Chapter Two
Rumer ran after Sullivan, because what else was she supposed to do? She certainly wasn’t going to stand around hoping for the best. Lu had raised her to be proactive, to get her hands dirty, to act when others wouldn’t. Truehart women weren’t damsels in distress, sitting in their towers, praying someone would rescue them. They might be terrible at sewing hems and choosing men, but they were damn good at fighting battles for themselves and others.
She followed Sullivan past a new-looking SUV, a faded-red Chevy passenger van, a two-story garage. She chased him across the old dirt road and into a field of wild grass and brambles. In the distance, the Spokane River wound a lazy path across the horizon. Shallow and calm in some areas. Deep and dangerous in others.
People died there all the time. Adult people who should know better than to risk being swept away by the current. Little kids didn’t usually think past the moment, and she could picture any one of the third-graders she’d taught going off on a goldfish-finding expedition, not giving a thought to rushing water, frigid temperatures, or slippery rocks. She didn’t know how old the twins were, but if they were young enough to think there were goldfish in the Spokane, they weren’t old enough to be near the river by themselves.
Thanks to Sullivan’s quick pace, they crossed the field in record time, sprinted across a bed of wilted wildflowers and headed down the steep embankment that led to the river.
Sullivan seemed to have no difficulty navigating the nearly vertical slope.
Rumer, on the other hand, slipped and slid her way down, reaching for scrub-like bushes that jutted out from the rocky bank, doing everything in her power to not tumble headfirst into the water.
“Careful,” Sullivan said, grabbing her hand and helping her the last few feet to the river’s rocky shore.
“Thanks,” she responded, her hand still in his.
She would have pulled away, but he was running again, tugging her toward a small shed-like structure a few hundred yards upriver. She couldn’t see a dock. Just the blue-green river and the pine trees that jutted up from the opposite bank.
“Milo!” Sullivan shouted. “Maddox! You two had better not be playing in the river!”
No response.
“Boys!” he tried again.
Rumer could hear the desperation in his voice, feel the tension in the fingers that were still woven through hers.
He was terrified.
So was she.
The river was rushing past. Other than that, the morning was silent and still. Eerily so. Nature had movement and sound. When it didn’t, trouble was brewing.
“Milo?! Maddox?!” she shouted.
A towheaded boy ran around the side of the boathouse. Maybe seven. Scrawny. Feet kicking up pebbles and sand as he beelined it toward her.
Another boy ran after him, just as blond. Just as scrawny.
“Mom!” the second boy shouted, and Rumer’s heart dropped.
He must have heard a female voice and thought his mother was home from the hospital. He was racing toward her, smiling as if every wish he’d ever made had come true.
She knew the moment he realized the truth.
He skidded to a stop a few feet in front of her, his smile disappearing.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded as his brother stopped beside him.
“Maddox,” Sullivan cautioned. “What did I tell you about language like that?”
“Not to use it at school,” the boy replied, his eyes still fastened on Rumer. “And, I’m Milo.”
“I told you not to use it at all,” Sullivan corrected. “And, you’re Maddox.”
“Prove it.” Maddox’s hands were fisted, his jaw tight. He had a thick purple scar on the side of his neck that looked like it was from a burn. Another smaller scar peeked out from beneath his too-short jacket sleeves.
“Milo doesn’t have a scar on his neck,” Sullivan pointed out. “And you don’t have one on your cheek.”
Maddox’s scowl deepened, his gaze cutting from Rumer to his uncle.
If looks could kill, Sullivan would be dead.
“I know things have been tough around here since your parents’—” Sullivan began, his voice gentler than Rumer would have imagined it could be.
“I’m going back to the house.” Maddox cut him off, tossing the words over his shoulder as he raced to the embankment and began climbing.
His twin was right behind him, silently following in his footsteps. Aside from the location of their scars, they looked exactly alike: same height, same weight, same hair and eyes. Same lanky arms, long legs, and oversized feet. They’d be tall, one day.
If they survived childhood.
“Damn,” Sullivan muttered.
“He seems a little angry.”
“His dad is gone. His mother is in the hospital. He’s got a clueless uncle living with him. He’s a cauldron of boiling rage, and I don’t blame him.”
“What about Milo?” she asked, watching as the boys reached the top of the embankment and took off. Hopefully for the house.
