Chapter Five
She’d been holding his hand, for God’s sake!
Holding his hand!
Like he was a child.
Or worse, her boyfriend, significant other, lover!
“Idiot,” she muttered.
“Who?” he asked, so, of course, she looked at him, stared right into his beautiful green eyes. He had long thick lashes. The kind good-looking guys always seemed to have. The kind every woman in North America seemed to drool over.
Not Rumer.
She didn’t drool over anything but chocolate cake and iced sugar cookies.
“Me.”
“For accepting the job? You can still back out. It was a verbal agreement, and I can’t legally hold you to it. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. The kids need someone who wants to be there. Not someone who’s obligated.”
Like you? she almost asked, and then thought better of it.
He was there because it was his family, and that was a lot better than some people would have done.
“I’m not going to back out.” And, she wasn’t going to explain why she’d called herself an idiot.
“Thank God for that,” he responded, stepping back as the double doors that led into the surgical wing swung open.
A nurse pushed a hospital bed out, the shrouded figure lying on it so small, Rumer thought it was a child.
“Sunday?” Sullivan said, and she realized her mistake, saw that the ghostlike creature was the woman she’d caught a glimpse of in the ICU. Eyes closed, face gaunt, she had the kind of wholesome good looks Rumer had always wanted but had never been able to achieve.
“She’s still sedated,” the nurse said, checking one of the lines that snaked out from under a sheet.
“Things went well?” Sullivan asked, moving aside and letting a crew of medical personnel file out through the doorway. An orderly rolled the IV pole and portable oxygen machine. Right behind her, the surgeon was reading Sunday’s chart.
“After the initial rough start? Yes. We’re hopeful this procedure has curtailed any further injury to the brain.”
“Has she shown any sign of regaining consciousness?” Sullivan asked, walking beside the doctor as they entered an elevator.
No one told Rumer she couldn’t go along, so she followed, stepping in as the doors were sliding closed, listening as the doctor explained the procedure, the possible complications, the prognosis.
It all sounded more than grim.
It sounded dire, and she couldn’t help studying Sunday’s face, wondering if she could hear and understand what was being said.
Probably not.
Hopefully not.
But, if she could, she’d be terrified, listening to all the ways that things could go wrong, hearing the surgeon say over and over again that chances of a full recovery were zero. There would be disabilities. There would be long-term issues. There would be a dozen things that would keep her from living her life the way she had.
They arrived at recovery, and Rumer thought they’d stop her there. She knew how these things worked. She’d gone through it with Lu. Only one person in recovery at a time, but instead of telling her she’d have to wait, they ignored the fact that she was following.
Maybe they were too caught up in the details of the surgery and recovery to notice.
She kept out of the way, half listening and half wondering, her mind drifting along, trying to connect the unconscious woman with the six children she’d met. They obviously weren’t all biologically hers. As a matter of fact, Rumer wouldn’t be surprised if all the kids had been adopted.
Not that that changed anything.
The magnitude of the tragedy couldn’t get any bigger. Six kids had lost their father. From the way the surgeon was talking, they were going to lose their mother, too.
Sullivan was obviously hearing the same pessimism she was. His jaw was tight, his expression grim. He had a day’s worth of stubble on his chin and looked like he was ready for a fight, fists clenched, eyes flashing.
“So, what you’re saying,” he said, “is that you’re giving up on her recovering.”
“Mr. Bradshaw, if we’d given up, we’d have never done the surgery. We’re simply being realistic. She’s been in a coma for weeks. That could stretch into months, or even years.”
“Or, it could end today,” Rumer cut in, showing her hand and letting everyone know that she’d walked in uninvited.
No one told her to leave, but the doctor sighed. “It could. We don’t know, and that’s the limits of medicine. With all the high-tech images, all the peer-reviewed studies and documented successes and failures, we still can’t predict a person’s outcome.”
“Exactly.” Rumer stepped up to the bed, looked down at the woman who had six children depending on her, believing in her, hoping and praying she’d come home to them.
She didn’t know Sunday Bradshaw from Adam, but after seeing the Bradshaw kids, she was pretty darn sure she knew her heart. She lifted her hand and held it gently. It felt warm, blood pulsing just beneath nearly transparent skin.
The surgeon was talking again, outlining the next step. Stabilize her. Get her breathing on her own. See if her vitals stayed good. Make sure her bones had knit together well, that her lungs had healed, that her body was in working order, and then, send her to a rehab facility.
