Chapter Eight

A my tied her apron around her waist and set to work in the warm kitchen. The scent of roasting chicken filled the small homestead, a comforting aroma that spoke of family gatherings and quiet afternoons. With practiced hands, she rolled out pastry dough for the blackberry pies, her thoughts drifting to the Daileys' kindness.

"George, Beatrice," she called over her shoulder, "I need you two to keep an eye on the little ones tonight."

George leaned against the kitchen doorframe. "We'll manage," he said.

Beatrice nodded, though her lips were a thin line of reluctance. "Of course," she replied.

Tim ambled into the kitchen, his hat in hand. He ruffled George's hair, earning a scowl from the boy. "Now, I expect you both to do your share. No roughhousing inside the house." His voice was firm but gentle.

Amy slid the first pie into the oven and then turned to face the children, her expression earnest. "And no fussing," she added, looking directly at Beatrice, who held her chin up defiantly.

"Supper's on the stove," Amy continued. "Make sure everyone eats together."

"Can we have pie too?" one of the younger ones piped up from behind Beatrice, eyes wide with hope.

"Only if there's some left when we get back," Tim answered with a chuckle, winking at Amy.

Amy shook her head. "I made three. One for here and two to take with us. We're trusting you two. We'll be back after supper at the Daileys'."

"Go on, then," George urged. "We won't burn the place down."

"Or each other," Beatrice muttered under her breath, but a ghost of a smile flickered across her face.

"Thank you," Amy said. She placed the other pies in the oven and glanced at Tim. Oh, how she hoped that the Daileys would have good advice for dealing with Beatrice.

Amy and Tim approached the Dailey homestead, the lingering guilt in Amy's heart warring with a flutter of anticipation. Tim reached for her hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze, his gaze softening as they neared the porch where Susan stood waiting, an embodiment of hospitality.

"Welcome!" Susan opened the door wide and invited Amy and Tim inside. "We're glad to have you both."

"Thank you for having us," Amy replied. "It's nice to get out, just the two of us."

"Come on in," Susan said, ushering them into the parlor with a motherly touch. "I remember what it's like, needing a bit of grown-up time." She laughed softly, settling Amy onto a plush settee. "When I married David, his little ones were simply other versions of the siblings I'd left behind in Massachusetts, and those siblings are the main reason I left."

"Your siblings are legendary with their pranks." Amy said.

Susan shook her head. "Not in a good way at all, though. So here's what I think I would do with a sullen teenage girl."

Amy listened intently, feeling a bond form as Susan shared her story, the kind that only women who've walked similar paths could understand.

Meanwhile, David's chuckle floated from the adjoining room, where he and Tim had begun to converse. "So, Tim," David's voice was as relaxed as his posture against the mantle, "how's ranching treating you?"

"Better now with summer," Tim admitted, his own tension easing under the spell of David's easy nature. "And your horses? How's that new stallion faring?"

"Strong-willed like I've never seen," David confessed, "but there's no better feeling than when you finally reach an understanding with horses like him."

Amy could hear the men sharing a hearty laugh, and she smiled to herself, grateful for this unexpected kinship blooming between their families. As Susan continued to recount her early days of marriage, offering wisdom wrapped in kindness, Amy felt the last threads of unease slip away, replaced by a growing sense of camaraderie and hope for the future.

Amy perched on the edge of the settee, her hands clasped in her lap, while Susan's laughter filled the parlor. The scent of blackberry pie lingered, a sweet reminder of Amy's gratitude for this visit.

"Thank you so much for the pies," Susan said. "My kids will have them gone by breakfast."

Amy chuckled. "I just hope they taste as good as they smell."

"Trust me, with hands like yours? They're divine," Susan assured her. "From what I heard from Elizabeth, your pies are nothing less than culinary masterpieces."

From the other room, David's hearty guffaw punctuated the conversation. "Tim, you ever seen a stallion try to court a mare? I think that stallion of mine's got ideas above his station!"

"Sounds like quite the spectacle!" Tim's voice carried a lightheartedness Amy had never heard from him.

Susan leaned forward, her eyes locking onto Amy's with an understanding that bridged the space between them. "Blending a family is like kneading dough. You push and fold, and sometimes you swear it won't come together. But then, it does. Becomes something stronger. And it's all right if it's messy at first. Mine started as just his, and then we had some of ours. None of them think of themselves as half-siblings though. They're all just brothers and sisters. Of course, one of my stepsons married one of my sisters, so that wasn't exactly normal."