“I couldn’t tell you. He doesn’t talk much, and I’ve been too busy trying to put out the fires his brother is setting to sit down and try to have a heart-to-heart.” He started walking, and she followed, her feet digging into soft pebbly earth, the cuffs of Minnie’s pants dragging. She would have hiked them up, but the damage had already been done. Both cuffs were stained. She wasn’t sure, but she thought one might be ripped.
“A counselor might be able to help all the kids with this transition,” she suggested, picking her way across smooth river rocks and sharp twigs.
“They’re seeing the school counselor.”
“Is it helping?”
“Does it look like it is?” he asked wryly as he started up the steep slope.
“It’s going to take time, Sullivan,” she panted as she tried to get up the embankment. That seemed to be as treacherous as going down had been.
Maybe more so, because she wasn’t panicking now. She was thinking things through, trying to find hand and toeholds, digging her feet into soft earth and wrapping her fingers around scraggly bushes. She slipped, rocks and dirt rolling out from under her and dropping straight into the river. She hadn’t realized how easy it would be to tumble into the Spokane.
“You okay?” Sullivan called.
“Peachy, but falling into the river and drowning will make finding a job a lot more difficult,” she murmured as she reached for the next bush.
“That’s for damn sure,” Sullivan responded, wrapping his hand around her wrist and pulling her up. One minute she was struggling. The next she was at the top, his warm hand still wrapped around her wrist.
And, God! It felt good.
“Thanks,” she managed to say, tugging her wrist from his and rubbing at the spot where his fingers had been, trying to will away the warmth that seemed to linger there.
He noticed.
Of course.
His gaze dropped to her wrist, and then settled on her face. “No problem. Now that you’ve met the boys, are you still game to be interviewed for the job?”
He was direct and to the point.
She liked that.
What she didn’t like was the way she felt when she looked in his gorgeous eyes. The little shivery awakening in the pit of her stomach. The warmth in her cheeks. The way she had to fight to keep her hands at her sides rather than reaching to brush away the smudge of frosting on his neck.
“I might not be the right candidate for the job,” she hedged. The pay was great. She could use the money. The kids obviously needed someone who could provide a little stability, a little maternal love, and a whole lot of structure. And, the house. God! The house! That was a mess she could have cleaned up in two shakes of a stick, if she wanted to.
But, Sullivan was trouble.
Lots of it.
And, she’d already decided she was going to avoid that.
“How about you let me decide that?” he asked.
“The thing is—”
“You came here, Rumer. You obviously need a job.”
“Just until my grandmother’s medical bills are paid off.”
“Has she been ill?”
“She had a heart attack and triple bypass surgery. We’re fortunate she survived. I took a leave of absence from my teaching job to help while she recovered.”
“You’re a teacher?”
“I did tell you I had a degree in special education,” she pointed out.
“That doesn’t mean you had a job in it,” he replied.
“I did. I work at a Montessori school in Seattle. I’ve been there for six years. I’m contracted again for the fall of next year. This year, though, is a bust.” They’d reached the road. If she turned east, she could find her way back to the truck, call someone to tow her out of the ditch and go back to the homestead.
But, of course, she kept walking with Sullivan, taking two steps for every one of his.
“And, that’s why you’re looking for work?”
“Like I said, Lu has medical bills that need to be paid.”
“Lu?”
“My grandmother.”
“You’re on a first-name basis with her?”
“We didn’t meet until I was fourteen. I called her Lu to annoy the hell out of her in the hope that she’d send me packing.”
“I see,” he responded, scanning her from head to toe again.
“I doubt it,” she replied, and he shrugged.
“You didn’t have an easy childhood. You probably spent time in quite a few different homes before Lu found you. You understand a lot more about being a tween girl like Heavenly than I ever could. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty damn sure you’re a grown-up version of my oldest niece,” he said matter-of-factly. “Am I wrong?”
No, damn it, he wasn’t.
He’d hit every nail straight on the head.
“Look,” she said, totally avoiding his question, because there was no way she’d ever admit how right he’d been. “It’s obvious you need full-time help. I’ve got obligations to my grandmother. Until she’s able to muck stalls, carry feed, and groom her horses, I need to be there on the weekends when her part-time help isn’t. Obviously, that’s not going to be a good fit for the job you’re offering.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“I’ve already explained,” she said. “Lu owns Sunshine Acres. She trains horses for therapy work and has a few dozen clients with a variety of disabilities who come and ride. Most of them like to ride on the weekends. I can’t just abandon her on her busiest days.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“My brothers have been trying to fly in every weekend to help, so you can have Saturday and Sunday off. Probably Friday evening, too. Will that work?”
