An Ideal Father

IN THE CROWDED parking lot shared by the café and a veterinary clinic next door, Cimarron headed for his truck with Wyatt on his heels. Every step he’d taken for the past month, he’d been dogged by this miniature R.J., like the ghost of his brother constantly reminding him that he’d screwed up. Again. And it was driving Cimarron crazy.

He hoisted Wyatt onto the seat in the cab. “Wait here till I get back.”

Wyatt’s eyes widened in dread. “Where are you going?”

“Just right up there to look at that house. I won’t be gone long. Stay in the truck and don’t touch anything.”

This morning didn’t seem to be the best time to talk to Sarah James, but he could at least look at the old house, which was looming in a forlorn state of disrepair on the hillside behind the café. Square and bulky, three stories high, with dormers and tall chimneys sprouting from a slate roof, the structure’s classic bones had been altered over the years by clumsy additions to the sides and a utilitarian porch that hid the craftsmanship of the original molding around the front entrance. The front door stood open, beckoning Cimarron to explore.

“I want to go, too,” Wyatt said, his eyes and voice pleading. He hadn’t liked to be alone for a minute since his daddy died.

An occasional car passed on the two-lane highway leading out of town, the drone of tires on asphalt rising and then ebbing away to nothing as each vehicle disappeared around the bend. Cimarron hesitated with his hand on the door of his truck. Finally, he exhaled hard and put the kid back on the ground again. “Just don’t get in my way and don’t touch anything.”

“Okay.”

Always okay. Never any protest unless Cimarron tried to get out of his sight for two seconds.

Cimarron shook his head and strode off, with Wyatt right behind. When he entered the musty-smelling parlor, a rush of images came to him, some faded, with tattered edges like old photographs long misplaced. This place had been a fishing lodge in its prime and Cimarron could imagine the boom of laughter as fishermen warmed themselves with whiskey and a roaring fire and told tall tales of their day in the stream.

With a practiced eye, Cimarron assessed the condition of the once-proud room, which had deteriorated over time into a shadowy dust-covered ruin. The bad news? Rotting ledges at the bottom of two of the tall windows facing the mountains; holes in the plaster; dry, splintered floorboards that creaked under his weight as he crossed the room. The good news? The house had good bones and the problems Cimarron noticed at first glance appeared to be only superficial. He ran his hand appreciatively along the intricately carved mantel over the parlor fireplace before climbing the elegant staircase to inspect each of the six bedrooms and a miscellany of smaller rooms. Wyatt stuck to him like a shadow, but he’d given up trying to pry the child away weeks ago. Easier to just keep him pacified for the time being.

Downstairs once more, he pulled a small pad and pencil from his pocket and sat on a windowsill in the parlor to jot down his thoughts and make note of a few measurements he’d taken. The morning sun warmed his back through the rippled glass panes. He was in no hurry to leave and had nowhere to go.

CROWDING EVERYTHING on the hot side of the griddle, Sarah managed to finish the morning cooking without losing her mind. An hour and a half later, the last table cleared as a tourist family of four that had run her ragged finally left. At least her regular customers had understood her dilemma and been patient with the poor service, so she’d cut a percentage off each ticket, even though she needed every penny of income. As soon as the front door clicked shut, she grabbed the phone and called Aaron’s cell number. No answer. Furious now, she punched in another number and drummed her fingers on the counter waiting for an answer.

“Hello?” she said in surprise when a woman answered. “I’m trying to reach Aaron. He didn’t show up for work today.”

“I know, Miss Sarah.” The woman’s voice wavered. “I’m his mother, Martha, and I just got home. He’s so sick he can hardly lift his head off the pillow. He only managed to call me a few minutes ago.”

“Oh, I see.” Sarah’s anger waned. “Does he need a doctor?” She didn’t know the family very well, only that Aaron worked and saved most of his money by living at home.

“I think it’s just a stomach bug, but if he’s not better tomorrow he won’t be in.”

“I understand. Please have him call me when he feels better to let me know when he’ll be back.”

“I will. He really likes that job, so I know he’ll be there as soon as he can.”

