March 2001
ISBN: 0-373-65055-8
(click on the ISBN to order online at Amazon.com)
Chapter 1
Mitch Fielding led his twin six years olds, Taylor and Ashley, through the lunch crowd at the Hip Hop Café as though he were guiding them through a mine field. Taylor narrowly missed knocking over a gray-haired gent's cane, which was leaning against a table edge, and Mitch clamped his hand firmly over Ashley's mouth as soon as he noticed an overweight woman shoveling chocolate cream pie between her lips.
He got them settled in a booth and released his breath. "There." He picked up the plastic-coated menu and scanned for something nourishing the twins would eat without pitching a fit. "They have hamburgers and chicken fingers."
"Yuck. I want a chocolate malt and a pickle," Ashley pronounced.
"I want Skettios," Taylor said.
"They don't have Skettios," he replied. "You can have a chocolate malt if you eat a hamburger."
"Gross. I don't want a hamburger." She folded her arms over the front of her TeleTubby T-shirt. "I want a pickle."
"You can have a pickle with your hamburger. Taylor, they have a child-sized portion of spaghetti."
"Don't like spaghetti."
"Of course you do. It's the same stuff that comes out of the cans, only real."
"Uh-u-uh," she said in a sing-songy voice with a shake of her head. "It doesn't taste the same."
He resisted the urge to argue and bargain in public, which always made him feel that his daughters were getting the upper hand anyway. How long could a child survive on pickles and malts and canned spaghetti? It was his job as a parent to see that they were well nourished, but how did a person go about it? Some nights he dropped into bed mentally exhausted, feeling lucky to have gotten several bites of anything into them.
A waitress appeared at his elbow, and Mitch glanced up to see the slim blonde in a blue T-shirt that proclaimed "breakfast served all day", giving him a curious once over. Everyone in Whitehorn, Montana seemed to know each other, and he obviously stuck out as a newcomer. A quick scan confirmed that a dozen eyes were zeroed in on him and his daughters.
"Afternoon," she said pleasantly. "I'm Janie Austin. Which one of Garrett's grandson's are you?"
"Mitch Fielding," he replied, self-consciously. "How did you know?"
She cast him a friendly smile. "In Whitehorn everybody knows everybody else's business. Anticipating the grandsons' arrival has been the hot topic for weeks."
He didn't know how well he liked being the subject of gossip, but this young woman seemed friendly and accepting enough. Apparently everyone already knew he was one of seven illegitimate grandsons the old man had summoned to his ranch.
She touched his shoulder in a brief greeting that put him at ease. "Nice to meet you, Mitch."
He returned her neighborly smile. "These are my daughters, Taylor and Ashley."
"Look at that pretty blond hair. What'll you have, girls?"
He gave her their orders, amidst objections from his daughters. Taylor waved her arm to get his attention and knocked the ketchup bottle into the salt and pepper shakers. Pepper spilled on the laminate tabletop, and she promptly blew it into her sister's face.
Ashley sneezed and her eyes watered. She grabbed for the paper napkin that held her silverware in a roll and sent the metal utensils flying across the table. The fork bounced onto the table with another clang. Mitch adeptly caught the fork, but a spoon hit the floor.
"You blew it in my eyes, you dork!" Ashley cried and wiped tears with the
napkin.
"Sorry," Taylor managed with a sarcastic roll of her unrepentant blue eyes.
Mitch picked up the utensil, handed it to the astonished waitress, and admonished the girls to sit on their behinds to cause less havoc.
By the time their food had arrived, everyone in the room knew Taylor had to go to the bathroom. He took them to the women's, standing outside until their food was cold, and finally he rapped on the door.
Thank God it was a one seater, because he had to go in and dry their hands and pull them out. So that the next person wouldn't slip and break her neck, he mentioned to the closest employee that the restroom floor was flooded.
"My spaghetti's cold," Taylor complained loudly.
"So's everything else." With a sigh, he picked up his cold burger and took a bite, just as Ashley knocked her malt over.
Twenty minutes later, he released their hands to get his wallet and paid the cashier. He ran back to leave a ten dollar bill on the table, since the waitress had to sweep the floor and scrub spaghetti from the plastic seat.
A bulletin board near the wall by the cash register caught his attention and, ignoring the yanks on his hands, he scanned the notices of cars and household items for sale. He was particularly looking for someone to watch the girls for him so he could line up a few jobs. Most of the want ads had been placed by junior and high school students, and the twins needed someone more experienced. Much more experienced. Like a warden.