“Yes,” she said without thinking.
“Great.” Sullivan opened a dingy white gate that led into the overgrown backyard, smiling into her eyes as she walked past.
That’s when she realized what she’d said.
What she’d agreed to.
“What I mean is, it could work. If you offered the job, and I accepted it. I’d really need to discuss things with Lu. She may need me more than I’m thinking. She’s very particular about the way things are done at the homestead.”
“Homestead?”
“The farm. That’s what she’s always called it. No television out there. No cable. No Wi-Fi. She didn’t have running water in the house until the year I moved in. She needed it to get approved as my guardian. Otherwise, she probably still wouldn’t have it.”
“Your grandmother sounds like an interesting person,” Sullivan commented, apparently determined to ignore the fact that Rumer had backtracked on her agreement regarding hours of employment.
“Lucille Ball Truehart is one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.” And, that was the God-honest truth.
“Lucille Ball?” He touched her back as she made her way up the back steps, and the little shiver in her stomach turned into a dozen butterflies taking flight.
“Her mother was big into television when Lu was born.”
They’d reached the backdoor.
Finally.
Which was great, because she needed to say her good-byes and be on her way.
“You have an unusual name, too. What was your mother into?” he asked.
“Drugs.” Once again, she opened her mouth without thinking. Once again, she spoke the God-honest truth.
“Like I said,” he responded. “You’re a grown-up version of my niece. Right now, she really needs someone like you in her life.”
The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable.
It was in his eyes, too. In his face, and she couldn’t resist it any more than she could resist loving six kids who were obviously hurting and troubled and in need of a person who understood that.
And, therein lay the crux of the problem.
Rumer never gave just a piece of herself. She was all in or she wasn’t in at all, and the Bradshaw kids? They needed all-in. They needed someone who was willing to love them and then let them go. Rumer didn’t think she could be that person any more than she thought she could spend five days a week working for Sullivan and not fall a little in love with him.
She knew her strengths and her weaknesses.
This man and those kids?
They were her Kryptonite, her Achilles’ heel, the things most likely to shatter her heart.
“I need to go,” she murmured, brushing past him and heading back down the stairs.
“Isn’t your truck in a ditch?” Sullivan called as she reached the corner of the house.
Right. It was.
“I’ll call a tow truck.”
“Is it a pickup?”
“Yes.”
“I can pull it out for you.”
“There’s no need—”
“Your truck wouldn’t be in the ditch, if my niece hadn’t walked out in front of you. The least I can do is pull it out so you can be on your way. Can I have your keys?”
He seemed to understand that she wasn’t going to accept the cook / housekeeper / nanny job. That being the case, the sooner she got away from the house, the kids and him, the better.
“They’re in the ignition,” she said.
“My SUV is over near the barn. We can use that.” He was already fishing in his pocket, dragging out car keys.
“You go ahead. I’ll walk.” Because, she wasn’t getting in a vehicle with him. She wasn’t going to sit in a warm cab, listening to whatever style of music he liked, making small talk.
That’s how things had started with Jake—a broken-down car, a ride home. Three weeks later, their first date and then their second. She’d fallen for his charm and his smile, and she’d told herself that they had so much in common they were guaranteed a happily-ever-after. Both college students studying teaching. Both into jazz music and slow dancing. Neither drank to excess, smoked, or did drugs. Both wanted to settle down after college, get married, have a couple of kids.
Six years, two apartments, and a boatload of heartache later, she’d realized that only one of them wanted a monogamous relationship. It wasn’t Jake.
“I don’t bite, Rumer,” Sullivan said with a smile that made her toes curl in the cool grass.
“I’m not afraid of you biting,” she responded. I’m afraid of you breaking my heart. “I need to find my shoes before I go back to the homestead. They’re my aunt’s. Vintage. She’ll be pissed if they’re missing.”
“All right,” he agreed. “I’ll pull your truck out and leave the keys under the mat.”
He didn’t mention the job again and she told herself she was glad. Walking away was the reasonable thing to do, the best thing.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about Moisey dressed in a tutu and tiara wandering away from home. Or the twins, slipping and sliding down the slope that led to the Spokane River.
She reached the side of the house, turned toward the path that led across the field. She’d have followed through with her plan to leave if she hadn’t smelled smoke. Not wood smoke, either. This was a burnt popcorn kind of smoke.
