Home with You by Shirlee McCoy (1)

Chapter One

Here’s how it all went down:

She’d been sitting at the kitchen table, minding her own business, trying to eat breakfast. She’d had the newspaper in just the right position to block her view of Lu and the little glass cup that held Lu’s false teeth. Nearly two months living back on the homestead, and she knew the routine. No Internet. No TV. Five a.m. breakfast followed by mucking out the stalls and feeding all twelve of Lu’s therapy horses.

So, yeah . . .

She’d been trying to eat breakfast before she mucked the stalls. Multitasking, munching on toast and searching the help-wanted section of the local paper for a job.

God knew, she had to have one of those.

Lu needed money, and Rumer was going to make sure she had it. She’d already emptied out her savings and cashed in her 401 (k), but there were still medical bills to pay. She’d be able to go back to teaching in Seattle once Lu recovered enough, but right now her only option for making money was finding a job somewhere local. Until she managed to do that, finances were tight.

That made Lu worry.

Worry wasn’t good for someone who’d had triple bypass surgery. That being the case, Rumer had decided to get a job or two and put every dime she made into paying off Lu’s remaining medical bills. When she went back to Seattle at the beginning of the next school year, she wanted to know that Lu was going to be okay both physically and financially.

And, that’s why she’d been sitting at the tiny kitchen table in Lu’s tiny house ignoring the false teeth and looking for work. If things had played out the way they had for the past couple of weeks, she’d have seen nothing in the help-wanted section, dumped the remainder of her toast in the scrap bucket, and headed out to do the chores. But, in one of those cosmic twists of fate or moments of divine intervention, Lu had shoved another paper across the table and directly in front of Rumer.

“Rumer Truehart,” she’d said, tapping the page. “Take a look at that.”

That had been the gossipy little newspaper that was published in the next town over: the Benevolence Times. Lu had been having the paper delivered for as long as Rumer could remember.

“What is it you want me to see?” she’d asked, glancing at the black print but not interested in reading the byline. She wasn’t much for gossip. Probably because she’d so often been fodder for it.

“The county fair is two weeks from now.” Lu had jabbed at the announcement. “Bet they’ll have some horses and ponies.”

“You already have twelve,” Rumer had pointed out reasonably. She hadn’t wanted to start an argument. She hadn’t wanted to remind Lu of the medical bills or the cost of feed for the horses. She’d just wanted to get on with her morning.

“So? What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?” Lu had huffed. True to form, she hadn’t taken kindly to having her plans questioned.

“Twelve is a lot.” Especially for someone who had a heart attack and nearly died. Rumer hadn’t added the rest of what she was thinking. Lu knew the truth.

She just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

“If we train one more horse, I can accept three more children into the program.” She’d folded her arms across her narrow chest, her black eyes blazing in her tanned and wrinkled face. She’d looked like what she’d always been—a hardworking, no-nonsense fighter who was used to doing things her way.

“I can’t stay to train horses, Lu.”

“Who said anything about you doing the training?”

“You said we.”

“Figure of speech,” Lu had insisted. They’d both known she was lying. “I am perfectly capable of training my own dang horses, and if you say any different it will piss me off.” Lu had shuffled over to the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee. Decaf because Rumer had done the shopping.

“I don’t want to piss you off. I want to make you see reason.”

“What’s reasonable about sitting in this house day after day? I’ve been cooped up for too long. I’m getting antsy.”

She was always antsy, always moving, always doing.

Rumer could have pointed that out, but she’d sworn six ways to Sunday that she wasn’t going to argue with her grandmother. So, instead of pointing out the obvious, she’d grabbed the Benevolence Times and skimmed the article. That was when she’d noticed the ad. Right there on the bottom left.

Pleasant Valley Organic Farm had sounded like a new-age hippie commune: Men with scraggly beards and bare feet. Women in long skirts and tank tops. Kids running around with dirty faces. Not her ideal job opportunity, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, so Rumer had decided to check it out.

She’d waited until a decent time and called. When the phone had gone unanswered, she’d decided to find the farm and apply in person. She’d climbed into Lu’s old pickup and headed for Benevolence, Washington, humming along to the oldies station as she drove. Ten miles outside of the little town, she’d found the sign for Pleasant Valley Organic Farm and had headed up the long, windy road that seemed to lead to it. She’d been able to see the farmhouse in the distance—a two-story traditional-style that someone had painted buttercup yellow.