Or a long-term care facility.
Depending on how things progressed.
“You’re going to progress just fine,” Rumer said, leaning down to whisper it in her ear. “Your kids need you to come home. You should see them—Heavenly wearing the teeniest shirt she can squeeze into. Moisey kicking every person she disagrees with. And, the twins . . . well, they’re cute little buggers, but they sure do need a firm hand. Twila is trying to keep everything under control, but I’ve got a feeling that little one has some deep water running beneath her stillness. I haven’t spent much time with the baby, but I’m sure she’s missing you as much as the rest of them.”
Sunday’s fingers twitched, and Rumer was so surprised, she nearly released her hand.
“Are you trying to squeeze my hand?” she asked, and felt another twitch.
“Is something wrong?” Sullivan asked, cutting off whatever else the surgeon had to say.
“I swear she’s trying to squeeze my hand.”
“Hun,” the nurse said, “that’s just a muscle spasm. Sometimes it happens after surgery.”
“Does it happen at exactly the time the patient is asked to respond?” Rumer asked, because she didn’t think Sunday’s muscles were twitching unintentionally. She thought the young mother was trying to communicate.
“Sometimes.” The surgeon stepped to the other side of the bed, frowning slightly as she lifted Sunday’s other hand. “Sunday? Can you hear me?”
Another little twitch, and Rumer’s heart started racing faster than Ezekiel the pony when he heard the food buckets being rolled out.
“She did it again,” she said, and the surgeon’s frown deepened.
“I didn’t feel anything.”
“Maybe because my hand is the one she’s trying to squeeze.”
“We all want to believe that she’s making conscious movements. Trust me, I’d be as thrilled as anyone if she did, but sometimes love is blind. Sometimes we see what we want to see rather than what’s there.”
“What does love have to do with anything?” She was getting annoyed now, frustrated by the surgeon’s unwillingness to believe the clear-cut evidence.
Or, at least, what she thought of as clear-cut evidence.
The medical community obviously didn’t agree.
Even Sullivan looked doubtful, his brow furrowed, his focus on Sunday.
“You’re her sister-in-law. You want her to improve. It’s natural and it’s right. She needs you rooting for her, but I don’t want to give you false hope. We see these kinds of unconscious movements all the time.”
“I’m not—” she began, planning to correct the assumption, but Sullivan put a hand on her nape, his palm calloused and warm.
“It is hard to see family suffering,” he said, emphasizing family.
She might be distracted by his warm, rough skin against hers, but she sure as heck could still take a hint.
“Right. It is,” she agreed as his hand slid from her nape to her shoulder and settled there. “But, I know what I felt, and I know she was trying to communicate. Weren’t you, Sunday?”
Nothing for a heartbeat, and then the twitch again.
“She did it again.”
“Ms. Bradshaw,” the surgeon began.
“Call me Rumer.” Otherwise, I might not realize you’re speaking to me, seeing as how Bradshaw isn’t my name.
She kept the last part to herself.
“Rumer, I know you want to believe that she’s improving, but, as I’ve said—”
Sunday’s free hand shifted, moving across the blanket the doctor had set it on. Just a little slide. Maybe an inch, but it was enough to stop the surgeon’s words, to make the nurse freeze, her hand on a probe she was trying to attach to Sunday’s heart monitor.
“Did you see that?” the nurse asked, and the surgeon nodded, pulling out a penlight and checking Sunday’s pupils.
“Sunday?” she said.
Another small movement.
Rumer’s heart was galloping now, pounding so hard, she thought it might burst right out of her chest.
“You are in there, aren’t you?” she asked, and Sunday’s hand tightened on hers. No mistake this time. It wasn’t just a twitch. She was holding on, clinging as if she were trying to keep from floating away, and then her hand relaxed and it was over, whatever had drawn her close to consciousness gone.
“That didn’t look like unconscious movement,” Sullivan said, his hand still on Rumer’s shoulder.
She could have stepped away.
She should have, but she was a Truehart and prone to making lousy decisions when it came to men.
So, of course, she stayed right where she was.
“I’ll admit, that surprised me.” The surgeon smiled, and since it was the first smile Rumer had seen from her, she was counting it as a good sign.
“Do you think she might be coming out of the coma?” Sullivan asked.
“It’s hard to say. Once we get her back to her room, I’ll run a few tests and see how the results compare to our baseline. I don’t want to give you undue hope, but it did seem like she was responding. We’ll be moving her back to her room in ICU soon, if you two want to meet us there.”
