An Old-Fashioned Love

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

“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.