Yellow!

She’d taken a quick peek at the slacks she’d borrowed from Aunt Minnie. Yellow polyester. Bell-bottom. Probably from the seventies. Minnie never got rid of anything. She had an entire lifetime of stuff shoved into the double-wide trailer she lived in. It sat on the eastern edge of the homestead, a small hothouse and huge garden right behind it.

Rumer had been thinking that maybe the yellow slacks and yellow house were a sign, a portent, a hint from God that the job was hers. That after six weeks of near hell, things were finally going to get better.

And, then she’d looked up at the road again . . .

She’d looked up, and the girl was right there!

Wandering out from between overgrown field grass, skin glowing rich brown in the midmorning light. Pink tutu shimmering. Ivory tank top hanging loose. Boots clomping. A bouquet of fall flowers clutched in her hand.

Rumer had had about three seconds to take it all in, and then she’d swerved, bouncing off the road and straight into a rain culvert. Nose down, steam spilling out of the hood.

She’d scrambled out of the truck, her purse hooked over her shoulder, and the girl had still been there. Standing right in the middle of the road, gawking at the wrecked truck.

And that’s how Rumer had ended up here.

On a dirt road.

With a strange kid who was dressed in nothing but a tutu, a thin-strapped tank, a tiara, and bright green rain boots.

“Hello,” she said, because what else would she do? She sure wasn’t going to let the kid wander back to wherever she’d come from. Half naked and alone. It was chilly, for God’s sake. Early fall in eastern Washington, and winter was gaining the upper hand.

The little girl cocked her head to the side, eyeing Rumer with a look that was both suspicious and mutinous.

“Who are you?” she finally replied, every word enunciated and precise. Surprising, because she didn’t look older than three.

“Rumer Truehart. How about you? What’s your name?” She crouched so that they were eye level, offering a smile.

She got a scowl in response.

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” the girl said, her eyes so dark Rumer could barely see the pupils. “Not even if they offer me candy. Do you have candy?”

“No, I don’t. I do have a jacket, though. And, it’s cold. How about I let you wear it?” She shrugged out of the yellow jacket that matched the slacks. Minnie had insisted she wear both. A job interview was important, and Rumer couldn’t go in the jeans and T-shirts she’d brought from home.

Rumer could have and would have.

But . . . again: She’d promised not to argue with her grandmother and that meant she also couldn’t argue with Minnie in front of her. So, she’d put on the pantsuit and the pretty white eyelet blouse that went with it.

She held out the jacket, and the little girl snatched it from her hand.

“I’m not cold,” she declared as she struggled to get her arms into the sleeves with the bouquet still in her hand. Pink and purple petals floated to the ground as her hand and the flowers popped out through the armhole. “But, thank you very much for this.”

She had a lisp.

Which would have been totally adorable if they’d been anywhere but on that road with not another adult in sight. The kid had parents somewhere. Parents who obviously were not doing their job.

“You’re very welcome. I bet your mom will be happy that you’ve got a jacket,” she said, hoping to break the ice and get a little more information about the girl and her family.

One minute, the girl was looking at the jacket’s daisy-shaped buttons, the next she was crying. Not loud sobs. Just silent tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Mommy is at the hothpital,” the girl said, the lisp suddenly more pronounced.

“Are you trying to get to her?” Rumer guessed, because why else would the child be wandering around carrying a wilted bouquet of flowers?

“I’m making her medicine.” She sniffed back more tears and waved the flowers in front of Rumer’s face.

“Medicine?”

“Yep! Heavenly read me a book about a boy who climbed a mountain to pick a flower that would make his best friend better. One flower is good. Ten flowers is better.” She waved the bouquet again.

“Who is Heavenly?” she asked.

“My sister. She’s twelve. I’m six.”

“You’re—” Tiny was on the tip of her tongue.

She didn’t say it.

Six-year-olds didn’t often want to be told they were little.

“Is she taking care of you today?” she said instead.

“Nope. She’s making cake for Twila. It’s her birthday.”

“Is Twila also your sister?”

“Yes, she is,” the girl said emphatically. “And no one better say she’s not! Markie Winston tried it, and I popped him right in the nose. He was bleeding and everything.” She swung her free hand in a wide-arcing left hook. “Now I can’t go back to school until Wednesday. The man is not happy about it.”