One notice caught his eye: Handyman wanted. He released a small hand to tap the card with his forefinger.
"Know anything about this one?" He directed his question to the gray-haired waitress in orthopedic shoes standing near the cash register.
"That's Pete Bolton's ranch," she replied. "His daughter was in here a couple of weeks ago, looking for someone to help her fix up the place to sell."
That sounded like just the job for him. A couple of months ago, he'd had to sell all of his contracts in order to take care of the girls. His mother had been caring for them, but one calamity after another had pulled him from work sites, until it wasn't fair to his customers or his subcontractors for him to continue. While trying to figure out what to do, he'd decided that Garrett Kincaid's invitation was just the solution.
This had been the perfect time to do some traveling, and he'd been eager to spend more time with and get to know this grandfather he'd never known existed until last May.
"Do you have some paper I can write the number on?" he asked.
"Sure, sugar." She fished in her pocket, came out with her order tablet and a pen, and scribbled the phone number, tearing off the sheet and handing it to him.
The bell over the door clanged and he turned to see one of his daughters dash outside.
"Thanks." He stuffed the paper in his shirt pocket and pulled the other child out the door behind him.
Lily Mae Wheeler got up out of her permanent seat in the first booth and minced over to Charlene, her cheap gaudy jewelry clanking on her wrists and weighing down her bony chest.
"Heard he was at Garrett's ranch," she said to let Charlene know she'd been the first to hear. "Nobody knows much about him yet, 'cept his wife died when those two were just babies. Those children are holy terrors, have you ever seen the likes?"
"Must be difficult for a young father to raise two girls alone," Janie said sympathetically, coming up beside them.
"They need a good paddling, if you ask me," Lily Mae scoffed.
"Be interesting to see what happens at the Bolton ranch this afternoon, wouldn't it?" Charlene said with a devilish smile.
The three exchanged amused glances.
Engaging her ten year old daughter's help, Heather Johnson tackled the stack of dishes from lunch and breakfast.
"We need a dishwasher, Mom." Jessica dried a chipped plate and stood on tiptoe to place it in the cupboard.
"I didn't think we were going to be here long enough to need one," Heather replied with a regretful sigh. She turned and glanced at her sons who sat on the worn linoleum floor with coloring books. With his tongue angled out the side of his mouth, five year old Patrick studiously labored to keep the purple crayon inside the lines on the page. Two year old Andrew spent more time chasing the crayons under the table and tasting them than he did coloring, but at least her boys were temporarily occupied.
When she'd brought her children to the ranch after her father's death, she'd planned to take a two week vacation, go through her father's personal belongings, and sell the property. A neat and tidy plan, something that should have gone smoothly.
Now, two and a half weeks later, she still hadn't been able to make any progress on selling. She hadn't planned on all the repairs that the real estate lady had suggested in order to get a decent price. Heather hadn't been back to Whitehorn in years, and the property had deteriorated more than she'd imagined. Nothing had changed, except that everything had grown older and needed painting or repairing or replacing. Her father obviously hadn't paid any more attention to the house than he ever had to her.
She shrugged off the depressing thought and gave Jessica a smile. "Thank you, angel. You are a big help to me, you know that?"
Wiping another plate, her daughter nodded in a grown-up manner. "Can we do something fun after this, Mom?"
A little pang of regret snagged Heather. She knew it hadn't been much fun for Jess to help with the boys all morning while Heather went through boxes and trunks and years' worth of accumulated junk. "What would you like to do?"
"Catch turtles in the pond?"
Heather wrinkled her nose. "Who is going to wade out there with the net?"
"You'll help, won't you?"
Heather had to admit she'd been appreciating this much-needed time with her kids. She loved her public relations job in San Francisco, and the sense of self-worth it had always brought, but she often felt guilty about the time she missed with her children. This time with them had been enjoyable, even though it had to be spent here--the last place on earth she'd chose to vacation.
She tapped Jessica on the nose with a sudsy finger. "Okay, I'll help you catch a turtle."
Jessica grinned that knock-out smile, revealing dimples that would one day drive young men crazy. Heather's heart gave a sad twinge at the thought.
She wasn't too concerned about her daughter's future. She'd tried her best to make certain she wouldn't be motivated to make mistakes by any of the same wrong reasons Heather had been.
Patrick jumped up and ran to the screen door that overlooked the long gravel drive. "Somebody's coming! It's a way cool truck!" Andrew got up, crunching crayons beneath his red and blue tennis shoes in the process, and followed his brother. "Thum-body coming!" he mimicked.
