An Old-Fashioned Love
Arlene James
EVERYDAY MIRACLESTRIPLE TROUBLE!From the start, Wyatt Gilley and his redheaded sons turned Traci Temple's peaceful world upside down.The twins were mischievous, but reformable. Their father was charming–and dangerous.The handsome single dad needed a woman's touch in his life. And Traci longed to bring the light of love and faith back to Wyatt's home.But when Wyatt insisted he'd never marry again, Traci didn't know where to turn. Had she lost her heart to a man she could never call her own?Everyday Miracles: Each day brings new tests for the young Reverend Charles and his congregation. But with faith, they find miracles everywhere!Welcome to Love Inspired™–stories that will lift your spirits and gladden your heart. Meet men and women facing the challenges of today's world and learning important lessons about life, faith and love.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u06063bfd-06e4-5e2e-9118-a0e76cd0fc84)
Excerpt (#u5523bbf3-d496-5604-8af0-8ab87f447456)
About the Author (#udae6ce6c-0ba1-5b21-81c2-71bca5bf38cd)
Title Page (#u5c747d73-7662-5af5-8ec8-11ace3207a4e)
Epigraph (#u262cbbd1-ff22-5d5f-971e-e4642f2eb70d)
Chapter One (#ue8bd3671-7906-5f4a-bf12-54e90c1d982d)
Chapter Two (#ufe5e1c32-7c1c-54f5-a50b-5614c1a88541)
Chapter Three (#u485ee58a-e425-5d22-b237-a9bccfaf4bdc)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Preview (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“The boys miss their mother,” Wyatt told her. “It’s that feminine perspective. Kids need that softness, that gentleness, that…comfort.”
He slid a little closer to Traci. “The twins just don’t have anyone like that anymore. I’ve no family to speak of.”
“Are you an only child?” she asked.
He sighed. “That’s me. The lone wolf.”
Wolf was right, Traci mused. Feminine perspective, indeed. She would like to give him a new slant on the feminine perspective—if only being close to him didn’t do such odd things to her.
Traci stood and moved to the window, as if freshly concerned about the storm, which she had somehow all but forgotten. No sooner was she on her feet, however, when the allclear siren blew. She whirled, giving Wyatt a relieved look—and caught him staring at her. He flashed her an innocent grin.
“Guess those prayers of yours worked,” he said, smiling brightly.
Traci pursed her lips to cover her surprise. “Prayers usually do.” And noted that her reply made his smile fade.
ARLENE JAMES
“Camp meetings, mission work, and the church where my parents and grandparents were prominent members permeate my Oklahoma childhood memories. It was a golden time which sustains me yet. However, only as a young, widowed mother did I truly begin growing in my personal relationship with the Lord. Through adversity, He blessed me in countless ways, one of which is a second marriage so loving and romantic, it still feels like courtship!”
The author of over forty novels, Arlene James now resides outside of Dallas, Texas, with her husband. As she sends her youngest child off to college, Arlene says, “The rewards of motherhood have indeed been extraordinary for me. Yet I’ve looked forward to this new stage of my life.” Her need to write is greater than ever, a fact that frankly amazes her as she’s been at it since the eighth grade!
An Old-Fashioned Love
Arlene James
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
“The just man walketh in his integrity: his children are blessed after him.”
—Proverbs 20:7
Chapter One (#ulink_e8e0e6ff-2919-5aa3-92ee-9aaed69142a8)
Wyatt clutched the paper in his fist and shook it at his two sons, each in turn.
“All right, now let’s have the truth.” Neither expression changed by so much as a glimmer. He took a deep breath and targeted the oldest twin. “Rex, what do you have to say about this?”
Freckled lids drooped over ice blue eyes, and one brow lifted sardonically. “She’s nuts.”
“Nuts enough to sue us for something that didn’t happen?” Wyatt demanded.
Rex hunched a small shoulder forward then back. “Guess so.”
Wyatt mentally shook his head, a feeling of cold dread settling in the pit of his belly like a lead weight. Perhaps this Miss Traci Temple was mistaken, but nuts? He pictured the woman in his mind. Small, spirited and fetching, with wheat blond hair and bright flashing green eyes, she had firmly but succinctly stated her case. “My building materials have been disappearing, and those two redheads have been seen around my shop a number of times.” He had told her, of course, that being seen near the scene of the crime did not prove they were thieves, and their careful denials and innocent, freckled faces had convinced him that he was right. But Traci Temple had just looked at him with implacable green eyes that had threatened to steal his breath away and informed him that he had not heard the last of this.
He clutched the paper tightly enough to permanently crease it. The attractive Miss Temple had been right about that, and he had the awful feeling she was right about his sons’ thievery, as well.
Automatically the old military bearing took hold. He straightened his spine, shoulders back, stomach in, buttocks tightened. Deftly he pivoted toward the younger son, younger by some six minutes. Rex was the dominant one, the stronger one. Hard as nails, he never gave in unless defeat was certain. Max was gentler, softer, more the little boy and less the tenyear-old tyrant. Wyatt shifted his eyes and glared down his long, noble nose at Max, and Max gulped.
“The truth now, boy,” he said sternly, and pale blue eyes slid toward identical pale blue eyes. “Don’t look at your brother!” Wyatt barked. “Look at me!” Guilty eyes zipped back to his face. Wyatt brought his hands to his waist and leaned forward slightly, well aware that he was frightening the boy. He hated to do it, had hated doing it ever since the night that Rex had belligerently informed him that they were his sons, not his recruits, but what other choice did he have? Mentally, he steeled himself against the emotion of regret. He was their father. Fathers, no matter how deficient, sometimes had to take the tough stance. He schooled his voice into that of the commanding officer—cool, efficient, selfconfident in the extreme. “Permission to speak, mister. Now!”
True to form, Max spilled his guts. “We thought it was junk! Honest!”
Rex grunted accusingly and folded his arms, but Wyatt ignored him and clapped a hand onto his head, as if to keep the top from blowing off. “You took what?” he demanded, working it out in his mind. “Boards? Lumber? A pile of lumber?”
Max’s chin wobbled, and tears welled up. “Y-yes, sir.”
Wyatt let his hands fall away from his head, his mouth dropping open at the same time. He split an enraged look between them. “Have you ever heard the word theft?” he bawled. They both jumped, but he was beyond pity. “Let me get this straight! You stole a pile of lumber from the old ice-cream shop, cut it up and somehow fashioned it into that wreck out there in the backyard that you call a clubhouse! Have I got this right?” He blared the question at Rex and was actually surprised but not necessarily pleased to see that boy recoil before stiffening and licking his lips.
“Yes.”
No groveling “sir” for Rex. Wyatt had to admire the boy’s spirit. On the other hand, Rex lacked Max’s sensitivity. It struck him again how very different his twins were. Wyatt pulled his mind back to the matter at hand. He had no doubt who was the mastermind of this little caper, and it was time the mastermind faced the consequences of his actions. Wyatt made a show of glancing at the paper in his hand, though in truth every word was already printed indelibly on his mind. Then he very deliberately drew himself up, stretching his six-foot frame another couple of inches.
“That covers the theft,” he said smartly. Then he slowly leaned forward. “Now we come to the vandalism.” That last he said with his face shoved up right next to the boy’s, scant room for an eyelash between the ends of their noses. “What does it mean, Rex?” Was it merely his perspective, or did the boy’s eyes widen?
“I…don’t know.”
“Rex!”
“Unless it was the doorknob.”
Wyatt pulled back, blinking, puzzlement overshadowing meager satisfaction. “Doorknob? What about a doorknob?”
Rex got a pugnacious look on his face, but he answered nonetheless. “It was just junk, anyway. That’s why it broke when we tried to get it off.”
Wyatt rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “You were trying to steal the blasted doorknob and it broke?” It was as much exclamation as question.
Rex pushed his chin to his chest, fuming. “It was junk! That place was abandoned a long time ago. Nobody steals junk. We were just going to use it!”
“And destroyed it in the process! Of all the ignorant, idiotic—” Wyatt forced himself to stop and count, clenching his jaw. He got well past ten before he could trust himself to go on, and even then he required the fortification of a deep breath. “All right,” he said, “so you broke the doorknob. Anything else?”