“The man?”

“Yeah.” She dropped her fist and leaned close. They were nearly nose to nose, and Rumer could see the trail of drying tears on her cheeks and a thin pale scar near her hairline. There was another one right beside her lip.

“He’s not so good at kids,” the girl whispered. “Heavenly says that’s what happens when you get old without ever having children.”

“Who is he?” Certainly not the girls’ father. Maybe a relative who’d been called in to help while their mother was in the hospital?

“My uncle. Daddy’s brother. Daddy is dead, so he had to come and help out while Mommy is in the hospital.” The whisper had gotten softer, and Rumer almost didn’t hear the last part.

She saw the tears, though.

They were rolling down the girl’s face again.

“Oh, honey,” she said, giving her a gentle hug. “I’m so sorry about that.”

“Me too,” the girl wailed, her skinny arms wrapping around Rumer’s waist, the flowers rustling as they smashed against her back.

The sun was warm and bright and high, the sky blue, the air crisp. The dirt road stretched toward the yellow house and the horizon, tall grass and trees dotting the landscape. All of it picturesque and perfect. Except for the little girl standing brokenhearted in the middle of all of it. Alone except for the stranger who’d found her.

It was just so . . . wrong!

As soon as Rumer got the little girl calmed down, she was going to find the uncle and give him a piece of her mind. She didn’t care if he was ancient as days. He should still have more sense than to let a six-year-old out of his sight. Sure, this area was rural. Sure, most people were pleasant, kind, and helpful, but there were predators everywhere. Not to mention the river, the woods, the roads that crisscrossed the land.

She brushed her palms down the girl’s cheeks, wiping the tears away.

“How about I take you home? You can put your flowers in a vase and bring them to your mother the next time you go to the hospital,” she suggested.

“I’m not bringing her flowers.” The girl’s chin quivered, but she’d stopped crying. “I told you: I’m making medicine. I’m going to bake it into magic cookies, and Mommy will eat them and wake up.”

It would be hard for someone who was asleep to eat, but Rumer wasn’t going to point out the flaw in logic.

“How about we go do that, then?” she asked. “Do you know how to get home?”

“Why wouldn’t I? Mrs. Bridget says I’m just about the smartest first-grader she’s ever met.”

“She’s your teacher?”

“Yes. She lets me read the second-grade books. She also sent me to the office when I punched Markie.”

“Violence is never the answer.”

“Maybe not, but it still felt good!” the girl responded, skipping ahead, her tiara glinting in the sun.

Rumer had to jog to keep up. Not easy to do in her borrowed shoes. Two-inch cream-colored pumps that Minnie had insisted she wear, because the slacks were too long, and not one woman in the Truehart family could fix that. They could muck stalls, train horses, teach kids. They could cook, clean, and organize. They could even run a very well-respected nonprofit, milk goats and cows, make cheese, plant and harvest a garden. What they could not do—had never in the history of Truehart women been able to do—was find a good man or sew a straight hem.

So, yeah, she was tottering on the heels, trying to not fall face-first into the wheatgrass. She didn’t notice that they’d taken a sharp turn through the field until she jogged onto a gravel path that cut across a fenced cow pasture. Her foot slipped on loose pebbles, and she went down. Legs one way. Arms the other.

She landed with a solid thump that knocked the wind out of her.

She must have closed her eyes on impact, because she opened them and was looking straight up at the bright blue sky.

“You okay, Rumer Truehart?” the little girl said, suddenly at her side and peering into her face.

“Fine. I’m just not used to wearing heels.”

“Mommy says they take practice. Maybe you should practice more.” She offered her hand, and it was as tiny as the rest of her.

“That’s a good idea, poppet,” Rumer said as she got to her feet and brushed dirt off her slacks.

“Poppet?” She giggled, the sound like a creek bubbling over smooth stones. “Is that the same as puppet?”

“No. It’s—”

“Moisey!” a man called from somewhere to their left. “Moisey Bethlehem Bradshaw! You’d better get your butt moving and get back home.”

The girl froze, her dark eyes widening.

“That’s the man!” she said. “And, he said butt!”

“Moisey!” someone else called. Female and young from the sound of it. “You’re not going to get even one teeny tiny piece of cake if you don’t hurry up home!”

“Coming!” the little girl yelled, and took off running, her scrawny legs churning beneath layers of pink tulle.