Heather dried her hands and moved to the door. She'd been expecting the man who had called earlier about interviewing for the handyman job. The blue and silver duel cab Chevy pickup leaving a dust trail must belong to him.
"This is the appointment I was expecting." She hung the towels. "We'll be discussing business in the other room. I want all of you to play quietly in here until we're finished."
She waited for their nods of understanding, then stepped back to the door. The driver parked in the gravel area behind the house, but instead of getting out right away, he turned toward the back seat. Heather noticed a couple of heads she hadn't seen at first. He'd brought children to a job interview? One big strike against him.
She stepped out onto the back porch, the age-splintered boards creaking precariously beneath her feet.
He exited the truck at last, closing the door and glancing over his shoulder.
He was tall, she noticed right away, maybe thirty, with sandy brown hair and a golden tan attesting to hours working in the sun.
The jeans he wore encased long legs and slim hips, and a navy blue button-down knit shirt, work boots, and a slim black folder with a clipboard completed the classically sexy look of a handyman. Heather could picture him with a tool belt around his hips and smiled to herself. Certainly nothing wrong with his appearance.
He neared the porch. "Mrs. Johnson?"
She composed her face and nodded.
"Mitch Fielding."
She reached to shake his hand. He had calluses on his palms. Hardworking. Steadfast. Where had that come from? It had been a long time since she'd noticed a man they way she noticed this one. Perturbed, she released his hand. "We can talk inside."
He glanced uncomfortably over his shoulder.
"Your children?" she asked.
He nodded. "They're supposed to sit there until I get back."
She wondered again why he'd brought them along. It was completely unprofessional. "Would you like to let them come in and color at the kitchen table?"
"No," he said immediately with a negative shake of his head. "I don't think so."
She glanced at the truck, seeing he'd left the windows partially down. It wasn't a hot day and this meeting shouldn't take more than a few minutes. The children would be safe.
She led the way through the kitchen, reminding her own to play quietly until she was finished with her business.
"Your kids?" he asked, turning his head to observe the trio at the table.
She nodded.
They entered the sparsely furnished room her father had used for an office. Pushing aside a drawer she'd been emptying, she sat in the cracked leather chair and Mitch took the wooden one.
"Sorry about your father," he said, catching her off guard.
She fumbled with her thoughts for a moment before realizing he meant Pete Bolton's recent death. "Thank you. I came here nearly three weeks ago to sort through things and sell the ranch, but the house and outbuildings are in terrible condition, as you've seen. The realtor wants me to fix up the property. She suggested updating the house, but I don't know if I want to go to that much trouble and expense, and I don't know the first thing about how to go about it."
"I'm a contractor," he said. "That's what I do for a living. You could leave all that up to me."
"I didn't see you in the directory."
"I'm not from Whitehorn. I'm here visiting my grandfather." When she didn't comment, he opened the folder he'd brought and presented her with several sheets of paper. "These are my references and specs on similar projects."
Heather glanced through the impressive details, not questioning his ability. "I don't have funds for a big undertaking."
He nodded understandingly. "I don't require a retainer. You wouldn't have to pay me until you've seen the work in progress. Sometimes I can get suppliers to delay billing until after the sale goes through. I could work on that. If not, I'll handle the cost until the place is sold."
That sounded encouraging. Still, there was the expense of his fee eventually, which would be considerable, with all the hours needed to get the place in shape. Remodeling would be ideal and bring the best price, but a quick fix was about all she could afford.
He glanced at the desk and back up. "Are you home all day long?"
She nodded, wondering why he'd asked. Did he think her children would get in the way of construction projects? "Unless I go into town to shop."
"I might have a solution for both of us."
She'd been studying the papers, but she glanced up, caught off guard by the way the navy shirt sculpted his solid-looking chest and arms. She focused deliberately on his face. His disturbingly sensual lips pursed for a moment, then opened as he spoke, and the odd little tremor in her stomach must have been caused by too much coffee that morning.
"Maybe we can work something out. I've been trying to find someone to keep my girls for me, so I can work. I would lower my bid considerably in exchange for you taking care of them while I do the job."
Heather dragged her distracted thoughts from his arresting appearance and mulled his suggestion over. It did sound like a wise arrangement. And she was here anyway. . ..
Childish shrieks caught their attention at the same time. Heather listened, but Mitch immediately jumped off his seat and shot out of the room, surprising her with his agility. She followed.
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