Rex lifted his head, resignation showing in the dullness of his eyes and the stern line of his mouth. “We pulmm-um some floorboards,” he mumbled.
“What? Speak up!”
The boy fixed him with a hard glare. “We pulled up some floorboards!”
Wyatt balled his hands into fists, completely forgetting the paper he crumpled in the process. “Pulled up…You actually pried up the boards from the floor of that old ice-cream shop?” He threw up his arms. “What? No spray painting? No broken windows?”
“Two,” Max said quietly, causing his father to whirl in his direction.
“But the first was an accident!” Rex defended.
Wyatt whirled back, too dismayed to check himself, only to hear Max give the final explanation.
“We did it trying to take down that thing over the window.”
Wyatt spun again. “What thing?” he barked.
Max’s chin was wobbling, and his eyes brimmed with tears. “Th-tha blue-and-white-striped thing. W-we thought it would make a good h-hammock.”
Wyatt’s jaw descended slowly. “An awning. You tried to steal an awning and broke the window in the process. For pity’s sake! We’re talking delinquent activity here—criminal activity.”
“Wh-what does that mean?” Max asked.
“It means we have to go to court, stupid,” Rex answered harshly, and it was this that fixed Wyatt’s mind.
He struck the pose of lieutenant colonel again, quite unconsciously. “That’s right,” he said. “We are indeed going to court, and when we get there you two miscreants are going to confess everything, and I do mean everything.”
“Will they p-put us in jail?” Max wailed, causing Rex to grimace with disgust.
“They don’t send kids to jail,” he said. “Do they?”
“They do,” Wyatt replied firmly, “but not in this case. Miss Temple, bless her, has filed a civil suit instead of making a complaint to the police. But don’t think you’re going to get off easy. This little escapade is going to cost me a pretty penny, thank you very much, which means I’m suspending your allowances from now until the end of the summer.”
“The whole summer!” Rex exclaimed.
“That’s right, the whole summer. And in addition you’re grounded until the court date, which is late next week. That means you go to school, you come home and you go to your rooms. No TV. No video games. No comic books. No telephone. And that isn’t the end of it, not by a long shot! But first, get out there and knock down that damned clubhouse! I want every board down, every nail pulled and the lumber stacked in piles according to length. After that, you can straighten this place up. This living room looks like a trash can, and I’m sick of it! The rest will come later, and you can just stew about it until then. Now have I made myself plain, misters?”
“Yes, sir!” Max snapped, but Rex merely flipped him a weak salute.
Wyatt glared at him and lifted a shaking finger. “Go. Now. Before I decide to take my belt to you!”
Both turned and walked away, Max with tense, hurried steps, Rex shuffling side to side with every show of reluctance. Wyatt closed his eyes and gritted his teeth to keep from shouting at them again. It was less than they deserved, blast them, but he knew what they were thinking, what they had always thought. They were thinking that he didn’t love them, didn’t want them. What else could they think after he had neglected them so long, seen them so little? Damn him, and damn Marie, for having brought them to this. He and his ex-wife were too selfish to be parents, and he blamed her no more than he blamed himself.
She might have abandoned the boys nearly a year ago to run back home to her beloved France, but that was no more than he’d done when they were barely six and Marie had issued her ultimatum. She had vowed to divorce him if he reenlisted, but he had signed on that dotted line, nonetheless, seeing it as a way to end the arguments and accusations. If he was dealing with the aftermath of that decision now, then so be it. It was probably less than he deserved, after all. And he did love them. Would his failures rankle so deeply if he didn’t?
Traci smoothed the skirt of her dress, a simple sleeveless sheath with a boat neck, belted at the waist beneath a long, loose jacket. The fabric was white cotton, covered with tiny red embroidered flowers. Her navy shoes had substantial heels; to her mind, flats simply did not work with shorter skirts. To accessorize the outfit, she wore a necklace of heavy red beads strung between links of a wide gold chain and matching drop earrings. Her hair had been swept up into a thick roll from which a few stray curls escaped. The overall effect was both businesslike and emphatically feminine. It was a look she had skillfully and successfully cultivated during her four years as a legal secretary, years that had served her well, but years she would not care to repeat, owing to the workload, long hours, pressure and intensity, not to mention the less-than-overwhelming financial compensation.
Those years had served her well, however, because she had learned a good deal about legally protecting herself and the best ways of seeking redress through the court system, which accounted in part for her decision to sue retired Lieutenant Colonel Wyatt Gilley in small claims court. True, her compensation for damages would be limited to fifteen hundred dollars, but the filing fee was less than forty bucks, the papers were easy to fill out, no attorney need be involved, and her chances of collecting were as good as in any other court, which was to say not really very good at all.
Indeed, given his attitude the two times she had attempted to talk to him about the situation, she did not even expect Wyatt Gilley to show up for the hearing. He just didn’t seem inclined to take her losses seriously. Clearly those two redheaded urchins had him thoroughly bamboozled, but it didn’t matter. A judge was bound to be more objective. In addition to her own eyewitness account, Traci had come armed with notarized statements from those individuals who had actually seen the little vandals carting off her building materials. She, therefore, had scant doubt that the judgment would be in her favor.
What she doubted was her ability to collect a cent in damages, for Gilley would undoubtedly cry poverty, though he was known to own several rental properties and operate a small carpentry business, and of course there was his Army retirement pay. What, she wondered, did lieutenant colonels pull down by way of retirement pay? One thing was certain, it had to beat her grandmother’s monthly Social Security check. Nevertheless, she was not likely to collect unless he one day sold property within the county, and only then would she be able to attack his income if she filed the judgment with the county clerk, which she most certainly would do.
Still and all, she knew she was going through all this primarily as a matter of principle. Well, so be it. With the help of her charming friend, the Reverend Bolton Charles, she had placed the matter in more capable hands than her own. This, then, was an exercise in faith, if nothing else.
Crossing her slender legs, she tugged at her skirt to be sure that it covered her adequately and settled back on the uncomfortable bench to wait until the bailiff called her into the courtroom. A quarter hour passed, then twenty minutes, before the door swung open on the chamber where the special district judge was holding court. Almost simultaneously, the red indicator light above the elevator lit up, and suddenly passengers were spilling out into the waiting area. To Traci’s surprise, she spied two redheads and a closely shorn, blond-haired man among them. Well, well. Those two little gangsters must be consummate performers to convince their father that their protests of innocence would hold up in court. She dropped her gaze to her hands, a sense of impending satisfaction causing the corners of her mouth to quirk up. She told herself that she must not gloat. It was no pleasant thing to have one’s confidence in one’s children destroyed, particularly when the moment of reckoning took place in public. That thought caused an intense stab of pity for retired Lieutenant Colonel Gilley, and unthinkingly she lifted her gaze in his direction. To her utter shock, Wyatt Gilley seemed to be waiting for her attention to return to him, and once it did, he offered her what could only be called a timid, apologetic smile.
She was given no time to consider that unexpected turn of events, for at that precise instant the bailiff opened his mouth and called out several names, hers among them. Abruptly Traci stood and fell in behind others making their way into the courtroom, being certain she had her pocketbook and file folder in hand. She was acutely aware of the Gilleys standing together just outside the door and avoided them by simply staring straight ahead. Keeping her chin up, she strode confidently down the center aisle of the room and slipped into a seat near the front, where she relaxed again. Confrontation averted, or so she thought, until she felt a slight nudge against her knee and looked up to find Wyatt Gilley, twins in tow, looking down at her.
“May we?” he asked softly, indicating with a nod of his head the vacant space on the bench between Traci and an elderly couple at the opposite end.
Traci felt the impact of those brilliant blue eyes all the way to her toes. Why hadn’t she noticed before how absolutely breathtaking they were, shining out of that leanly sculpted, tan face from beneath lashes and brows so blond as to be almost white? For some reason, she felt instantly panicked. Would those eyes lie? Would any judge doubt the word of the man behind them? The next moment, reason prevailed and relief shot through her. This case did not turn on the veracity of the man towering over her, but on the denials of a pair of obvious mischief makers and eyewitness testimony. She smiled at her own absurdity and was shocked once more by Gilley’s thousand-watt answering gleam of perfect white teeth. Reflexively she dropped her head, an action which Gilley seemed to take for assent.