Rumer followed, abandoning her heels so she could keep up, racing across rough gravel and then onto soft grass.

The house was straight in front of her, maybe a quarter of a mile away, the clapboard siding well cared for, the whitewashed front porch railings sturdy and practical-looking.

Moisey was beelining it across the yard. No time wasted now. She was a girl on a mission, her tutu swishing, her rain boots gleaming in the sunlight.

Must have been the threat of no cake.

“Moisey?!” the man called again, and this time Rumer saw him coming around the side of the house.

He had to be the girl’s uncle. She’d expected gnarled, stooped, old. She’d expected a cane or a walker, gray hair, chewing tobacco, a spittoon.

She sure as heck had not expected Mr. GQ cover model. Mr. Frilly-pink-aprons-make-me-seem-even-more-masculine.

She didn’t expect him to be carrying a chubby baby, but there was that, too. A girl was jogging along beside him, dark blond hair in cornrows, big blue eyes filled with anxiety. She was a hot mess: too-short shirt showing three inches of skin, too-tight jeans clinging to bony hips. Red lipstick smeared across her mouth.

And her eyeshadow . . .

Rumer wouldn’t even go there.

“Moisey!” the girl cried, running over to Moisey and grabbing her arm. “Where have you been! If Sunday were here she’d shi—”

“Don’t,” the man cut her off.

“What?” she snapped, whirling on him like they were mortal enemies about to go to war.

“Use foul language in front of your siblings. I’ve already been called to the school three times because your brothers are repeating you.”

“Don’t blame me for the dweebs’ problems,” the girl said. “They’ve been brats since the day I got here.”

“They are not brats!” Moisey yelled, pulling back her foot in preparation for what Rumer thought would be a well-aimed kick.

Time to put a stop to things.

She stepped forward, lifted Moisey off her feet, and set her down about a yard away from her target.

“Violence,” she said, looking into Moisey’s angry face, “is never the answer.”

“It’d sure feel good,” she fumed.

“Not when I kicked you back,” the girl retorted.

“Enough, Heavenly. Nobody is kicking anybody,” the man said.

Heavenly. The twelve-year-old sister. Only she looked sixteen, and she had trouble written all over her. Rumer recognized it. She’d seen it every time she’d looked at her teenage self in the mirror. Thank God time had tamed some of the wild out of her. Otherwise, she might have ended up like her mother—a burned-out druggy living on the streets.

“So,” she murmured. “You’re Heavenly.”

“And?” the girl responded, giving her a scathing look.

“Heavenly Light,” the man said wearily. “Be polite.”

Heavenly snorted but kept her mouth shut.

The man’s gaze settled on Rumer, his eyes tracking a path from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. She resisted the urge to smooth her hair, straighten her shirt, or brush dirt from her pants. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d lost a kid. She had nothing to feel defensive about.

“You should keep a better eye on your niece,” she suggested. “It only takes a second for children to find trouble. Or for trouble to find them.”

He raised a raven-black brow, his jaw tightening.

There were probably a lot of things he wanted to say. It was never fun to have a stranger point out one’s mistakes, and he would have been within his rights to tell her off.

Instead, his gaze shifted to Moisey. “I’ve been made very aware of that these past couple of weeks.”

“Being made aware of a situation and doing something about it are two different things.”

“I’m aware of that, as well,” he responded, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “What I’m not sure about is who you are and what you’re doing here.”

“Rumer Truehart.” She extended her hand, realizing her mistake the second his palm touched hers. He had warm rough skin that made her think of things she was better off forgetting. He also had an easy smile that he turned on and off so quickly she would have missed it if she hadn’t been staring straight into his way-too-handsome face.

“Your niece walked out in front of my truck,” she added. “I almost hit her. Now my truck is in a ditch. Fortunately, your niece is fine.”

“God,” he muttered, smoothing his hand over his hair and eyeing Moisey. “Didn’t we agree that you were going to take a nap?”

“I’m too old for a nap,” Moisey responded.

“You’re also too old to be punching and kicking when you don’t get your way. Since you still do both, I figure you still need a nap.”

“Sometimes children act out because they aren’t sure how to cope with the emotions they’re feeling,” Rumer pointed out, ignoring the little voice in her head that was telling her to keep her mouth shut and walk away. This wasn’t her mess. She sure as heck didn’t need to stick around and clean it up.

He met her eyes again and frowned. “You’re from the county?”