Or burnt cake.
She frowned.
“Just keep going, Rumer,” she said out loud, because she needed to hear the words, and she needed to listen to them. “It has nothing to do with you.”
Except that it did. There were a bunch of kids in that house, and Sullivan was gone, pulling her truck out of a ditch. If someone died because she hadn’t checked things out, she’d never forgive herself.
She hurried back the way she’d come, darting up the back stairs and reaching for the door.
It flew open, and she grabbed it, stepping to the side as smoke and kids poured out.
The twins. Twila. Moisey. Heavenly, the baby in her arms.
She counted heads, then walked inside, Heavenly standing on the threshold and watching as she made her way through black smoke and into the kitchen.
“Why aren’t you gone?” Heavenly demanded.
“Take the baby into the yard until I get the smoke cleared,” she responded.
Heavenly thrust the baby at Twila. “Hold her while I put out the fire.”
“What fire?” Rumer asked, but she could see it now—a charred cake pan sitting in the sink, tiny flames shooting up from it.
She reached over the mess, turned on the faucet and coughed as smoke and steam filled her nose.
“Shit,” Heavenly muttered.
“Language,” Rumer replied.
“Sullivan is going to hit the ceiling when he sees this mess.”
“Who says he’s going to see it?”
“There’s smoke everywhere.” Heavenly dropped into a chair and made a production out of looking at her phone. Obviously, she wasn’t keen on having Rumer around.
“The fire is out. Open the windows. Tell your siblings to come inside.”
“I figured you were leaving, and you could tell them on your way out.”
“You figured wrong.” Rumer turned off the water and surveyed the wreck of a kitchen. No child deserved to have a birthday as bad as this one was shaping up to be. No cake. No presents that Rumer could see. Messes everywhere. The smell of slop and smoke filling the house.
“And?” Heavenly was still scrolling through her phone.
“This place is a disaster. So, how about you get your butt out of the chair and do what I asked? We have work to do.”
That got Heavenly’s attention.
She met Rumer’s eyes, and there was no mistaking her surprise and irritation.
“Who died and . . .” Her voice trailed off, because someone had died, and she must have realized exactly how childish she sounded.
Smart kid with a big attitude.
The smarts could be cultivated and the attitude could be curbed, but that wasn’t anything to do with Rumer. All she wanted was to make sure Twila didn’t have the worst birthday of her life. At least, that’s what she was telling herself.
She suspected it was a lie.
She really did.
Because, she knew herself, and she knew her weaknesses, and these kids and this house and their trouble? They were it.
“Go on,” she prodded. “We don’t have all day to make your sister’s birthday nice.”
Heavenly stared into Rumer’s eyes for another couple of seconds, and then she slowly set the phone down. Slowly got up. Sloooowly went to the back door. Every bit of her scrawny body screaming her displeasure.
She probably wouldn’t have done it at all if she hadn’t been so shocked by Rumer’s insistence.
Rumer grabbed a bottle of dish soap and squirted it into the blackened cake pan. She could hear Heavenly yelling for the crew to come inside, and she grabbed a few dishcloths from a pile near the sink, rinsed them all with hot water, and was waiting when five kids tromped through the mudroom and into the kitchen.
“It’s time,” she said before any of them could escape. “To get to work.”
“What work?” Maddox asked, his hands on his skinny hips, his eyes flashing with ire. She figured he was still angry that she wasn’t his mother.
“Work that’s going to make your mamma happy when she finally gets home.” She held out a rag and he took it, frowning a little but not arguing.
“If she comes home,” Heavenly said morosely. She was holding the baby again, bouncing her gently to keep her from fussing.
“I choose to believe that she will. When she does, do you want her walking into a house caked with food, mold, and soot?” She handed another rag to Milo and one to Moisey.
“I do not,” Twila said, opening a narrow closet and pulling out a broom, a bucket, and a mop.
“That’s what I thought,” Rumer said cheerfully, because at least Twila seemed on board with the plan. “You guys get to work. I’ll start the cake.”
“We used the last box of cake mix, so good luck with that,” Heavenly muttered, but she’d grabbed a clean rag from a drawer and was wiping the baby’s face.
“Boxed cake mix is a luxury for the uninspired. We can manage without,” Rumer replied, opening the window above the sink and letting cold crisp air swirl in. The place still smelled like burnt food and pig slop. Three of the five old-enough-to-work kids were frozen in place, clutching damp rags and staring at her like she had two heads and a forked tongue.