“Thanks,” he whispered, and slipped by her. Whereupon his insensitive sons trampled her feet in following him. Taking the seat next to her, Gilley prodded the boys past him and glowered them into stillness at his side.
Almost at once the bailiff called for order and instructed all to rise. The judge swept into the room in a swirl of robes and seated herself on a raised chair behind a tall, featureless desk built of pale wood. The bailiff called out a case number and two names. Four people got up and walked through a low, swinging gate to two lecterns standing equidistant from the bench. The judge, an attractive woman in late middle age, read off the particulars of the case, none of which Traci heard because of Wyatt Gilley’s shoulder. With his arms crossed over his wide chest, one hard shoulder pressed against her own.
Traci could feel the warmth of that shoulder through the layers of his shirtsleeve and her jacket and dress. Moreover, she could see from the corner of her eye the strong, callused hand that rested a mere inch or two from her arm. Its palm was wide, its fingers long and blunt, its back smooth and tan, and it unnerved her as nothing else ever had. For long, seemingly endless minutes, Traci could think of nothing, hear nothing, see nothing, feel aware of nothing but the man sitting next to her and the shoulder pressing against her own. Then, suddenly, his hand stretched out and gently tapped her forearm. Traci nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Miss Temple.” The voice, though soft, came to her over the roar in her left ear, and she impulsively turned her head in that direction, only to come nose to nose with her opponent. To her utter dismay and extreme excitement, his handsome head with its short, thick brush of pale blond hair bent toward her. “It’s our turn,” he whispered, each word carefully enunciated.
Turn. Court. Sudden realization galvanized her. She sprang to her feet and out into the aisle in one sharp, jerky movement, purse and file folder clutched to her sides. What was she doing? What was she thinking? What had she done? Not a single answer formed in her mind, but Wyatt Gilley and his wayward sons were getting to their feet and turning toward her, which was enough to drive her through the gate in the short partition that separated spectator seating from the court of law. By the time she reached the lectern, she had herself well under control again, and all her bodily functions, both mental and physical, seemed to be working properly, which was not to say that she wasn’t still shaken. She was relieved to find, however, that she could put the questions circulating through her thoughts out of mind long enough to concentrate on the matter at hand. So doing, she cleared her throat and opened the file folder before her, turning her attention to the judge, who stared at her over the tops of clear-framed reading glasses.
“You contend, Miss Temple, that the defendant, Lieutenant Colonel Wyatt Gilley, retired, owes you the maximum damages allowed in this court due to the theft and destruction of your property by his sons, Paul Rex and Phillip Max, both juveniles ten years of age. Is that correct?”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“And what evidence have you to uphold this contention, Miss Temple?”
“My own eyewitness account and three other signed statements, duly notarized, Your Honor.”
“I see. Lieutenant Colonel Gilley, what have you and your sons to say to Miss Temple’s suit?”
Wyatt Gilley linked his hands together before him and spread his legs comfortably wide. “Nothing, Your Honor,” he said evenly. “Er, that is, we admit full responsibility.”
Traci gasped, her mouth falling open, and the judge sent her a mildly censorious look over the tops of her glasses before turning her attention back to Wyatt Gilley and the two scamps flanking him with heads bowed.
“Am I to understand, sir, that your youngsters admit their guilt in the matters charged by Miss Temple?”
“Yes, they do, Your Honor.”
“And as their father and legal guardian, you, therefore, accept financial responsibility for their actions?”
“I do.”
The judge removed her glasses and folded her arms over the top of the desk, splitting a stern look between the two boys. For a long moment she said nothing, and then she sat back. “You’re very fortunate boys,” she said. “Which is which? I like to know whom I’m talking to and you’re as alike as peas in a pod.”
It was Max who spoke up, but not to identify himself. “He’s Rex,” he said, leaning forward to point past his father to his twin.
The judge lifted her chin, her facial expression carefully closed. “That means you are called Max, I gather.”
The boy nodded. His father nudged him, and he spoke up. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, Max, as I was saying, you are very fortunate boys because Miss Temple could have chosen to file criminal charges against you, in which case you would have been remanded to incarceration as juvenile offenders. Do you know what incarceration means, Max?”
The boy shook his head, realized he must respond audibly and said, “No.”
“I do,” Rex piped up, and the judge looked down her slender nose at him.
“Do you now? Then suppose you tell me.”
“It means jail,” he replied tonelessly.
The judge nodded. “So it does, or more precisely, confinement. In other words, Max, Rex, Miss Temple could have had you taken into custody, separated from your parents and guarded by specially trained officers until such a time as the court could decide your guilt and investigate the suitability of your home to be certain that you two are getting the proper guidance from your parents. Any number of things could have happened after that, depending upon whether or not the charges against you were proven correct—and by your own admission, they are. You could even have been removed from the care of your parents, should they have been found negligent in the responsibilities toward you. I am persuaded, however, by your father’s behavior here today—and yours—that such is not the case. Nevertheless, you are fortunate, for the processes involved in making those determinations under court order are sometimes grueling, and Miss Temple has spared you that. I hope you are appropriately grateful.”
“If they are not, Your Honor,” Wyatt Gilley said, his electric gaze sliding to Traci, “I certainly am.”
Traci had to look away, her upper teeth clamping down on her lower lip. She felt as though a butterfly was fluttering its wings madly in the center of her chest and wished fervently that Wyatt Gilley wasn’t so dashingly good-looking. No doubt he would make a stirring sight in uniform. Certainly the uniform was all that was lacking in the picture he presented, for his bearing, his manner, even his haircut, clearly proclaimed his association with the military.
Why she suddenly found that so attractive was beyond her. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he was no longer denying his responsibilities both to her and to his sons. And perhaps…perhaps it had to do with that smile he had given her out there in the antechamber. On the other hand, maybe she’d gotten a knock on the head that she simply couldn’t remember right now or some strange virus had upset the chemical balance of her body. Or maybe her grandmother was going to wake her shortly from a very strange, very disturbing, but not altogether unpleasant dream. She shook her head, amazed at not only her reactions to this man but to her obvious flights of fancy concerning those reactions.
“I take it you disbelieve the sincerity of the lieutenant colonel’s expression of gratitude, Miss Temple?” the judge asked.
“Oh, no, Your Honor,” Traci quickly replied. “I-I’m quite satisfied that he is sincere. I’m simply surprised.”
“I gathered that much.” The judge sat forward again. “Well, we’ve taken up enough of the court’s time with this matter. My judgment is obvious. Therefore, I state for the record that I find for the plaintiff. She is awarded the maximum monetary damages allowed by law, which is fifteen hundred dollars, plus court costs.”
But Wyatt Gilley had one more surprise up his sleeve. “If Your Honor pleases,” he said, begging permission to speak once again.
The jurist nodded. “You have something else to say, sir?”
“I fear, Your Honor, that fifteen hundred dollars will not fully recompense Miss Temple for her losses, and I want it known now that I’m willing to make full restitution, as I should. But it also occurs to me that the chief culprits in this incident are getting off rather lightly, and I’m not at all certain that is in their best interests.” As he spoke, he looked down to his left and then to his right. Both boys had turned wide, fearful eyes up at him. He went on. “That being the case, Your Honor, I would like to propose that my sons be required to offer their services to Miss Temple after school and on weekends in any capacity she deems helpful until her ice-cream shop is ready to be reopened. If Rex and Max could help repair the damage they’ve caused, I think it might give them a better understanding of the seriousness of what they’ve done, and they just might think twice before taking someone else’s junk’ again.”
Traci was struck dumb. Not so the judge, who nodded sagely and commended the defendant for seeking to fulfill so well his parental duties. “I agree with you, sir,” she said. “Unfortunately it is not within the jurisdiction of this court to order such action. I do not see a problem, though, with you enforcing such an arrangement on your own authority, provided the children are not exploited in any way. There are such things as child labor laws, you know.” This last she addressed to Traci as well as to Wyatt Gilley. Then she picked up her gavel and brought it down. “My judgment stands as stated. This court will recess for ten minutes before calling the next case.”