“The county?”

“Social services? CPS? Whatever the heck they call it now.” The baby grabbed a handful of his hair, and he winced, gently pulling her dimpled hand away from his head.

“No. I’m—”

“You’re from the state tax assessment board, then?”

“Of course not.”

“Real estate agent? SPCA? County School board?”

“None of the above.”

“Then you must be from the church. We have enough casseroles to last several lifetimes, and I promise I’ll bring the kids back to Sunday school once we get a little more settled. Come on, girls. We need to get home before the boys tear the house down.” He grabbed Moisey’s hand and started walking away. He’d have kept going if Rumer hadn’t opened her big mouth.

But, of course, she had.

“I don’t suppose you know where Pleasant Valley Organic Farm is?” she called out as the motley little group departed. She hadn’t come all this way so that she could go home before she found the guy who’d written the help-wanted ad.

“You’re standing on it.” He tossed the words over his shoulder but didn’t slow his stride.

“I’m here to see Sullivan Bradshaw. Can you point me in the right direction?”

He stopped, turning so they were facing each other again. “I’m Sullivan.”

Her heart thumped. One hard quick jerk of acknowledgment. This was Sullivan? The guy who needed a housekeeper /gardener /cook who had experience with kids?

“I came about the ad.”

“What ad?” Sullivan asked.

“The one you ran in the Benevolence Times?” She pulled the newspaper from her oversize purse and tapped the ad. She’d circled it in blue marker. “Housekeeper / Gardener/Cook. Experience with kids a plus.” She read it out loud, and he frowned.

“How about you girls go inside?” He handed the baby to Heavenly and released his hold on Moisey. The tween didn’t waste time. She marched to the farmhouse like a martyr going to her doom. Moisey dawdled behind, the bouquet of nearly dead flowers losing most of its petals as she twirled and whirled away.

Rumer was so busy watching the girls, she didn’t realize Sullivan was moving until he was standing so close she could see flecks of gold in his dark green eyes.

“Can I see that?” he asked, taking the paper before she could respond.

He scanned it quickly. “It’s my number, my name, and my situation, but I didn’t pay for the ad.”

He handed her the paper, his fingertips grazing hers. Heat shot up her arm. She ignored it. Sure, he looked good. Great, even—all that thick black hair with those dark green eyes. Firm full lips, hands that were nicked and scarred and currently speckled with what looked like orange frosting. But he was a man. Men were trouble. At least they were trouble for the Truehart women.

“In that case, I’ll get out of your hair,” she mumbled, because working for someone like Sullivan was absolutely out of the question for someone like Rumer. That would be like a sugar junky working in a doughnut shop. She was addicted to men who were in the business of breaking hearts. If she found Sullivan attractive—and she did—he must be one of them.

“I didn’t run the ad. One of my brothers must have. I’ve been a little . . . busy. That doesn’t mean I’m not interested in hiring someone.” His gaze dropped to the cuffs of her too long pants, and he smiled. “Do you normally arrive at job interviews without shoes?”

Damn. She’d forgotten about ditching her shoes. She’d have to hunt them down before she left. And, she was leaving, because that’s what the new improved version of Rumer Truehart did. She didn’t stick around waiting to fall for the next guy who was going to smooth talk her and then betray her. Nope. She walked away.

“Yes,” she lied.

“Good. The kids would probably prefer someone who is a little . . . avant-garde.”

“I’m sure you’ll find plenty of candidates who fit that criteria.”

“Currently, you’re the one and only. If you’re willing to stick around, I’ll interview you and look at your résumé after I check on the kids.” He glanced at the house and frowned. “They’ve been left to their own devices for too long.”

“It hasn’t even been ten minutes,” she pointed out.

“With that crew, ten minutes is nine too many.”

“Crew? How many children are you talking about?”

“Six.”

“That’s a lot.”

“And, I sure as hell know it.” He sighed. “If you’re interested in the job, experience with kids is a necessity. Not a plus.”

“Actually, Mr. Bradshaw—”

“Sullivan. You do have experience with children, right?”

“I have a bachelor’s in special education, and a master’s in early childhood development,” she responded. “But, I think this job may be a little beyond the scope of what I’m capable of.”

“Too bad. It pays well.”

She’d already turned and was walking away, determined to listen to the voice in her head that was shouting that she needed to go while the going was good.

