Page 30 of Claimed By the Cowboys
“I work on the ranch every day,” he replied gruffly.
I cocked an eyebrow. “Sometimes you work in the office.”
“We making pancakes!” Maisie declared, showing him the bowl she was stirring.
“They look great,” he said, his voice softer.
“There’s plenty, so take what you want—there’s even some takeout containers if you need to grab food and go,” I said,pointing to the deli containers I had stacked on the edge of the island. I was determined to be prepared for anything this man could throw at me.
He nodded. “Good, I have to rush into town to sort out our feed order.” He turned to Maisie. “Be good for Piper, okay?”
“I will!” she proclaimed enthusiastically.
Clayton kissed her goodbye and grabbed his food before rushing out the door, leaving us alone again.
“So, what do you want to do today? We can bake some cookies!” I suggested with a grin.
Her eyes widened. “Cookies!” she declared excitedly.
I resisted the urge to chuckle.
Cookies were always a winner.
“More chippies?” Maisie asked sweetly as she clutched the bag of chocolate chips.
“I think that’s plenty, otherwise the cookies won’t bake,” I explained gently.
I understood her reasoning. The chocolate chips were the best part of the cookie, but sadly, there was only so much the dough could take before the structural integrity of the cookie would be impacted.
Scooping and mixing were easily her favorite parts of the process. More dough covered the countertops than got on the baking sheet, but that was part of the fun. Maisie was just figuring things out, and mistakes were one of the best ways to learn.
Together, we slowly counted each scoop as we put it on the baking sheet, helping her learn her numbers. She could count to seven pretty well, but after that, it became somewhat jumbled.Even though we were just baking cookies, I made a mental note to work on counting with her in the future.
Waiting for the cookies to cool down was a test of her patience, for sure.
“Why don’t you go ahead and do some of your coloring, and I will get the rest of the cookies out of the oven and cool them down for you?” I suggested. “As soon as they're ready, I will bring you one.”
An adorable little frown marred her face, but she ultimately decided that my proposition was acceptable and toddled off to the adjoining playroom, where I could still see her, but I could also work on cleaning up the mess.
Maisie was down for a nap, and the kitchen was almost entirely clean when the scent of fresh rain caught me off guard. It had to be one of the twins, but I couldn’t tell which one just yet without him getting a little closer. Looking at him quickly, I might have been tempted to call, “Hey, Dakota!” on account of the worn T-shirt and distressed jeans.
Upon closer inspection, however, I saw the hair, carefully styled tolooklike bedhead, rather than Dakota’s constantly wild mop, a well-loved leather belt with a modest brass buckle through the waist of the jeans, and a pair of buckskin moccasin slippers instead of Dakota’s constantly bare feet.
If I had any doubts that the twin in question was the responsible, tidy, resident control freak Montana, the moment he got within an arm’s length of me, I could smell that subtle sweet grass scent under the fresh smell of rain. Though their scents were incredibly similar, anyone who cared to noticewould know Montana had a note of sweet green grass to his scent, while his twin had a cool mineral earth finish.
Yes, they were identical twins, but having lived around them for a few weeks now, I found it pretty easy to identify their differences. They held themselves differently; they had different vibes, different moods, different wardrobe choices.
“Hey there, Montana!” I finally greeted him as he made his way around the kitchen island as if to stand beside me.
He stilled. For a moment, the alpha simply stared at me like he was trying to figure me out. “I’m Dakota,” he said slowly, like he was talking to an idiot.
Hands on my hips, I glowered at him. “I wasn't born yesterday. I can tell that it's you, Montana.”
“There's no way you can tell us apart. We’re identical!” He emphasized the last word.
“You are nowhere near as identical as you think.”
“Oh, yeah?” he challenged, crossing his arms over his chest. “What makes you say I’m Montana?”
