lone Star Daddy

In the meantime, he had to deal with Rose McCabe.

And the delivery of the berry picker from the tractor dealership the following day. It arrived, as promised, shortly after nine in the morning. Clint half expected Rose to be there, too.

She wasn’t.

While the sunny May morning was unexpectedly quiet, Swifty unloaded the big machine from the flatbed trailer, showed Clint how to use it and took off.

Deciding maybe this wasn’t so bad after all, Clint loaded up the machine with heavy-duty plastic fruit crates, turned the engine on and headed for the field.

He’d barely made it down one row when the next surprise came. And the quiet morning outdoors that he’d been looking forward to vanished. Just like that.

* * *

CLINT SUFFERED THROUGH the day only because he had promised Farmtech, the local dealership and the produce co-op that he would.

As soon as the day’s activity concluded, however, he headed inside his ranch house to get cleaned up.

And then, determined to get a few things straight before anything else unexpected happened, he made his way to Rose Hill Farm.

Until now, he had seen Rose’s seventy-five-acre property only from a distance. As he passed beneath the wrought-iron archway, he could not help but be impressed. The rolling green pastureland was surrounded by neat white fence. Stately oak trees lined the drive that led to a small white Cape Cod–style bungalow with a dark-gray roof, cranberry-red shutters and a pine door. A huge new red barn, emblazoned with the Rose Hill Farm logo, sat behind that.

Rosebushes bloomed on either side of the front walk.

Bracing himself for whatever came next, he moved up the broad stone steps leading to the house and rang the bell.

There was a struggle with the lock on the other side. Then the front door swung open. The smell of something incredibly delicious—cornbread maybe—wafted out. A tyke-size McCabe stared up at him.

“Mommy!” the preschooler bellowed at the top of his lungs. “It’s a man!” He craned his little head back as far as it would go. “And he’s real big!”

Compared to the little one, Clint felt big. Although, at six foot four, he felt that way often.

Something clattered loudly—like a dropped metal pan in the kitchen. “Stephen!” Rose called out, sounding upset. She rushed around the corner, her hands buried in a dish towel. “I told you not to answer the...” She skidded to a halt midfoyer. Swallowed, cheeks pink. “Clint.”

Aware he had never seen her—or imagined her—quite so harried, he moved his gaze over her cloud of chin-length dark-blond curls. She wore no makeup that he could see but was absolutely gorgeous just the same. She had on jeans, sneakers, a flattering peach button-up blouse and a ridiculously frilly and flowery apron over that.

He resisted the urge to tell her about the smudge of flour on one cheek. He was here on business, he reminded himself sternly. “Got a minute? I need to talk to you.”

She crumpled the dish towel in her hand. “Ah...”

Two little girls appeared at her side. “Mommy, I’m hungry!” said the first.

The other complained, “You said dinner was ready.”

Rose assured them with a smile, “It is.”

The children’s anxiety allayed, she turned back to Clint and waved him forward. “Come on in. I don’t think you’ve ever met my triplets,” she said, shutting the door behind him.

“Kids, this is Mr. McCulloch. Clint, this is Stephen.” Rose pointed to her son. Clearly all boy, with short brown hair and dark eyes, he was clad in jeans and a Longhorns football T-shirt. He was busy trying to climb up the stairs from the wrong side of the railing.

Rose plucked him off the risers and set him back on the foyer floor. A prodding lift of Rose’s brow had Stephen obediently extending his hand. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Clint noted the boy had a surprisingly strong and confident grip.

Continuing her introduction, Rose pointed to the daughter clad in a denim dress and deep purple cowgirl boots. “Scarlet.”

The little girl holding an open storybook had long, curly, strawberry-blond hair, green eyes and glasses.

Scarlet smiled at Clint sincerely. “Hello.”

Clint grinned back. “Good to meet you, Scarlet.”

“And Sophia,” Rose concluded, gently guiding the shyest of the three children forward. Clad in a ruffled skirt, matching knit shirt and ballet slippers, the little girl had long, dark-brown hair that was straight and silky, and clear blue eyes.

She shook Clint’s hand mutely.

“Nice to meet you-all,” he said.

Stephen muscled his way to the front. Unable to stand still, he put his weight on one leg, then the other, peering up at Clint curiously all the while. “We’re three and a half.” He gestured importantly at himself and his two siblings. “How old are you?”

Rose jerked in a breath and lifted a chastising palm. “That’s not a question we ask grown-ups. Not ever. Remember?”

If there was one thing Clint remembered, it was how insatiably curious he had been at the same age. “I don’t mind.” He looked back at the kids. “I’m thirty-three.”

“Mommy’s twenty-nine,” Scarlet announced.

“And a half,” Sophie said.

Rose blushed again.

Letting their gazes collide, then linger, Clint said, “Good to know.”

Looking adorably flustered, Rose whirled away from him, then made a little shooing motion with her hands. “Just let me get them seated.” Her kids darted through the hall, past the corner, and into the cozy space at the rear of the home. Comprising almost all of the first floor, it was at once kitchen, casual dining and living area. “And then—”

“Do you like mini-corndog muffins, Mr. Clint?” Stephen interrupted.

If the golden-brown confections were half as good as they smelled and looked, heck yeah.

“It’s bite-size cornbread with very small chunks of wiener tucked inside,” Rose explained. “A kid-friendly version of a corndog without the hazard of a stick in the center.”

“’Cause if you do like them,” Scarlet said, taking charge, “we can share. That’s polite, isn’t it, Mommy?”

Rose swiped a hand across her face, spreading the aforementioned flour from her cheek to her ear. “Sweetie, I don’t think we want to put Mr. Clint on the spot.”

Trying not to think how long it had been since he’d had lunch—had he stopped to have lunch?—Clint cut the reluctant hostess off with a smile, knowing it would irritate her. He owed her that. He pulled up a chair at the round oak table. “Thanks. Don’t mind if I do,” he drawled.

“You really want to have dinner. With us?” Rose clearly enunciated every word, giving him time, it seemed, to come to his senses.

He shrugged, figuring laying down the law to her could wait a little while longer. At least until he had part of his appetite sated. “Unless there’s not enough?”