“What is your definition of ‘well’?” she asked, still walking, because he was trouble, and she had the feeling that every one of his six nieces and nephews was, too.

He named a figure that was just about half her yearly teaching salary. More than enough to pay Lu’s medical bills. With the extra, she could have Lu’s barn painted, buy feed for the horses for a year and pay someone to plant alfalfa in Lu’s sixty-acre field.

“How long are we talking? Six months? A year?”

“Two months. If things stretch out longer, we’ll work up a new contract.”

“Things?” She swung around to face him.

“My brother and sister-in-law were in an accident. He was killed. She’s in a coma. We’re not sure how long that will last.”

“Moisey mentioned that her father had died and that her mother was in the hospital. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s been tough. We’re all grieving, but right now, making sure that Sunday and the kids are okay is our top priority.” He glanced at the house and frowned. “Speaking of which, I really do need to check on them. Why don’t you come and meet the rest of the crew? I’ll interview you after that.”

He headed for the house, and she found herself following, watching the subtle movement of muscle beneath his shirt and the oddly graceful way he carried himself. He was gorgeous, and she was no fool. If she walked in that house and met the rest of Sunday’s sad and struggling kids, she wouldn’t be able to walk away. That wouldn’t be a problem except that there was no way she could work for Sullivan. He was too much of everything she’d told herself she would avoid.

“I think I’ll—” head home was what she planned to say, but a curtain in one of the windows moved, and Moisey appeared. Face pressed against the glass, a smudge of orange on her cheek, she looked straight at Rumer and mouthed, “Help me.”

Rumer smiled, because who wouldn’t?

“You’ll what?” Sullivan asked. They’d reached the porch, and he jogged up the four steps ahead of her.

“I’ll—” She glanced at the window.

Moisey was still there, smiling impishly and licking what looked like a huge glob of orange frosting off her palm. Heavenly appeared behind her, scowled at Rumer and stalked away.

Trouble.

There was way too much of it inside the sweet-looking yellow house. Rumer might not want any more of it in her life, but she couldn’t make herself walk away. Not while Moisey was watching.

“I’ll enjoy meeting the rest of your nieces and nephews,” she finally said. Then, she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and followed Sullivan to the front door.

* * *

He’d never wanted children.

He wasn’t even sure he liked them.

He sure as hell didn’t have a clue what to do with them.

How Sullivan had been nominated to be Mr. Mom to Matthias’s crew of crazy kids, he didn’t know.

Scratch that.

He knew.

He’d made the mistake of taking a sabbatical. He’d planned to spend the entire fall semester writing a research paper on the influence of eighteenth-century women artists. Instead of teaching art history classes at Portland State University, he’d been holed up in his apartment doing research. No obligations except to himself and his research deadlines.

Things had been going well.

Until the middle-of-the-night phone call from Matthias’s pastor. Now everything was shot to hell, and—being the only one of the three remaining Bradshaw brothers who didn’t have to report to work—Sullivan was in charge of putting out the fires.

There’d been a lot of those.

Both figurative and literal.

He held the door and waited for Rumer Truehart to step inside. Dressed in bright yellow bell-bottoms and a gauzy white shirt. No shoes. Five foot two inches and slender as the reeds that grew in the pond behind the house, she was nothing at all like what he and his brothers had been thinking the kids needed.

They’d been thinking the kids needed a prison warden, but since that wouldn’t go over well with CPS, they’d decided a grandmotherly type would work. Not the soft Mrs. Claus kind of grandmother. A hard-nosed, sharp-tongued, gray-haired drill sergeant. Rumer looked more like a flower child—the type who’d pat little hellions on the head and tell them how special they were. She had a degree in special education, though. A master’s in child development. Experience with children.

More importantly, she was there.

She might not be the kind of help he’d had in mind, but she was still the best thing to happen to him in weeks.

“Oh my,” she said as soon as she’d crossed the threshold.

That was a nicer version of what he thought every time he walked inside. The once immaculate entryway was littered with Legos and Matchbox cars. To the left, a wide doorway opened into a living room that had been torn apart. There were couch cushions on the floor, books tossed on the coffee table, spilled milk on the area rug, a few soggy Cheerios marking the spot where a bowl of cereal had apparently been upended.

Not to mention the fact that Sullivan hadn’t dusted or swept in . . .

Well...

He’d never done either. Not since he’d arrived. There’d been too many other things taking up his time.