Or, like she was nuts.
Which she obviously was.
She should be searching for her shoes, not pulling eggs out of the fridge and flour out of the pantry closet, but there she was . . . doing exactly what she shouldn’t.
An hour.
That’s how much time she’d give herself to make the cake and straighten the kitchen. Any longer than that and she might start feeling things she shouldn’t. Like sympathy, obligation, concern.
Who was she kidding?
She already felt all those things, but she was still only giving an hour, because it was Saturday, and Minnie had probably gone off to do her weekly garage sale hunting. Lu’s part-time employees only worked weekdays, and at noon, someone would have to check on the horses. Knowing Lu, she’d decide it needed to be done before Rumer or Minnie returned.
Yeah. An hour. That should be just enough time to finish and not enough for Lu to get into trouble.
She eyed the clock, grabbed a clean mixing bowl from a glass-faced cupboard, and began.
* * *
Pulling the truck out of the ditch took a little longer than Sullivan expected. First, it was an old truck—a 1970s Ford. Solidly built and heavy. Second, the back bumper was loose, and he’d had to jerry-rig it before he could attach the towline. He managed it with duct tape and rope he kept for emergencies. It felt good to let off a little steam doing something physical that wasn’t related to housecleaning or kid herding.
Once he had the bumper secured and the towline attached, it took three tries to get enough momentum from his SUV to drag the beast out. He checked the truck, made sure there wasn’t enough damage to keep it from running, placed the key under the driver’s side floor mat, and climbed back into his vehicle. Rumer hadn’t appeared, yet. She was probably still hunting for her shoes. Either that, or she’d decided to take her chances and hitchhike back to wherever she’d come from.
No way would anyone in her right mind take a job like the one he and his brothers were offering. Not after seeing the house, the kids, the chaos. No. A logical, smart and savvy person would take one look at the situation and run. If Matt hadn’t been his brother, if Sunday weren’t his sister-in-law, if the kids weren’t his nieces and nephews, that’s what Sullivan would have done.
As it was, he was stuck.
Matt had been his brother.
Sunday was his sister-in-law.
That made the kids his problem. His very big problem.
He sat in his SUV for a few seconds considering his options for escape. Which were just about none. He was there, thanks to his oldest brother Flynn’s planning. “You’re on sabbatical. We both have things to tie up at home. Give us some time to do that. We’ll come back and discuss long-term plans if they’re needed.”
Sullivan couldn’t deny that the plan was sound or that it made sense. He’d helped create it, for God’s sake—he and Porter and Flynn sitting up into the early hours of the morning hashing things out, deciding what was best for a bunch of kids they barely knew.
God! What a mess!
Three bachelors. No experience. Six kids with backgrounds that would make the hardest heart melt with sympathy. Sullivan didn’t have to read the foster and adoption files to know they’d all been through hell. He could see the scars, the defensive postures, the anger.
He scowled, starting the engine and doing a U-turn, heading back toward the house because it’s what he’d promised to do. He wasn’t sure if Matthias had had a premonition or if he’d just been worried about his family, but three months ago, he’d called and asked Sullivan if he’d be guardian to the kids if anything were to happen to him and Sunday.
Hell no! had been Sullivan’s response.
He regretted that now. Regretted that his brother had gone to the grave with no certainty about the kids’ future. But, Sullivan had promised to keep an eye on things, make certain that whoever was guardian would do right by his nieces and nephews.
This was a lot closer of an eye than he’d planned, but he couldn’t walk away. Not with Sunday in the hospital and everything up in the air. If she survived, great. If she didn’t . . .
He didn’t want to go there.
Didn’t want to contemplate what would happen to the kids.
Matt hadn’t named a guardian in his will.
Sunday hadn’t either.
Which meant that the kids had no one unless one of their uncles anteed up and agreed to take them.
More than likely, they’d split the duties. Four-month stints at the farm, because they’d all agreed the kids shouldn’t be shuttled from home to home.
They’d agreed, but none of them were happy about it.
Not one of them had planned to return to Benevolence for any length of time. Ever. They’d worked too hard, gone too far in their lives to be rerouted back to the place they’d all escaped. Porter had suggested buying a house in a central location and settling the kids there, but Pleasant Valley Farm was their heritage, and Flynn had every intention of seeing it succeed and watching his nieces and nephews take over running it one day.