Sarah settled the phone into place on the wall cradle and leaned against the counter for a weary moment before tackling the messy tables. She filled a large garbage bag and hauled it out the back door to the Dumpster. Glancing up, she noticed movement in her uncle’s old house on the hill. She shaded her eyes against the bright sunshine and frowned. Somebody was definitely sitting in the window. Who was on her property and why?

Several vehicles were parked at her best friend Kaycee Rider’s veterinary clinic next door, but on this side a lone black extended-cab pickup with a fancy camper shell sat in the parking lot. She glanced at the magnetic sign on the door, which sported a colorful “house” logo with the scrolled letters VRR intertwined and overlaid on a red C. Below that Vision Restoration and Renovation and an out-of-state phone number appeared.

Some consultant Harry had called in? He hadn’t mentioned any outside firm to her. She started up the hill, noticing Kaycee and an assistant in the corral behind the clinic working with a lame horse.

Quietly she went through the open door. Lock it next time. From the arched doorway between the entrance hall and the main parlor, she could see the stranger who’d eaten in the café sitting in the bay window, his dark head bent over the tablet on his knee as he wrote.

“Excuse me,” Sarah said.

He looked up and shot her a heart-stopping smile. “I see you survived the breakfast crowd.”

“What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

“Interesting house,” he said, rising.

“This is private property. Are you working with Harry Upshaw?”

The little boy beside him stopped playing with the toy in his hand. He looked up at Sarah with big brown eyes and crept behind the man’s legs, peeking around at her.

“Was that the contractor you were talking to in the café?”

“Yes, he’s going to start working on the house next week.”

“Nope. I don’t work with anybody.”

“Then what are you doing in here? Did it occur to you to ask permission before you trespassed?”

“You were somewhat rushed this morning.” He tucked his pad and pencil into his shirt pocket. “It’s a beautiful old house.”

Sarah stared at him. “You’re the first person who’s said that in a long time.”

“Obviously well built. Just a bit run-down. Most of the problems are cosmetic.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’m going to remodel it and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.”

“Remodel? This house deserves to be restored.”

“Love to, but I can’t afford it.”

His lips pressed together and his brow knitted.

“That’s too bad.”

“Why?”

“I’d hate to see a fine old mansion like this messed up any more than it already has been. The craftsmanship is irreplaceable.”

“What business is this of yours?”

He blew out a long breath, rubbed his hand across his mouth and said, “It belongs to me now. Your brother Bobby sold it to me.”

CHAPTER THREE

SARAH SUCKED IN a shocked breath. She clamped her fists against her hips and glared at him. He hoped she wasn’t the fainting kind.

“That’s a lie!” she snapped, alleviating his worry that she might swoon. But the nearly imperceptible tremor in her chin belied her bravado.

He almost smiled at her pretty face, which was suddenly as pale as porcelain except for a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks. Her turquoise eyes were shooting sparks.

“No, ma’am, it’s not. I’ve got the documents in my truck, if you want to look them ov—”

She gave an adamant shake of her head, unleashing several red curls that immediately fell across her forehead. Brusquely she shoved them back. “I don’t care what papers you’ve got. Bobby can’t sell this property to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m buying it from him.”

“You’ve got a legal document to that effect?” Cimarron asked, recalling the earlier conversation he’d overheard between her and the local contractor.

Wyatt’s hands squeezed Cimarron’s leg in a death grip. He fought the urge to shake the boy off so he could concentrate. Sarah hesitated for a second, lips pressed tight.

“No, not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“We have a verbal agreement. It’s always been understood that he would sell the house to me.”

“An ‘understanding’ is not going to hold water. I’ve got a legal bill of sale.”

He considered ducking to avoid the daggers being thrown from her eyes.

“I don’t care. Your papers aren’t worth a plug nickel. A verbal agreement is binding, too. Bobby can give you the money back and the deal’s off.”

That underhanded brother of hers hadn’t told Cimarron that anybody else wanted the place. In fact, he’d never mentioned a sister at all. He’d acted like the house was his, free and clear.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Why?”

“Couple of reasons. For one thing, did it occur to you I might not want to negate the deal? I’ve got plans for this house.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What plans? Who are you anyway, and how do you know my brother? Why do you want my house?”

