Page 4 of Tempting the Single Dad
"Need help?"
Her voice startles me, and I nearly lose my footing on the ladder. I turn to find her standing in the wide barn doorway, silhouetted against the golden afternoon.
"I thought you were with Diana," I say, climbing down.
"She's gathering her art supplies from her room. Said she needs her special markers for pumpkin design planning." Miranda steps into the barn, running her hand along a weathered post. "I hope it's okay that I came looking for you. Diana said you might need help with the horses."
"Well, Butterscotch and Maple do get cranky if they're fed late."
"Butterscotch and Maple? Please tell me you have another one named Pumpkin Spice to complete the fall theme."
"His name is Thunder, actually," I say with mock seriousness. "He refused the rebrand."
Her laugh echoes in the rafters, and something loosens in my chest. I hand her a small bucket of oats. "Want to do the honors? Butterscotch is the palomino. She's gentle, but she'll nudge you for extras."
Miranda approaches the stall cautiously, and Butterscotch immediately sticks her golden head over the gate, nostrils flaring.
"Hello, beautiful," Miranda murmurs, offering the bucket. As the horse dips her muzzle to eat, Miranda glances at me. "I didn't grow up around animals. My apartment in Boston barely allowed houseplants."
"You're a natural," I say, loading Maple's feed bucket with grain. "Butterscotch is picky about strangers."
"So," I begin, leaning against the stall door, "what made a Boston pediatrician choose Whitetail Falls?"
Something crosses her face, a shadow quickly replaced by a small smile. "Would you believe a dart thrown at a map?"
"Not for a second."
She sighs, running her fingers through Butterscotch's mane. "Burnout. Three years in pediatric emergency medicine will do that to you. Too many kids I couldn't save, too many nights wondering if I was making any difference at all." She looks up, her expression vulnerable. "My mentor suggested this posting.Said I needed to remember why I became a doctor in the first place."
The honesty in her voice catches me off guard. "And have you? Remembered?"
"Diana's smile yesterday was a good reminder," she says softly.
Something warm spreads through my chest. Before I can respond, a stack of hay bales I'd balanced precariously shifts and topples, sending golden straws flying everywhere. Miranda jumps back with a startled laugh, but not before getting showered in hay.
"Oh god," I groan, reaching out to pluck a piece from her hair. "I swear I'm usually more coordinated."
"Really? Because that's not what Diana tells me." Her eyes dance with mischief. "Something about you falling into the duck pond last spring?"
"Betrayed by my own flesh and blood," I mutter, my fingers lingering in her hair longer than necessary. The hay has nestled there like it belongs, and suddenly I'm extremely aware of how close we're standing, close enough that I can see the faint freckles dusting her nose, and smell the cinnamon scent on her skin.
Miranda doesn't step back. Instead, she reaches up to brush hay from my shoulder, her touch light but electric. "Hazards of farm life?"
"Something like that," I manage, my voice rougher than intended.
A shout from outside breaks the moment. "Dad! Miranda! I found my markers!"
The next hour passes in a blur of pumpkin guts and laughter. We set up at the big wooden table on the back porch that overlooks the western fields, where the sun is beginning its descent behind the mountains. Diana meticulously sketches her design while Miranda and I tackle larger pumpkins.
"This is harder than I remember," Miranda admits, frowning at her wobbly attempt at a traditional jack-o'-lantern. A smudge of pumpkin pulp marks her cheek, and I resist the urge to wipe it away.
"Here," I say instead, moving to stand behind her. "If you hold the knife like this—" I cover her hand with mine, guiding the carving tool. Her body tenses slightly, then relaxes against me. The warmth of her back against my chest makes it hard to focus on pumpkin carving techniques.
"Like this?" she asks, her voice slightly breathless.
"Perfect," I murmur, reluctantly stepping away before I do something foolish like bury my face in her hair.
Diana watches us with an expression too knowing for an eight-year-old. "Miranda, do you want to see my drawings after we finish? I made one of Mom and Grandma for Day of the Dead."