The fact that he had a cattle ranch in Texas had probably influenced his perspective, but Sullivan had seen his point. Sunday’s family had owned the acreage for five generations. It was the birthright of the next generation, and he wanted the kids to make their own decisions about whether to keep it or not.
Two votes for keeping the kids at the farm. One against.
Porter hadn’t been happy, but he’d conceded defeat and agreed to the plan.
And now he and Flynn were back at their homes, tying up loose ends, putting things in place so they could return and be there when Sunday recovered.
Or didn’t.
And, Sullivan was here. In the second level of hell, knee-deep in kid crap and attitudes.
He parked the truck and got out.
No noise from the house, so that—at least—was good.
One of the boys had left a scooter near the driveway, and he carried it into the two-car garage, setting it next to a row of bikes, trying not to notice the empty bay. His brother’s car should be there. The fancy Corvette that a guy who had six kids didn’t need and really couldn’t use. Why he’d had it was a mystery, but Sullivan had seen the bent carcass, the crushed metal and shattered windows. The fact that Sunday had survived was a miracle. Matt and the drunk driver who’d hit them hadn’t been as lucky.
The medical bills were being paid for. The insurance adjuster had already cut a check for the blue-book value of the Corvette. None of that could bring Matt back or cause Sunday to wake up completely healed. None of it could give the kids back what they’d lost.
He shoved the morose thoughts away.
He had a damn cake to make and a birthday to celebrate.
Twila deserved that. Even if her world was falling apart and all the pieces that had come together to bring her to the USA and to Sunday and Matt and the farm had separated again, she could have cake and a rousing off-tune rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.”
He opened the mudroom door, expecting to hear the usual cacophony of noise—twins playing, Heavenly blasting music, Moisey singing something completely different, Oya crying.
He heard . . .
Silence.
And, that was terrifying.
“Kids!” he yelled, barreling into the kitchen, skidding across a wet floor.
“Careful,” someone said. “The boys just mopped the floor.”
Not someone.
Rumer.
Standing at the sink, scrubbing out a bowl, Moisey beside her with a rag, a pile of sparkling dishes in front of her.
The counter was sparkling, too.
The floor.
The cupboard faces and the pantry door.
All of it . . .
Clean.
“I’ve been gone twenty minutes,” he said, his gaze on the rocking chair that someone had carried from the nursery and set right in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Twila was sitting in it, a plastic crown-like thing on her head, Oya in her arms. She was feeding the baby a bottle and humming quietly.
Tranquility. That’s what he was seeing. Quiet. Order. Structure. All the things he’d dreamed about when he was a kid but had never had. All the things he wanted for Matt’s kids but couldn’t seem to achieve.
“Twenty-five minutes,” Rumer responded, wiping her hands on a dishrag and tossing it into a laundry hamper that was sitting nearby. Empty. Not one towel, rag, or piece of clothing in it. “Not that we were counting.”
“The truck’s bumper was loose,” he offered by way of explanation, and she nodded. No smile. Just that nod and steady gaze.
“It needs a little work. Kind of like this house.” She said it deadpan, but there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. Blue eyes. Or violet. Or some odd shade in between. He wasn’t sure, and found himself staring a little too deeply, searching for a little too long.
If that made her uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. She sure as heck didn’t look away. She just stared right back.
“By a little,” he said. “I’m assuming you mean a lot.”
“Something like that,” she responded. “Fortunately, many hands make light work.” She gestured around the sparkling kitchen. No ring on her left hand. Which he shouldn’t have noticed but did.
“The kids did this?”
“Who else?” She walked to the stove, turned on the light, and peered inside. “This has another fifteen minutes. Don’t open the door until the timer goes off. If you do it’ll sink. Not cute and not yummy.”
“It?”
“The cake? It’s Lu’s pound cake recipe. You’ll want to poke it with a toothpick when the timer goes off. If the toothpick comes out clean, the cake is ready. Frosting is here.” She opened the fridge and took out a bowl of what looked like whipped cream. “Twila said she wanted strawberry cake. I suggested strawberry-topped cake, and she thought that would be good. Right, hun?” She touched Twila’s shoulder, and to Sullivan’s surprise, to his absolute shock, Twila smiled.
A sweet, young, unguarded smile. The kind a kid offered when she trusted someone.
“Yes. I think that would be very nice.”