“Cimarron Cole. I met your brother last year in New Orleans and he told me about the house. I had a friend check the place out, and I made an offer. Bobby turned me down back then, but he called a few weeks ago to see if I was still interested. It seemed like a good investment…at the time.”

“How could he do this to me?” Bewilderment clouded her face for a moment, then she clenched her jaw and straightened her back. “And how did somebody check out my house without my permission?”

“Don’t guess he realized he needed permission. Bobby said the house was his, which I get the feeling is the truth. Maybe you were busy in the café and didn’t notice. I doubt he’d have been here long.”

“It doesn’t matter, Bobby and I had a verbal agreement and I want my house back. Just let me find him and make him return your money.”

“Good luck,” he said with a smirk.

“What do you mean by that?”

Cimarron gently disengaged Wyatt from his leg. “Go over there and play,” he said. Wyatt hesitated, still leery of the stranger. “Go, I said.” Cimarron gave the boy a slight push and Wyatt reluctantly crossed the floor to sit on the edge of the hearth, ready to bolt back at a moment’s notice.

Cimarron leaned against the window frame and crossed his arms. “The last time I saw your brother, the taillights of his brand-new Coachman RV were disappearing around the bend, and his new showgirl-turned-bride was waving her bejeweled hand out the window. I doubt the ink was dry on the sales contract.”

“What? He got married? Again?” Her exasperated voice rose to a squeak. “A Coachman? Isn’t that the big…”

Cimarron nodded. “Yep. About a hundred thousand dollars big. And the wedding rings were probably another fifteen grand.”

He thought the woman was going to faint for sure this time. Her hand flew to her throat and her mouth fell open. “How much did you pay?”

“A hell of a lot more than I would have if I’d known the real situation. But the fact is, Bobby’s already run through most of it and I don’t think you’re going to be seeing him for a while.”

She sank to the windowsill. “I don’t have that kind of money,” she whispered.

“I don’t want your money anyway. I want the house. Bobby never mentioned your interest in it.”

“He’s such a rotten brother,” she said.

Cimarron agreed, but held his tongue.

“This property has been in our family for generations. Bobby promised he’d sell his part to me.”

“I believe dear Bobby went for the bucks, not family loyalty. If I hadn’t bought it, his plan was to move on to the next bidder.”

She surprised him by muttering, “The little shit.” Then she looked up with bold determination. “I’ll get the money to buy it back. I’ll get a loan.”

“No bank’s going to loan you the amount I paid for this house. Not the way it looks right now.”

“I thought you said it was in good enough shape.”

“It is, but not to the casual eye.”

“I’ll get an appraiser.”

“It won’t appraise for what I intend to sell it for. Besides, you’d spend the rest of your life paying back that kind of loan, even with a bed-and-breakfast.”

“I don’t care.” She faced him squarely, her eyes glinting fire. “You’re not going to get it. I’ll sue you.”

“For what? It’s a binding bill of sale. We’ll be tied up in legal red tape for years. Can you afford that expense?”

“That’s my business.”

“Okay. But it’ll be a waste of time and money for both of us.”

“It’s not fair!”

Cimarron didn’t like the heaviness that had settled in his midsection. He hadn’t anticipated this stumbling block when he bought the old house, but he was pretty sure Sarah James couldn’t buy the place back at his price and he wasn’t about to lose money on the deal. “It’s life. And I won’t lose.”

“We’ll see about that,” she retorted and stalked over to the door. She turned back in the entryway. “You and your son can leave now. I’m locking the door.”

“Fine,” Cimarron said and motioned to Wyatt, who came to heel like a puppy and followed him outside. He didn’t mention the fact that Bobby had given him a set of keys to the house. No need to provoke her more.

At the truck, Wyatt slid into the backseat and Cimarron moved behind the wheel, then sat for a while with the door open, a boot propped on the dashboard, pondering his options. He’d never get any money back from Bobby. Sarah might risk everything she had to regain the house and Cimarron would have to add that guilt to the bundle that already weighed him down. Yet he couldn’t just throw his money to the wind. He’d intended to start work on this place right away, while he figured out what to do about Wyatt.