“It’s a bit of a mess,” he said in what might have been the understatement of the century.

“Well,” Rumer said “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, it’s more than a bit, but I’ve seen worse.”

“Really?” he questioned, and she smiled, a sweet little curve of her lips that made her look about the same age as Heavenly.

“No, but I thought you needed some encouragement.”

“What I need,” he responded, picking his way through the line of toy cars and trains that filled the hallway, “is exactly what the ad said: a housekeeper.”

“I can see that.” She stepped over Thomas the Tank Engine, her bare toes peeking out from under the too-long cuffs of her pants.

“And, a cook,” he added as he walked into the kitchen. The burnt cake that he’d pulled from the oven sat on the counter, the weird pink strawberry color of it turning his stomach. The bright orange frosting was still in the mixing bowl, a spatula sunk to its hilt in the watery mess. This was attempt number three at making a birthday cake for Twila.

Attempt number one and two hadn’t been fit to feed Bessie the hog. The kids had told him that. He’d have been more than happy to take it out to the scrap pile anyway, but Twila had been nearly hysterical, worrying that the hog might die from cake poisoning. He’d tossed both cakes in the trash, because he couldn’t stand to see her cry. Twila was the easy one. Quiet. Bookwormish. Helpful.

Currently, she was sitting in a chair, a book in one hand, a stopwatch in the other.

“What are you doing?” he asked, grabbing a wad of paper towel and wiping pink cake batter from the counter.

As if that would help anything.

Every surface seemed coated with cake batter or flecks of frosting. The floor was covered with a thin layer of dry cake mix. An egg had rolled off the counter, the yolk broken and seeping into the old cracked linoleum.

Even the kids were covered with stuff.

Moisey had gotten her hands in the frosting and had it smeared all over her face. Heavenly had orange streaks down the front of her too-short shirt. Little Oya had it in her hair and squeezed between her chubby fingers.

She needed a bath.

God help him!

He’d already been through that ordeal several times.

Soap and slippery skin and a chubby baby were not a good combination.

Yeah. Three of four girls were filthy, but Twila was clean as a whistle, glossy dark hair pulled into a neat braid, dark eyes flashing with worry and fear.

“I am watching the clock, Uncle,” she said in that clipped precise tone of hers.

“Is there a reason you’re doing that?”

“Do you know where the boys are?” she answered, her gaze darting to Rumer, her eyes widening in surprise.

“The boys?” Of course he knew where they were. They were playing forts in the living room.

He frowned.

Except they weren’t. The room had been empty.

“Upstairs?” he answered, but he didn’t hear them, and Maddox and Milo were never ever quiet.

“No. They have gone to get me a present, and I have told them to return in five minutes.” She looked down at the watch. “They have two more.”

“A present, huh?” Good for them. He’d sure as heck dropped the ball on that one. He hadn’t even known it was her birthday until Heavenly had dragged him away from his research at five o’clock in the morning and told him that they needed to make a cake. Stat.

Five hours later, and he was still trying to get that done.

“What kind of present are they getting you?” He grabbed another wad of paper towel and scooped up the egg. The scrap bucket was supposed to be in the mudroom, but it was sitting next to the door, the foul aroma of mixed-bag rot permeating the room.

He tossed the egg on top of the mess and lifted the bucket.

“A goldfish,” she replied. “From the river.”

He stopped. One foot in the mudroom. One foot in the kitchen. Entire body suddenly stiff with dread.

“Did you say the river?” he asked, meeting her eyes.

She nodded. Just a little tiny movement of her chin, but God!

The river!

And, two seven-year-old boys who either could or could not swim. He had no idea, because he didn’t really know any of these kids. Sure, they were his nieces and nephews, but up until he’d become Mr. Mom, he’d spent a few hours a year with them. Tops!

“Are you sure?” he said, his body cold with fear.

Sunday had lost her husband. If she came out of her coma and found out she’d also lost two sons . . .

“Twila! Are you sure?!” he snapped when she didn’t answer immediately, and then he felt like an ass, because her chin wobbled, and he knew she was fighting tears.

“Yes. I told them there were not goldfish there, but they said they could probably find one,” she finally said.

And then, of course, he was dropping the bucket, crap sloshing all over the floor and his feet as he took off out the back door, leaving the girls and Rumer Truehart, the burnt cakes, and the mess behind him.