What Rumer wanted to do was keep standing right where she was, holding Sunday’s hand and waiting for another sign that she was in there.
Sullivan leaned past her, his hand falling away as he touched Sunday’s cheek. “The kids are fine, Sunday. They’re doing great, but they’d really love for you to come home. I’d really love it, too, because as much as I appreciate all the little rug rats, I’m just not parental material and the only one of your kids who doesn’t know it is Oya. If you stay here too long, she might just figure it out.”
Not even a hint of movement from Sunday, and he sighed, stepping away. “I guess I’d better go fill people in on what’s going on.”
He sounded so tired, so overwhelmed, Rumer did exactly what she shouldn’t. She opened her mouth. Again. “Why don’t you let me take care of that?”
“I don’t think running interference between me and Sunday’s friends is part of your job description,” he said as they walked into the hall.
“I thought my job description was jack-of-all-trades?”
“Around the farm, maybe. Everywhere else, I think I can handle things.” He smiled, touching her back as the elevator door opened. Sure as God made sunrise and dandelions, that was all she could think about. His hand. Right there at the base of her spine.
She engaged her brain for a change and moved away, because she had already decided she didn’t need Sullivan’s brand of trouble.
She’d take the job.
She’d do her best for the kids and for Sunday, but she was going to give Sullivan a wide berth while she did it.
No way was she getting pulled in by his gorgeous eyes and dimple-flashing smile.
“I really don’t mind passing the surgeon’s information along. Maybe I can ask the sheriff to give me a ride back to your place while I’m at it. The kids need some consistency. It will be good for me to be there when they wake up.”
And, better for her to be far away from him.
“So, you haven’t changed your mind?” They stepped off the elevator again. The waiting room was just ahead, and she could hear voices drifting out from it.
“About the job? No.”
“I’m relieved. I don’t have the time or the patience to interview more people.”
“You didn’t interview me,” she reminded him.
“True. I’ll have to thank Byron for convincing you.”
“The kids convinced me, and the pay.”
“I was trying to make you an offer you couldn’t refuse. I’m glad it worked out. The kids need someone like you around.”
“They need their mother, but I’ll do what I can to make things easier while they wait for her.”
“You’ll do a hell of a lot better than I’ve been doing.”
“From what I saw—”
“I hope you’re not going to say that I was doing fine, because we both know that I wasn’t.”
“I was going to say that from what I saw you were in over your head but managing to tread water.”
“Barely. But, thanks for not adding that.” He smiled, flashing his dimple again.
God!
Did he have to have a dimple?
They walked into the waiting room, and he fielded dozens of questions from a bunch of well-meaning people who seemed to really care about Sunday and her family. They wanted to know what the doctor had said, how Sunday looked, if it seemed like she was recovering. The four blue-haired ladies who’d been sitting side by side stood in a semicircle at the head of the group, lobbing questions as quickly as he could answer, talking about meal trains and after-school activities, pulling binders out of their oversize purses and taking notes.
Rumer glanced at her oversize bag. Besides the fact that it was bright blue, it was a close match. She had the sturdy boots, too. Thick-soled no-frill ones that she’d borrowed from Lu. And, the curly hair.
She smoothed her hair, trying to get a feel for just how curly it had become, and realized the hair she’d straightened for her interview had become tight ringlets. If she cut off a few inches, bleached it white, and tinged it purple, she could probably join whatever group these women belonged to.
A church prayer group maybe, but they weren’t there because of some vague religious obligation. They were asking questions about the kids as if they knew them and Sunday well, as if they’d been a part of their lives for years and considered them family.
That wasn’t something Rumer had much experience with. Lu might be a great businesswoman with a heart for special needs kids, but she wasn’t social. Aside from church every Sunday morning, she didn’t spend much time making connections. Not that there were many people to connect with in River Way. The town was tiny by anyone’s standards. Just a dot on the map, a pit stop on the way to somewhere else—rural properties owned by people who wanted to be left alone, one small grocery store, a couple of ramshackle businesses that sold mostly junk, a gas station with one pump, a seedy bar, and the little white church on the hill that attracted people from River Way and from the unincorporated land that surrounded it.