“The strawberries are here.” Rumer pulled a bowl from the fridge and held it up. “Just a little sugar to bring out the juices. Let the cake cool before you cut and top it. No need to frost the whole thing. Just slice it, plate it, and pile on the whipped cream and strawberries. Extra for our birthday girl.”
She lifted the laundry basket and carried it into the mudroom, still talking about the cake and birthdays, candles and singing. He followed her, walking into the narrow room and watching as she tossed the dirty rag into the washing machine.
“I’m turning this on,” she said, closing the door and pushing start. “If you forget to put the load in the dryer when it’s finished, you’re going to have a mess of stinky, moldy towels and dishrags.”
“I may not know how to make a cake, but I sure as heck know how to do laundry,” he said dryly, and she grinned.
“Great, because I had the kids gather all their dirty clothes and pile them on the couch in the living room. Milo is separating light and dark. He’s been at it for a while. Must be quite a lot of clothes.”
“There are seven people in the house,” he pointed out.
Her grin widened. “Right. And, when was the last time any of you ran a load of laundry?”
“Probably . . .” Never. Not that he could recall. “Things have been a little crazy around here. Their mom is in a hospital in Spokane. That’s a forty-minute drive each way.”
“That’s hard, Sullivan,” she responded, all her amusement gone. “It’s difficult on all of you, but kids need structure and order and routine. I don’t want to stick my nose too far into your business, so I’ll just say that a weekly chore chart would be a good idea. Incentives tend to work with kids. A little cash or a special treat. Some kind of carrot dangling in front of their noses.”
She had a point.
A good one.
He wasn’t all that keen on sitting down and putting the chart together, but Twila was the kind of kid who’d probably love it.
“And, don’t ask Twila to make the chart just because she’s the most organized,” Rumer said as if she’d read his mind. “Heavenly is the oldest, and she’s just as capable. Putting her in charge might win you a few points with her. Then again”—she straightened and moved toward the back door, grabbing her purse from a hook on the wall—“it might not. Good luck with everything! Thanks for towing the truck out. See you around!”
She was outside before he could respond, walking down the steps and into the yard. Bare feet and arms. Pretty little white shirt and butter yellow bell-bottoms. Wild curls and grass stains. And, his only chance of surviving the next few days or weeks or months. It wasn’t like anyone else was knocking on the door begging for the job his brothers had advertised.
He frowned, walking back through the mudroom and into the kitchen. Someone had left the window cracked open, but the oven seemed to be keeping the room warm. He could smell the cake—sugar, butter, vanilla. Caught a hint of smoke and laundry detergent beneath it all. Somewhere outside, a kid was giggling, the sound carrying in on a cool fall breeze.
This was what home should be. He’d been working toward it since he’d arrived with no success. The kids fought him tooth and nail. They fought one another. They fought at school.
Every. Single. Damn. Day.
“I like her,” Moisey said, breaking the tranquil silence. “You should bring her back.”
“It might be hard to convince her to come after the mess she saw today,” he said bluntly.
Too bluntly, because Moisey’s face crumbled and a tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away with her sleeve.
No. Not her sleeve.
She was wearing a yellow jacket that hung off one shoulder and fell nearly to her ankles. Butter yellow. The same color as Rumer’s bell-bottoms.
“Sorry, kiddo,” he mumbled, crouching so they were face-to-face. He didn’t touch her. He’d made that mistake the first time he’d seen her cry, trying to pull her in for a hug that she didn’t want. She had a killer left hook. “Tell you what. Once the cake is done and we’ve had Twila’s birthday, I’ll call Rumer and talk to her.”
“You will?” She eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and hope.
“Sure.”
“You promise?”
He hesitated. Promises weren’t his thing. He’d heard too many of them made, seen too many of them broken. But, this was a small thing. An easy thing. A phone call. He hadn’t gotten Rumer’s phone number, but there couldn’t be many horse therapy programs in the area. He doubted there was more than one run by someone named Lu. It should be easy enough to track Rumer down. He’d make the call. He’d offer the job. She’d accept or decline and life would go on. “I promise.”
“That you’re going to talk to her, right?” Moisey said, still not quite believing him.
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Not just her voice mail?”
“Moisey Bethlehem, I said: I’ll talk to her,” he responded, exasperated.
Something flitted in her eyes and across her face. There. Gone.
“You sounded just like Daddy,” she whispered, and then she ran off, the too-big jacket trailing on the floor behind her.