"Alice was telling us that!" Amy said, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards.

"I didn't even recognize her because she was so little when I left Massachusetts, and we haven't made a trip back."

Amy watched Susan as the woman shared a funny story about her siblings. Across the room, Tim leaned against the mantelpiece, hat in hand, nodding as David shared another one of his ranch anecdotes.

"Beatrice is...she's been a challenge," Amy admitted. "She misses her mother something fierce, and I think she sees me as the enemy. I've tried to tell her that I'm not there to take her mother's place, but she doesn't seem to believe me."

Susan's brow furrowed with empathy. "Girls at that age can be thorny, like rose bushes. But even roses need tending to bloom."

"Thorny is one word for it," Amy said.

"David and I, we've been through our share of troubles," Susan continued. "When it comes to young ladies, you've got to find that spot between firm ground and gentle rain."

"Sounds easier said than done," Amy replied, her gaze drifting to Tim.

"Perhaps," Susan agreed. "Give Beatrice time. Listen more than you speak. And when you do speak, let it be with kindness—even when it feels like pouring sugar on a cactus."

"I feel like I already do that, but I'll try a little harder. Beatrice really needs dresses that don't make her look like a little girl. Maybe we can sew a few dresses together, and that will help her warm up to me," Amy said.

"Trust me, Amy," Susan added. "In time, she'll see your heart. And if you ever need to talk or just escape for a spell, our door's always open."

"Thank you," Amy said, her voice steady for the first time that evening. "Both of you."

"Family isn't just blood," Susan said, her eyes sparkling with sincerity. "It's the people who stand by you, come what may."

Amy folded her hands together, warmth blossoming in her chest as she glanced over at Susan. "I can't tell you how much this means to us," she said.

Susan waved off the thanks with a chuckle. "Oh, hush now. What are neighbors for? Besides, I think we all need each other."

Timothy nodded from across the room, where he leaned against the mantle. "I must admit, I've learned more about horses and family in one evening than I have in years. Thank you, David."

"Shoot, Tim," David replied with a wry grin. "You'll be outdoing me on the ranch before long. Just remember, it's all about balance—whether you're breaking a stallion or raising a family."

"Balance and patience," Amy mused aloud. "Sounds like the recipe for a happy home."

"Exactly," Susan agreed. "And don't forget a dollop of love. It covers a multitude of sins."

"Speaking of love," David chimed in, "I do believe that's what got us all sitting here tonight, isn't it? Love for our families and the land we call home."

"True enough," Timothy said, nodding. "It's good to find friends who become like family."

"And I have a feeling we're going to be exactly that to each other!" David raised his glass, and the others followed suit.

Later, Susan set down her empty teacup with a soft clink. "Amy, your blackberry pie tonight was divine. I must know your secret."

"Ah, it's in the berries," Amy replied, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Picked fresh this afternoon with the two sweetest little helpers in the world—Ruby and Priscilla." She leaned closer, as if to share a treasured secret. "And a spoonful of honey in the crust—works wonders."

"Really?" Susan asked. "I've never tried that. My pies are good, but yours..." She shook her head in appreciation. "They're something special."

"Thank you. But I'm certain your pies are just as good," Amy said. "Besides, when you bake with love, you can taste it in every bite."

"Maybe that's what I need to focus on—baking with an extra dash of love."

As they stood, Amy helped clear the small table of their teacups, feeling a sense of comfort in the domestic ritual. The evening had helped her to understand there was no true right way to deal with the situation. But it had to be handled with both patience and love.

"Let's get you home before the stars claim the night," Susan suggested, guiding Amy toward the front door where Tim stood waiting, hat in hand.

"Thank you for everything, Susan. For the advice...and for listening." Amy's voice carried the weight of her gratitude.

"Anytime, dear," Susan assured her. "Remember, we're just a stone's throw away."

Tim offered his arm to Amy, and together they stepped out into the cool embrace of the Texas night. The sky, a vast expanse of velvet dotted with twinkling stars, seemed to echo the boundless opportunities before them.

"Beatrice may be a tough nut to crack," Tim said quietly, "but we'll find a way to her heart."

"Like Susan said, ‘Love and patience'," Amy mused, her resolve hardening.

"Sounds like a plan," Tim agreed, his demeanor hopeful under the moon's gentle glow. "We'll reach her, one way or another."