“All rise,” the bailiff intoned, and the judge stood, stepped down from the platform upon which her chair rested and swept out of the room, leaving the majority of the spectators somewhere between their seats and standing positions.
It was over, Traci thought numbly. And then it hit her. It was over, she had won, and not only was she going to collect her damages, but that surprisingly admirable, good-looking man was shepherding his two recalcitrant sons toward her at that very moment! She fumbled with purse and file folder and managed to get her hand out by the time he drew near enough to take it, which he did without hesitation, his own much harder, much tougher hand effectively swallowing hers. Good grief, the man radiated heat like a stove, and it was spreading from her hand up her arm at an alarming speed. Unless she was mistaken, it was also glowing upon her cheeks in splotches of bright red.
“Well, what do you think?” he said with amazing cordiality. “Would these hoodlums of mine be a help to you? I wouldn’t want you to agree to taking them on unless you’re reasonably certain they can be of help. God knows we’ve caused you enough harm already.”
Traci licked her lips, wishing he’d let go of her hand, and forced her mind to consider his question. “I—I think they could be of help if they wanted to,” she finally told him.
Wyatt released her and dropped looks on each of his sons. “I’ll leave it to you, boys,” he said. “Do you want to help Miss Temple get her shop ready to open, or would you rather spend your afternoons and weekends alone in your rooms?” One of them shot his eyebrows upward as if to say the choice was no choice at all. Apparently he preferred even actual work to solitary confinement. The other twin scowled and dragged the toe of his shoe across the highly polished floor. “Rex?” Wyatt prodded. “What’s it going to be? Honest toil or deep, protracted boredom?”
Rex sent a look to his brother and got one in return. Clearly, whatever Rex decreed would decide it for both of them. He was a tough little character, and Traci wondered if he had any concern at all for his brother’s preference. Seemingly he did, for he finally dropped his head in a curt nod and mumbled, “We’ll help her.” Not content with acquiescence, however, he jerked his head back up, vowing, “We’re not crooks! That place looked abandoned to us. We didn’t think anyone would care.”
“Rex, that lumber you hauled off was new,” Wyatt said. “Maybe you didn’t know the difference when you took it, but you darned sure knew somebody cared when Miss Temple confronted you, so you lied to cover up and, heaven help me, I believed you. We danced the jig, my boy, now we pay the piper. It’s that simple.”
Rex sighed and shook himself in resignation. “Yes, sir.”
Wyatt Gilley fixed his fascinating eyes on Traci Temple once again. “When do you want them?”
She shrugged, feeling less awkward now that he was no longer touching her. “Um, tomorrow afternoon, four, four-fifteen?”
“They’ll be there. Now if you’ll give me a minute, I’ll write you a check.” He fished a leather checkbook from the hip pocket of his black slacks and reached into his shirt pocket for a pen.
“Oh, wait. That’s not necessary,” Traci heard herself saying. “I mean, the court will send you papers showing the exact amount and where to send it and everything.”
“I understand that,” he said, “but I was thinking that you could probably use some cash right now, and I meant what I said to the judge about making full restitution.”
“No, that’s not necessary,” she said, and once again had to backtrack. “I mean, the fifteen hundred dollars should cover everything.”
“Listen,” he argued, “these guys have given me a good picture of things. I know the doorknob was ruined and windows were broken and that torn awning must have cost a pretty penny….”
“It’s all right,” she rebutted. “Honestly, I—I think I may be able to repair the awning instead of replacing it, and having the boys’ help will mean I can spend less for labor costs…and, well, a couple of the estimates I got were on the high side, you know. Anyway, I’d rather not.”
“Take my money, you mean,” he said, smiling when she blanched. “Okay, let’s do it this way, then. I’m a fair to middlin’ carpenter. Why don’t I make some of the repairs myself? That will save you considerably more on labor costs than anything this duo is likely to manage, and I’ll feel better about this mess.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t think—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he interrupted, with a wag of his finger. “I insist.”
Traci could not prevent the breakout of a smile. “That’s kind of you, but I’m still not sure—”
“I am,” he said, beaming back at her. “Please, that’s the way I want it.”
She made him no answer, merely subsided into an uncomfortable smile. So, she was going to get her ice-cream shop open after all. Thank God—and Wyatt Gilley. No doubt about it. She owed him a debt of thanks, but was she wrong to think that the man wanted more than to recompense her for the damage done by his sons? An exercise in faith, she reminded herself, and broadened her smile.
Chapter Two (#ulink_1a0c5ab7-d05b-5a9d-9544-78a95a243b5a)
“They’re really not such bad boys,” Wyatt said as they walked toward her car. “They probably didn’t realize they were doing anything wrong in the beginning, then later they were afraid to admit they’d done it. They thought the place was abandoned, you know.”
“And so it was,” Traci admitted. “My grandfather left the shop to me when he died three years ago, but I was living in Dallas then. My grandmother didn’t feel she could run the business alone, but I couldn’t bring myself to sell it, so we just closed it up and let it sit.”
“And?” he prompted.
They had reached her car, a sleek, black, luxury model she really ought to get rid of in order to spare herself the monthly payments, but she wouldn’t, except as a last resort. She opened the door and turned to face him.
“And I decided I’d be happier in Duncan running Grandpa’s ice-cream shop than running the rat race in Dallas,” she said.
He lifted a skeptical brow, blue eyes twinkling. “That’s it? You just got tired of the big city and the high-powered career, so you ditched it for an icecream shop in Duncan, Oklahoma?”
She shook her head, laughing softly. “The highpowered career’ was a rather demanding job as a legal secretary, and I never was really happy in the big city. My parents moved me there when I was in high school, but this has always been home to me. What about you, Lieutenant Colonel Gilley? What brought you here?”
He shrugged. “My boys were born here. I was stationed at Fort Sill then. We decided to live here because my wife—my ex-wife—was developing an aversion to anything military, including me.” He smiled when he said that, but Traci couldn’t help noticing the sadness that darkened his blue eyes. He seemed to sense her thoughts, for he suddenly switched his gaze to the boys, tussling together in the distance as they ran across the parking lot. “It seemed like a nice town, a good place to raise a couple of kids,” he said, “so when I retired last year, we moved back.”
She nodded, pretending to understand, when in truth, any number of questions were on the tip of her tongue. She settled on the one that seemed the most innocuous. “Aren’t you awfully young to be retired?”
He laughed then. “Not really. I went in right out of college. I retired last year with twenty years of service. That makes me forty-one, in case you’re wondering.”
“I was,” she admitted. “You seem younger.”
He grinned. “I always knew immaturity would prove worthwhile at some point in my life.”
She smiled. “I doubt that’s the reason. Perhaps your boys keep you young.”
“No way.” He shook his head emphatically. “Believe me, those two scamps have aged me dramatically in the last year or so. I guess we’re still adjusting. We didn’t spend much time together before they came to live with me. My career separated me from them for long periods, then when they were six, their mother and I divorced, so we didn’t even live together when I could be with them. Then a little over a year ago, she decided she’d done her share of the parenting, so she dropped them off with me and headed for Paris.”
“Paris, France?”
He nodded. “Marie is French. I met her when I was stationed in Europe.”
Traci didn’t know what to say. On one hand, she was appalled that a mother would seemingly abandon her young sons to a father they hardly knew. On the other hand, she didn’t want to judge the woman wrongly. She could have had very good reasons for turning her sons over to their father, and who was to say that it wasn’t for the best of everyone involved? Wyatt himself didn’t even sound particularly judgmental. True, his words had seemed condemnatory, but he had delivered them in a light, uninflected voice, almost as if she’d dropped them off on her way to the grocery store! Could he really be that casual about it? she wondered. Remembering how hotly he had defended his sons when she’d first approached him about what they’d done at the shop, she didn’t think his feelings toward his boys were at all casual. But then, she might be reading more into it than she ought to. Wyatt Gilley was nearly a total stranger to her, after all. That thought had her searching for a polite means by which to extricate herself from what had become an embarrassingly personal conversation. She took a deep breath.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll…settle into…the situation soon,” she managed before stepping behind her opened car door. “Thank you again for the way you resolved the suit. I—I’m sorry it came to that.”