He thought about Sarah working so hard in the café that morning and recalled that her griddle was broken. They would never work things out as enemies. If he had to make a conciliatory move, so be it. He was a businessman and every day of lost work meant lost money.

Busy printing a lunch and dinner menu on the large chalkboard behind the counter, Sarah purposefully ignored Cimarron when he came into the café again. Without help and with only one side of her griddle working, she would be hardpressed to handle more than a few simple items today.

To her advantage, Saturdays in Little Lobo were usually slow. Working people took off to Livingston or Bozeman to shop and restock groceries. Ranchers and farmers had to catch up while they could. Usually, after breakfast no more than a dozen folks stopped by the café on a given Saturday. She planned to serve cold sandwiches and a big pot of soup. Even without Aaron, she could manage that.

Cimarron waited in silence for her to finish.

She laid her colored chalk in the tray at the bottom of the board and turned to face him. “What do you want?”

“Is your griddle working now?”

“No.”

“I could probably fix it for you.”

“Jack-of-all-trades,” she said with an edge of sarcasm that could have sliced beef. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“I’m offering.”

“No, thanks.”

His jaw hardened and a fist clenched, but he maintained his stony composure. “I didn’t intend to mess up your plans when I came here.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“It’s not me you should be mad with. Your brother’s the one who misled us both.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m mad with him. I just can’t get my hands on him right this minute.”

“That doesn’t bode well for me.” He shot her a disarming grin that revealed beautiful white teeth and warmed his eyes.

His charm almost worked. Almost. Sarah wasn’t going to be sucked in by a handsome face. “No, it doesn’t. So why don’t you leave?”

“We’re never going to come to an agreement if we can’t even talk.”

“There won’t be an agreement. You and Bobby cheated me, and I’m going to rectify that.”

“I didn’t cheat you. Long story short, I can’t afford to lose my money and you can’t afford to pay me back, so we’re going to have to work something out. In the meantime, let me look at your griddle before you open for lunch.”

“I don’t need it for lunch, but…” Grudgingly she gave a curt nod.

She moved out of his way as he came around the counter. At least that would be one thing she wouldn’t have to worry about. He fiddled with the griddle controls, then inched the heavy unit away from the wall.

“Where’s your little boy?”

“Wyatt?” He glanced at his knee. “You mean he’s not attached to my leg?”

She looked around for the child, noticing a small foot sticking out of one of the booths. The child was lying on his stomach on the bench, his head resting on his arm.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asked him.

“He’ll be fine,” Cimarron said as Wyatt lifted his head to look at her. He put his head back down and said nothing.

Sarah frowned. “I don’t mind giving him—”

“Do you have any tools in here. If not, I’ve got mine in the truck.”

None of my business. She pulled a worn leather tool pouch from under the counter. Cimarron chose a screwdriver and took the back off the unit.

“Here’s the problem,” he said. “One of your burners is shot.”

“So you can’t fix it?”

“Not without a new part. Any appliance-repair places around here?”

“Bozeman,” she said glumly.

“Okay. I’ll drive into Bozeman and try to find a replacement.”

“That’s too much trouble.”

“Do you have any other options?”

Sarah gave that some serious thought. Seemed she was fresh out of options on all sides.

“Not at the moment. I called around and the local repairman is out of town for several days. Of course, nobody from Bozeman will come this far out without adding a surcharge—and never on a weekend.”

“Then I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I…I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t want to owe you any favors.”

“The only thing I ask in return is that you quit skewering me for something your brother did. Let’s see how things look in the morning. Can you just do that?”

Still in shock, and with two more meals to serve before she could rest, Sarah was in no mood to capitulate. But if this stranger wanted to fix her griddle, let him.

“I’ll pay you to fix it, but your stealing my house still won’t look any different to me tomorrow.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE AIR WAS COOL and clear at the top of Bozeman Pass and the unrelenting wind whipped through Cimarron’s open truck windows as he enjoyed the panorama spread before him. This part of Montana called to his heart, even more than his native Idaho.