He shook his head, shrugging. “My fault. I should have listened when you first tried to tell me what they’d done.”
She opened her mouth, thought better of what she was about to say, then closed it again only to smile weakly. “It’s all worked out now. That’s what counts.”
“You’re generous to say so.”
“Not really,” she refuted quickly. “I’m just happy I’ll be able to get my shop open after all. It was looking rather bleak for a while.”
“My fault again.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
He chuckled, a teasing gleam to his eye. “I know.”
For some reason she felt a thrill pulse through her at that. What was it about this man that did that to her? Suddenly she wasn’t certain she wanted to know. “I—I have to—to go,” she stammered, pushing out her hand. “My grandmother is expecting me.”
He clasped her hand in his own large, very hot one, and pumped her arm a few times. “I’ll see you soon, Miss Temple,” he said. “’Bye.”
“Goodbye.”
She got in the car and closed the door. It was broiling hot in there, but she was too aware of Wyatt Gilley, standing on the other side of the door, to open it again. The month of May was still new, and the weather was sparkling, perfect, but this black car seemed to absorb the bright sunshine and hold it. The price one paid for a bit of flash, she mused distractedly, digging in her purse for the keys. She found them, fitted them into the ignition and started the engine, immediately flipping on the air-conditioning before engaging the transmission and backing out of the parking space. Through it all, Wyatt Gilley just stood there smiling. He was there still when she glanced in her rearview mirror before turning out into the street. She’d be a liar if she didn’t admit how much that pleased her, but it disturbed her even more.
Wyatt Gilley was not a friend. Perhaps he was not the adversary she had previously thought him to be, but that did not make him a friend. Neither, she told herself firmly, did that make him a prospective romantic interest, not that she knew, really, what would. She labored under the conviction that when she met the right man she would just somehow know. She imagined that this knowing would bring her a great sense of peace, a kind of settling of her soul, a quiet, steady joy. She based these assumptions on the very thing everyone else did: secondhand experience. That is, the behavior, manner and countenance, as observed by herself, of the happily coupled individuals of her acquaintance, most prominently, her parents and grandparents. Nothing about Wyatt Gilley could be equated to her father or grandfather. Nothing about Gilley inspired in her even a pretension of the serenity in which her mother and grandmother so obviously dwelled, let alone inspired joy. It was quite the opposite, in fact. He disturbed her, agitated her, set her nerves on edge and her senses reeling. He was, somehow, dangerous.
And so that was that. Lieutenant Colonel Wyatt Gilley, retired, undoubtedly had certain virtues, but all in all he was just one more thing to be endured, an added bit of discomfort, a puzzle without an answer. Eventually the relationship, such as it was, would run its course and be severed, forgotten. That being the case, she could simply put him out of her mind, at least in theory. In practice, it might not be so easy. After all, she would have to explain to her grandmother what had happened in court. Also, she ought to call the reverend and let him know how everything had turned out.
Now there was a fine man. No one would have to drag him into court in order to open his eyes to the truth. In fact, the Reverend Bolton Charles was everything a woman like her could want. Tall, dark and handsome, he was also sensitive and gentle and caring, and he possessed a deep spirituality with which she could well identify. It was obvious in the way he spoke of her that he had loved his late wife very much, and that made him all the more attractive. Yet, despite her grandmother’s obvious attempts at matchmaking, Traci could not quite see herself forming a romantic attachment to Bolton Charles. How was it that she could see such an attachment forming between Wyatt Gilley and herself?
But no, that was nonsense. Wyatt Gilley was not at all the sort of man who would suit her. Not at all. And she mustn’t allow herself to think otherwise. Once more she pushed him firmly out of mind, only to find herself having to do so time and time again.
The Reverend Bolton Charles smiled at her over the rim of his tea glass. “Sounds as if everything’s finally beginning to work out.”
She nodded. “I really didn’t even expect him to show up in court, so you could’ve knocked me over with a feather when he admitted full liability.”
Bolton shrugged, the knit fabric of his polo shirt pulling taut over his shoulders. “It’s easy to misjudge someone in an emotional situation.”
“He was just so certain that his kids were telling him the truth, and to be fair, they’re gifted little actors. They almost convinced me, and I caught them at it!”
Bolton chuckled. “Sounds like quite a pair.”
Traci sighed. “Too much for me, I’m afraid. Frankly, I’m not sure having them around is such a good idea. I mean, they’re supposed to be learning a lesson, but I’m just not certain that I’m the one to be teaching it to them. I’m best with little kids, you know, infants and creepers.”
Bolton reached across the table in her grandmother’s kitchen and covered her hand lightly with his. “You’ll do fine,” he said reassuringly. “Just be firm from the outset, and be honest about what you expect of them. Don’t pretend that they can do any and everything. Kids know they have limitations, and they can smell pretense a mile away. No one can trust deceit, even if its well-meaning. Remember that you’re the adult. You’re the one in charge.”
“I know that, but will they?” she worried aloud.
“Don’t give them an option. Believe me, in the long run everyone will be happier that way. Kids aren’t comfortable when adults abdicate their control. They may resent being told what to do—that’s normal and part of developing independence—but inside they know they aren’t capable of making all the decisions. They need the security of adult supervision, whether they realize it or not.”
Traci smiled at her handsome friend thoughtfully. “You really ought to have children of your own, you know.”
A shadow passed briefly over his face. “I hope to.”
Traci could have bitten her tongue off. How could she have been so thoughtless? She had been told that after years of hoping, Bolton’s late wife had finally believed herself pregnant, only to discover that her symptoms were those of cancer. With her had died their hope of having a child of their own. She turned her hand over beneath his and squeezed his palm. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no. It was a compliment. I took it as such, anyway.”
“It was meant as one.”
“Well, then, for pity’s sake, don’t apologize,” he declared, laughing. “Even a minister’s ego occasionally needs nurturing, you know.”
Traci laughed at that. Bolton Charles was the least egocentric man she’d ever known. Wyatt Gilley, now there was a man with an ego. It was obvious in the pride with which he held himself, the way he dressed and moved. What had it cost him to admit his liability in open court? She couldn’t help admiring him for doing the right thing, even if he had come to it rather late. She wondered if his ego had taken a beating when his wife had divorced him. Did he still love her perhaps? Might he take her back if she wanted him to, put his family back together again?
“Traci?”
“Hm?” She looked up into Bolton’s smiling eyes.
“You got lost for a moment there.”
Lost? Thinking about Wyatt Gilley, of all things! She felt color heat her cheeks. What on earth was wrong with her? “Was I? I, ah, was just wondering if it wasn’t about time to start dinner. You’ll stay and join us, won’t you?”
He released his hold on her hand and’ leaned back in his chair, a knowing little smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “I never turn down a homecooked meal,” he said good-naturedly, “or the company of a beautiful woman.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, relieved to hear the teasing tone of his voice, and quipped, “I’ll tell Grandmother you said that. She’ll be so thrilled.”
They both laughed at that, having admitted some time ago that an obvious attempt at matchmaking had brought them together. Traci could only wonder why it wasn’t working.
Traci dropped her gloves, folded her arms and succumbed to an open stare. Why was she surprised? Wyatt Gilley was exactly the sort of man to drive a sky blue convertible sports car, when any other single parent of twins would have opted for a small, sensible station wagon. She wondered if all three could get in it with the top up and if the boys didn’t mind being squished and belted into a single seat. Well, it wasn’t any of her concern. She walked out onto the narrow front deck that essentially served as a doorstep and waited for them to unload and crunch across the gravel parking area to her. She could not resist taking a good look at Wyatt Gilley, though her throat constricted when she did.
He wore a royal blue T-shirt tucked into the waistband of soft, faded jeans, a narrow canvas belt trimmed with brown leather and expensive brown leather athletic shoes without socks. Each item seemed to have an intimate familiarity with his body, as if from long acquaintance, and yet at the same time every article looked spanking new. As he moved closer, he slid off his sunglasses, and even from a distance those blue eyes leaped out at her, shockingly vivid. Her pulse quickened. She immediately averted her gaze.