Why return to a place that triggered unhappy memories of the medicinal smells, sickbeds, and the depression and hopelessness of watching one parent die while the other spiraled into a void of alcohol and irresponsibility? Where roots no longer existed, except in the lonely country graveyard where his brother was now buried next to their mother. His only remaining family—that he was willing to claim, anyway—was firmly planted in the backseat of the pickup as they barreled along.

Cimarron hadn’t expected the determined challenge from Sarah James, but he stood a good chance of wearing her down—especially since he suspected she didn’t have the money to put up a convincing fight. He’d just have to hang around until everything was resolved.

That had a definite upside. Cimarron arched an eyebrow and smiled. Even at her maddest, she was cute as a freckled puppy, with her shining red hair, flaming cheeks and eyes the color of an endless sky.

Maybe everything would actually work out. Unless she managed to destroy the big house while he was gone. Not a good thought. He barely knew the woman, and judging by her brother’s character, anything was possible. He pushed the speedometer up a notch. She could burn his place to the ground by the time he made the round-trip to Bozeman.

“Unca Cimron, are we gonna live in that house?”

Cimarron glanced at Wyatt, then back at the highway. Buckled into a booster seat, Wyatt rotated his toy truck in his hands, pretending to study it.

“Maybe for a while. Why?”

A small shoulder shrugged. “Don’t look very nice.”

“Well, I plan to fix it up.”

“Oh. Do you have a house somewhere else for us to live?”

“No. I don’t have a house. I live in this truck. And sometimes I live in a trailer, when I’m working on a house.”

“Can we live in a trailer while you work on that house?”

“Might be fun to live in the house. We can pretend we’re camping out.”

“That lady said no.”

“That lady doesn’t know everything.”

“It’s kinda spooky. That old house…”

“You scared?” In the rearview mirror, Cimarron caught a glimpse of Wyatt’s lower lip trembling. “Come on, you’re a big boy. Besides, it’s just old. Nothing in there to be scared of. Anyway, we won’t be here that long.”

Wyatt brightened. “Okay.”

“Listen, Wyatt…” Cimarron licked his dry lips. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think you’d be happier living with somebody besides me? I mean, I’m on the road all the time and…”

“My daddy,” Wyatt said softly. “That’s all.”

“Yeah, I understand. But you know how that is. I was just wondering…” Cimarron let the words trail off as his palms grew sweaty on the steering wheel. Sooner or later, he had to tell Wyatt about his plans, but somehow he chickened out every time he tried to explain. He had no business scoffing at Wyatt for being afraid of a spooky old house. He was completely frightened by a five-year-old. Not to mention his brother’s ghost.

“I don’t want to live with nobody else.”

Cimarron pulled into the parking lot of a large home-improvement store, hoping to find the part he needed. Three stores later, he found a replacement burner and they headed toward Little Lobo once more. Cimarron breathed a sigh of relief when he pulled into the parking lot. The house was still standing.

He took the new burner and the tools required from the back of his truck. Sarah was nowhere to be found, but the rear door to the café stood open and the screen was unlatched. The place was spotless. Apparently she’d made it through lunch. Cimarron put Wyatt in the booth with his backpack of toys and went behind the counter to work.

Sarah came in the kitchen door a few minutes later and busied herself there while he continued to work in the dining area. Half an hour later, he wiped the last trace of grease from the stainless griddle. He walked into the other room to clean his hands.

Chopping an onion with a vengeance on a cutting board near the double sinks, Sarah didn’t look up. Through the windows the disputed house loomed, a reminder of the reason for the tension hovering in the room.

“Your griddle’s fixed.”

Silence.

A to-do list hung on the corkboard above the counter.

Chop onions

Soup base

Fry bacon

Slice tomatoes

Peel boiled eggs

Ice in front bin

Slice deli meat

Brew fresh coffee

Cimarron stopped reading and put a large skillet on the stove. Adjusting the heat, he rummaged in the refrigerator until he found a butcher-paper packet marked Bacon. He laid the strips side by side until the bottom of the pan was covered, the only sound in the room that of the meat beginning to sizzle and the rat-a-tat-tat of Sarah’s chopping. Sarah cut her eyes around at him.