“Here we are,” Wyatt called, his smile audible. “Just as promised.”
Traci nodded and forced an impersonal smile onto her face. Her remarks she addressed to the boys, her voice studiously polite. “Hello, boys. Ready to work? A bunch of litter has accumulated around the perimeter of the building. You’ll find a couple of trash bags on the big deck. Pick up everything but the broken glass. I don’t want you cutting yourselves. I’ll be inside if you need anything.”
Neither boy seemed particularly inspired by the assigned job, but they went off to do it with a minimum of grumbling and only a few pained looks. After they’d rounded the corner of the building, she addressed their father, her gaze darting around his face without managing to land anywhere. “You don’t need to hang around. The carpentry work can’t begin until the new lumber is delivered.”
“That reminds me,” he said, stepping up onto the deck with her. “The lumber the boys took has been cut into odd lengths, but it might be serviceable. Should I bring it over?”
Instinctively, Traci moved away and tried to think. Odd lengths. Floorboards to be replaced both inside and out, shelves to be built, a portion of cabinet to be framed in, the new doorway to be cased. She tried to implement the instructions given her by her grandfather over and over again during the first nineteen years of her life. She tried to see in her mind exactly what had to be done, step-by-step, but she kept getting derailed by the vision of Wyatt Gilley performing those steps. She shook her head to clear it, realized what he must think and decided to let it stand at that. “No, don’t bring it here,” she said. “You keep it. You’ve paid for it, after all, and I’ve already reordered, but thank you, anyway. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am busy.”
She started to turn into the open doorway at her back, but Wyatt stopped her with a hand clamped down on the forearm folded across her middle. A strange kind of heat flashed up both arms and across her shoulders and down into her chest.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gone husky. “Is there a problem? I’d like to help.”
Her own voice felt as if it had to be forced up out of her chest, past her overinflated lungs and around an enormous lump in her throat. “N-no!” The word seemed to free her breath, which came rushing out behind it. A deep draught of fresh air helped to clear her head a bit. “I—I mean, there’s nothing wrong. Wh-what could be wrong? I’m going to get my shop opened, thanks to you.” As she spoke, she managed to extricate herself from his touch by dropping her arms to her sides.
For a long moment his eyes plumbed hers, reaching, it seemed, for the inner recesses of her mind. She kept very still, so still that her heart seemed to have ceased beating. She dared not blink. She dared not think, lest he see her thoughts and read them. Finally she felt him withdraw, slowly, gently, and her heart started to beat again in careful, even measures. A slight smile lifted the corners of his finely sculpted mouth.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” he said apologetically.
She hoped he did not recognize the relief behind her nod. “You can pick up the boys in about an hour and a half, if that’s all right.”
He slid the sunglasses onto his face. “See you later, then.”
She managed a smile. “Later.”
He turned and stepped down onto the gravel. Only after he’d gotten into the car and driven away did she allow herself to slump against the doorjamb. She was trembling. How did he do that? What was it about him that made her every nerve ending hypersensitive? Questions without answers. She suspected that it would always be questions without answers where Wyatt Gilley was concerned.
Traci straightened and went inside. Bending, she retrieved her heavy leather gloves and slipped them on. They were too big, but a proper size was not to be found, and she absolutely must have protection as she worked the broken shards of glass from the window frame. Flexing her fingers inside their stiff leather casings, she went back to what she had been doing when she’d heard the Gilleys’ car turn onto the gravel parking lot. She walked to the west window, being careful not to step into one of the open spaces in the plank floor. She’d nearly broken a leg the first time she’d come here after the floorboards had been taken. Having seen the degree of destruction, she had sat down and cried angry tears, during which she had begun to pray for guidance.
She had been so certain that it had been within God’s will for her to return home to Duncan. It was not a decision she had made lightly or without prayer and counsel. But she’d begun to rethink the moment she’d seen the condition that the shop was in, and its disappearing piece by piece right before her very eyes. Confused and frustrated, she’d gone back to God. Had she misunderstood? Had she blinded herself to God’s will with her own selfish desires? If not, why would He allow someone to steal the very floor from beneath her feet? And what, oh what, was she going to do now?
She had begun to recall verses of Scripture.
Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God
All things work to the good of them that love the Lord and are called according to His purpose.
And finally: Let him who steals steal no more…
She had decided right then that she wasn’t going to give up, not yet. She hadn’t expected it to be easy, after all. Why worry when work could remedy the situation? Oh, she hadn’t been foolish enough to think she could do it all on her own, but she could exercise her faith as well as her brain and muscles. The first step, it had seemed to her, was to catch the culprits, as it turned out. A quick canvas of the neighborhood, which was primarily residential, had gained her an adequate description of the two boys stripping and demolishing the place, but no one could tell her their names. So she had spent two miserable days and nights camped out here before the brazen scamps had come to help themselves to the landscaping timbers that marked off the small parking lot.
Without doubt, she had terrified them with her sudden, stern appearance. When she’d asked what in blue blazes they thought they were doing, they’d looked at each other with undisguised apprehension, and then as if on cue, they’d turned tail and run. She had been breathless, exhausted and more than a little put out when she’d caught the first one; the other had loyally come back to stand with him. They had refused at first to tell her their names, but when she’d threatened to simply haul them down to the police and let them handle it, Max had blurted out the information, much to his brother’s chagrin. After that, they’d said hardly another word, despite her attempts to discover why they’d done what they had. Finally she’d let them go, saying she would be along shortly to speak to their parents. At that point, one of them—and she didn’t know which one—had stuck his tongue out at her and led the escape. Perhaps she should have foreseen what was to come, but she hadn’t.
Later, when she’d gone to the Gilley home to discuss the situation with a responsible adult, and the twins had pretended to be shocked by her accusations, she had been stunned. The most shocking thing of all had been the picture of innocence they had presented. She had almost believed them herself, until she’d seen the glint of satisfaction in the eyes of the one with the tiny scar in his eyebrow. Unless she was mistaken, that was Rex, but she couldn’t be certain. She had been a bit unnerved when Gilley had made the introductions at the courthouse. She was a bit unnerved now. Otherwise she’d be doing something besides staring out the window at the street. Oh, well, the worst was behind her. God had answered her prayers in a most unexpected manner. Who would have expected Wyatt Gilley to be the instrument. They say that God works in mysterious ways.
Traci shook herself out of her reverie again and began to carefully work a triangular piece of glass rom the bottom of the window frame. Having freed it, she dropped it into a bucket at her feet and began working out another piece. It broke off at the edge of the casing, requiring her to dig out the remainder with a screwdriver. That tiny sliver of glass shattered as she pried at it, spewing minuscule shards at her. She jerked back, brushing at her face and hair with her gloved hand. Great. She was going to put out an eye at this rate, but she couldn’t just quit. She had to get this done. The glazier was coming Monday, and he had given her a reduced rate because she had promised to remove the broken glass herself. Maybe if she put her left hand over the top of the channel in the casing and pried blindly with her right, she could get that last chunk free without doing damage to herself. She attempted that maneuver, only to pop the glass chunk out, feel it hit her palm, and have it drop right back into the channel. Drat. She’d have to bring some tweezers down here or maybe a vacuum. Meanwhile, she’d work on one of the larger pieces again and try very diligently not to break it.
She grasped the edges of a corner piece and began gently pulling, but to no avail. This called for yet another plan of attack. Frustrated, she backed off to think. At some point she became aware of laughter. Automatically her attention focused on the voices coming to her from outside.
“Gotcha!”
“Did not!”
“You’re it!”
“Uh-uh. You have to peg me solid first!”
“I’ll peg you then, birdbrain. How’s this?”
“Ow! My turn! Coward! I didn’t run away.”
“You can’t hit me. Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah.”
“I’ll break your head, mouth-off!”
Suddenly she knew she’d better get out there before one of them hurt the other. She burst out onto the front deck just in time to see one of them sail a sizable piece of gravel at the other. She gasped, panicked, then Bolton Charles’s astute advice from the evening before came to her.
“Be firm,” he had said, “and be honest. You’re the adult, so you’re the one in charge. Kids aren’t comfortable when adults abdicate their control, and no one can trust deceit.”
Firm it was then. She took a deep breath, saying sharply, “Stop that this minute!”
To her relief, both froze, then subsided into sulks. “We didn’t do anything.”
“You were throwing rocks at each other!”
“It was just a game.”
“A very dangerous game,” she insisted. “Why aren’t you working? You’re supposed to be picking up trash.”
“We picked up some!”
She narrowed her eyes at them, determined to be stern. “Show me.”
Reluctantly they walked to the edge of the large, side deck, their steps dragging. One of them bent and picked up a large plastic trash bag. If it contained anything, it wasn’t apparent. He handed it to his twin, who thrust it at her in turn. She took it, opened it and looked inside. The bag contained perhaps half a dozen pieces of paper of various sizes, two rusty nails, an empty soft drink bottle and a molted feather. She thrust it back at them. “That’s hardly proof of a productive afternoon. Now get busy, both of you.”
A mulish little chin went up, and above it a wide, girlishly pink mouth set in a stubborn line. “You can’t make us do anything.”
The speaker was Rex—if Rex was the one with the scar in his eyebrow. She brought her hands to her hips and glared down at him.
“Oh, no? Let’s just ask your father about that, shall we?”
The mutinous gleam in ice blue eyes died down a bit. “The judge said you couldn’t export us.”
“Exploit. The judge said I couldn’t exploit you. That means I cannot profit by your labor without suitable compensation, force you to do anything dangerous or work you more than fifteen hours a week or three hours a day. One, you haven’t been here even one hour yet. Two, I don’t think picking up litter can be deemed dangerous. Three, you’re here because you’ve already cost me plenty, not to mention the business I’m losing because I couldn’t open when I planned. In other words, you owe me, buster. Now get busy.”
Defeat turned down the corners of his mouth. He grumbled something about “the hag” but bent and scooped up a smashed paper cup, dumping it into the bag. His brother joined him, but without the grumbling. Satisfied, Traci went back inside and tackled the broken window again.
She finally removed the corner piece by carefully working her screwdriver around the edge of the glass buried in the casing, loosening it. With the treacherous piece safely deposited in the bucket, she took a moment to check on the boys. She walked to the door that opened out onto the side deck and looked around. Nothing. Suspicious, she paused to listen. Again, nothing. “Boys?” she called. “Rex? Max?”
Shaking her head, she walked out onto the deck, careful to avoid the broken and missing slats. She reached the edge before she heard the stifled giggles. So that was their game. Calmly she walked down the shallow steps, around the corner of the building and across the grass to the tiny shed resting upon skids at the back of the shop. The snickering was clearly audible at this point. She listened a moment, decided, then bent at the waist, bringing her head within inches of the ground. They were lying on their stomachs between the skids beneath the shed.
“Hey, have you guys found that snake I saw go under there?”
They practically choked her with the dust they raised getting out. She could not keep a straight face, and that gave her away.
“Very funny!” Rex cried—provided that was Rex.
“Did you really see a snake go under there?” asked the other.
“Yes, I really saw a snake go under there,” she answered, “once when I was a teenager.”
“That’s crummy!” insisted the one with the scar.
“Crummier than hiding to avoid doing what you’re supposed to?”
He made no answer to that, just challenged her with a belligerent glare. The other one had the grace to look vaguely ashamed.
“Look,” she said, laying it on the line, “I didn’t ask you two to vandalize my place. I didn’t even ask for your help in putting it to rights. You got here all on your own, but now that you are here, it’s up to me to teach you a very valuable lesson. So get with it. I want this whole place cleaned up by the time your father gets back here. No more fooling around. Understand?”
One of them nodded. Max, she assumed.
“I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” she warned, turning away. She could hear them softly arguing as she went inside, but a quick check moments later told her that they were at least making an effort to appear to be working. She went back to her own work with a smile. Firmness and honesty. Chalk up another one for the Reverend Bolton Charles, not that it was going to be easy by any means. She wouldn’t fool herself about that. She expected to be tested and tried at every turn, but it was a small price to pay for getting the shop open at last, and if she could help those two scamps in the process…Well, she couldn’t ask for much more. Now if only she didn’t have the disturbing Wyatt Gilley to thank for it. But, no, she wouldn’t think of him. She simply wouldn’t.
Chapter Three (#ulink_80ec9dbb-f5e1-5d3f-b3ab-0550715e45a1)
“Miss Temple?”
With carefully concealed exasperation, Traci removed her head from the interior of the display case motor compartment. The ominous clanking continued. Nothing she had done had made the least difference, and now she was covered in grease. Most frustrating, however, was the knowledge that the whole exercise in failure might have been accomplished in mere minutes if not for the many interruptions caused by those two Gilley scamps, and the worst of it was that they seemed to be actually trying to help today. She sighed and pushed a wayward strand of hair out of her face with the back of her forearm, her fingers too grimy to be of any use. Whether they were trying to help or not, the result was the same. They were singularly successful distractions apart. Together they were nothing short of disaster. She sat back on her heels, her toes and knees taking her weight, and resisted the urge to straighten the sleeveless, scooped-neck, pale pink T-shirt she wore atop her faded, old jean cutoffs.
“What is it, Max?”
“This!” shrieked Rex, popping up over the glass hood of the display case.
Squirts of water hit her squarely in the eye and splattered over her face. She gasped and sputtered while more water drenched her blouse and shorts, and the twins giggled delightedly. Anger flashed through her. She made a grab for the water guns, got a hand on Max’s and took a squirt in the palm from the other, while Rex beat a fast retreat.
“Blast you, Rex Gilley!”
“Only if you catch mel” came the taunt.
All right, if that was the way he wanted it. A tug delivered Max’s gun into her possession. Quick as a flash, she was up and around him, sprinting after his brother. Rex’s laughter trailed after him as he tore out the door, along the front deck, up the steps and across the big deck at the side of the store. Traci was closing on him by the time he reached the edge of the big deck. He leaped to the ground, and she followed, landing practically on top of him, so that their legs tangled and they went down. Before he could struggle up again, she grabbed the wrist of the hand that held his gun, pointed her own and squeezed the trigger in rapid succession, splashing his freckled face with streams of water. He twisted and writhed, trying to push her off with his free hand.
“Stop! Stop it! Stop!”
“Ho! Not so funny when you’re on the receiving end, Rex?”
“Cut it out!”
“Not til you apologize!” She kept on squeezing. He opened his mouth, but whether in protest or apology, she couldn’t know, for the instant he opened it, water poured in, and the words he would have spoken came out as comical gurgles. Traci started to laugh. Rex spluttered and joined her, bubbles dribbling over his chin. That, too, was a comical sight, and Traci laughed all the harder, releasing him. When Rex pointed his own gun at his chin and washed away the bubbles by shooting water at himself, she laughed so hard, she collapsed. Then he turned the gun on her again, and the battle was joined once more, but this time it was all in fun.
They were both out of water, scrambling together on the grass, and laughing helplessly when Traci spotted a familiar pair of leather athletic shoes very near her face. Wyatt. Laughter died to be replaced by breathless pants and little moans as the combatants disentangled and sat up. They were wet, rumpled and covered in grass stains and dirt. Traci looked at Rex and groaned inwardly. If she was as disheveled as he was, she must look a sight, indeed. Adding to her discomfort, Wyatt Gilley went down on his haunches and reached a hand toward her. She flinched involuntarily, her heart beating a heavy, rapid rhythm in her chest. She felt a gentle tug, and her sagging hair tumbled about her face. Simultaneously his hand came away with the soft, fat, elastic band that had held her hair in a loose ponytail. He offered it to her, and she plucked it from his fingers.
“Thank you.”
His mouth quirked up in a grin. “You’re welcome.” For a long moment he just squatted there and stared at her, his forearms resting upon his knees and his grin growing wider by increments while her face slowly heated to a red glow. “Work must be going well,” he said at last, “if this is how you’re spending your time.”
The remark reminded her of her earlier pique, and she frowned. “Work is not going well,” she snapped, “because this is how I’m forced to spend my time.”
“Ah.” That was it. Just “Ah.”
For some reason she was all the more irritated. She pulled her knees up in preparation of standing, then found his hand beneath her elbow. Realizing it would be churlish to pull away, she allowed him to help her up, but when he began to dust off her backside, she danced away. Smoothly, as if he had not even noticed her escape, he turned his attentions to Rex.
“I can guess who forced whose hand,” Wyatt said, dusting off his son with firm, even strokes. “Rex is the mastermind of my matched pair. His day is just one long prank, or so his teachers tell me.”
“If he gets into as much mischief at school as he does here, I imagine you speak to his teachers a lot,” Traci said smartly.
Wyatt laughed. “Quite a lot.” Looking down, he pulled Rex’s water gun from his hand, smoothed the boy’s flaming red hair and planted his palm between protruding shoulder blades, pushing firmly. “I’m sure you and your brother are supposed to be doing something useful. I suggest you get to it.”
“Aw, Dad,” the boy whined, “it’s time to go!”
“We’ll go when you’re finished and not before.”
“But we haven’t even started!”
“All the more reason to get busy.”
“Blast!” The boy put on a mulish face at his father’s raised eyebrow, and defended his language. “She says it all the time!”
“Does she now?” said Wyatt, giving the boy another firm push. Reluctantly Rex moved off, and Wyatt Gilley turned his attention to Traci, who was staring at the grimy fingers with which she’d almost combed her hair. He grinned. “Do you say Blast!’ all the time?” he asked.
Traci grimaced. “I guess I do,” she admitted, and Wyatt Gilley’s grin widened.
“Well, it’s quite an improvement over what usually comes out of that kid’s mouth. I wonder what other improvements you’ve managed.”
“Not many, I’m afraid,” she said. “Mr. Gilley, I’m—”
“Wyatt,” he interrupted smoothly.
“Huh? Oh. Right. As I was saying, Wyatt, I’m afraid this isn’t working out as well as I’d hoped.”
He nodded, a smile stretching his mouth. “I knew you were going to need me sooner or later,” he said, “but you’re stubborn, Traci Temple. You should have asked for my help sooner.”
Asked for his help? “But I wasn’t…” she began, only to realize that she was speaking to his back as he strode after Rex. Blast the man! He was as exasperating as his sons. Quickly she went after him. By the time she caught up, he had reached the storage building, which Rex and Max were supposed to be cleaning out so she could install shelves. Only a glance was required to see that Rex had not taken his father’s instructions to heart. Both boys were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shed, giggling over the most recent havoc they’d managed to wreak. Wyatt reached down and grasped the back of a striped T-shirt in each hand.
“Up and at it!” he commanded, hauling them to their feet. “Hop to it, and make it snappy.” Rex opened his mouth to complain, but Wyatt shook a finger in his face. “The first one to say a word will give me twenty-five push-ups—on his toes! The second one will pull fifty!” The boys groaned but didn’t utter so much as a syllable as they turned to their work. “That’s more like it,” Wyatt said heartily. He stepped back and folded his arms. “Now, Traci, I’m curious about that grease on your hands.”
She blinked, trying to follow. The man switched gears faster than she could. “Grease. Yes.” She licked her lips. “It’s the display case. The refrigeration’s on the fritz.”
“Ah. Well, I’ll take a look at it. Just give me a minute to get my tools out of the car.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. He owed her, after all, for saddling her with these two hooligans of his, if nothing else. In any case, he was already moving away from her and across the side deck toward the front of the building and the street. She turned her attention to the boys, who were working reluctantly but steadily. The work would go faster, she decided, with six hands than four. She waded in and got after it.
The jumble inside the storage shed was almost all transferred outside when Wyatt Gilley stuck his head out the back door and called her name. “Traci?”
She stopped what she was doing and wiped a forearm across her brow, miffed by his casual use of her given name. “Yes?”
“Could you help me a minute? I need you to hold a fitting while I tighten the coupling.”
That sounded promising. Perhaps he had found the problem. She wiped her hands on her bottom. “Coming.”
His head withdrew. Seconds later she had picked her way through the jumble on the ground and was stepping up into the shop. She passed through the back pantry and around the end of the display case to find Wyatt Gilley lying on his back upon the floor, his head and shoulders skewed into the motor compartment of the case. She walked behind him and crouched down.
“Where do you need me?”
“In here.” He eased himself back until his shoulders rested fully upon the floor. His head was lying on the lip of the door that slid open to reveal the motor compartment, and his hands were suspended above him, holding a narrow copper line and a wrench fixed to a tiny nut. Its slightly smaller twin rested at an odd angle above it. “I need you to reach that top fitting, push it down and hold it there until I can tighten the bottom one to keep it in place.”
Traci widened her eyes. Just how, she wondered, was she supposed to get in there with him lying in the way? “Can’t you manage it alone?” she asked in a small voice.
The wrench clattered to the floor, and Wyatt Gilley lifted himself up on his elbows, blue eyes glaring. “If I could manage it alone, I wouldn’t have called you in here. What’s the problem anyway? All you have to do is hold down that top fitting.”
“The problem,” she snapped, “is getting to it, as you very well know.”
He gave her a withering look. “Do you want this thing fixed or not?”
“Of course I want it fixed.”
“Then get down here and hold the blasted fitting!”
“You don’t have to yell at me!”
He seemed to gulp back an angry retort, then closed his eyes. She could have sworn he was counting to himself. He lifted his gaze once more. “Excuse me,” he said silkily. “Now do you think you can get your pretty little hand on that darned fitting?”
Pretty little hand, indeed! She pushed out an agitated breath, then bit her bottom lip, thinking. Maybe if she lay on top of the slanting metal doors on the ice-cream compartment and let her head hang down over the side she could see into the motor compartment. Yes, that might work. Carefully she crawled atop the case, oblivious to the rolling of electric blue eyes. It was not as easy as it looked. The slope on those metal doors was so severe that she very nearly slid right back down again. Only by grasping the top of the viewing glass could she maintain her position. So with one hand she held herself in place, and with the other she reached into the motor compartment.
“I think I can get it now,” she said, peering upside down at the fitting in question. With some effort, she finally got a hand on it and got it down into proper position.
“Here we go,” Wyatt said, his tone somewhat doubtful. He worked the wrench, but the fitting between her fingers slid up the copper tube again.
“Blast!” she murmured, only to hear a muffled chuckle from below. She lifted her head slightly to look at Wyatt. “What?”
He lifted his eyebrows in parody of an innocent shrug. “Oh, nothing.”
She frowned and lowered her head again, once more grasping the fitting and working it back into place. “Try again.”
“Push against the wrench this time,” he said, beginning to turn the wrench. “Almost Keep pushing. A little more. A little more. I said a little more!”
That did it. “I’m pushing as hard as I can!”
“Excu-use me! I’m only trying to fix the most important piece of equipment you own!” Once again the wrench clattered to the floor.
“What now?” she demanded
“I’m resting my arms, if you don’t mind.”
Her own arm, the one holding her in place atop the freezer case, was beginning to weaken as well, not to mention the fingers hooked over the metal rim fitting one glass panel to another. “This isn’t going to work,” she muttered and swung her feet to the floor.
“Ow!”
She had stepped on his leg. Quickly she hopped over it and onto the other.
“Yow! What’re you trying to do, cripple me?” He yanked up his knees and rolled into a sitting position, while she hopped and skipped, trying to avoid him.
“Be still!”
“Whoa!” he exclaimed, his hands fastening on her ankles to hold them in place. Already in motion, her upper body pitched forward She overcompensated, throwing herself backward and sat down hard on the plank floor, his hands still fastened about her ankles.
“Oh!” She found herself suddenly eye-to-eye with him, and they stared at each other in shock.
It was then that he began to laugh, great, rumbling syllables rolling up out his chest and shaking him.
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Her whole face was flaming now. Angrily, she kicked free of his hold, only to have him drape an arm companionably about her shoulders, his big frame still shuddering with barely suppressed laughter.
She folded her arms and shrugged without visible result, grumbling, “Very funny. I almost break my neck—” He erupted in fresh guffaws, that arm locked about her almost as if he were protecting her from further harm.
“I-it wasn’t your n-neck you I-landed on!” he sputtered.
One comer of her mouth hitched up into a grin. “True”
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