Benevolence was a different cup of tea—vibrant and thriving, a mecca for people who wanted small-town life and a slower pace. She’d been there a few times when she was a kid—buying feed and tackle from the saddlery with Lu. She’d been with Jake, but they hadn’t done the normal Main Street thing—walking through shops and buying local goods. No. He’d wanted to attend wine-tasting festivals and try out the local bars. One year, they’d spent hours at a brewery twenty miles outside of town. Another year, they’d spent most of the night at a wine shop learning how to pair the right cheese with the right wine.
The cheese had been good.
The wine had been fine.
The beer had been okay.
But, she’d have rather gone berry picking in the orchards near town, or rented a kayak and taken it out on the river. Not to fish. Just to enjoy the hot sun, the brown-blue water, the golden landscape. She’d have rather had chocolate or ice cream or cake, but she’d gone along with Jake’s plans because she’d thought a good relationship was based on compromise and mutual respect.
Not that she’d ever actually been witness to one. She’d read books and watched movies and listened to the couples at church who’d been married forever. Based on those things, she’d figured compromise and respect were key, so she’d given a lot of both.
And ended up finding a thong in her bed, an e-mail trail of infidelity, and a secret bank account Jake had been using to buy gifts for his lover.
Lovers?
Probably.
He hadn’t admitted it, but that was Jake—die-hard denial until she’d walked out. Now he was living in the apartment they’d shared with the woman he’d insisted he hadn’t cheated with.
Yeah. She should have bypassed compromise and gone straight for chocolate shops and berry picking.
Lesson learned.
“Are you okay, dear?” a well-dressed woman asked. Maybe in her early fifties. Thin. Perfectly pressed and coiffed. Not a hair out of place or a piece of lint on her wool coat.
“I’m fine. Thanks.” She patted her hair, realized there was absolutely nothing she could do to tame it, and let her hand drop away.
“My father-in-law tells me that you’re the Bradshaws’ new nanny.”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded. “That’s right.”
“I’m glad to hear that someone is willing to take on the task.”
“It is a paid position.”
“That’s what Byron said, but my friends and I didn’t think there’d been anyone in town who’d be . . .”
“Stupid enough to take it?”
“Brave enough,” she replied. “I’m Janelle Lamont, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, and congratulations on your new granddaughter.”
“Thank you. She’s precious. Absolutely precious. I’d show you a photo, but then I’d end up showing every photo I took of her and my other granddaughters. The other two are just as gorgeous, of course.”
“I thought Byron said this was number two?”
“Technically, she is, but we’ve got a third. She’s not quite official yet. My oldest daughter and her husband will finalize the adoption in a couple of months.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Isn’t it? Byron doesn’t usually talk about it. He’s afraid it’ll jinx things. Me? I know little Merry was meant for our family, and I don’t have a doubt that the adoption will be finalized.” Her cheeks were pink with pleasure, her eyes shining. “We’ve been very fortunate. I wish I could say the same for the Bradshaws. It just seemed like one tragedy after another with that family.”
“What do you mean?”
Her smile fell away, and she shook her head. “Nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything. Gossip travels through Benevolence at the speed of light, and I’ve vowed to never be part of it.”
“We’re not in Benevolence,” Rumer pointed out, and Janelle smiled again.
“You’re quick. That’s good. Those twins are going to keep you on your toes, and don’t believe Milo’s sweet-as-pie perfect-gentleman act. He’s as much trouble as his brother. He’s just quieter about it. I had them in Sunday school last summer. And, the stories I could tell . . .” She sighed. “But, I wouldn’t want to scare you away.”
“If the kids haven’t managed to do that already, I don’t think a story or two will.” As a matter of fact, she wanted to hear them. Forewarned was forearmed, and based on what she’d seen so far, she thought that getting Sunday’s kids to toe the line could be an epic battle of wits and fortitude.
“You’ll be fine, and if you run into any trouble, call Chocolate Haven or Benevolence Baptist Church. They’re the disseminators of all local information. One call, and you can have an army of help lined up at the door. I’d better head out. I’m giving a couple of the ladies a ride home.”
She walked away, and Rumer realized that most of the rest of the group was leaving too. Apparently, Sullivan had answered enough questions, and they were ready to head home. They moved toward the door, quietly talking to one another, discussing the details they’d been given, making plans for meal trains and homework help, for fund-raisers to help pay medical bills and keep the farm going.
She liked what that said about Sunday and what it said about the town. Benevolence had to be a decent place to live if it had so many decent people in it.
And chocolate.
It had chocolate.
Which she was absolutely going to try. If for no other reason than to prove that she could do whatever the heck she wanted.
Enough of the compromises.
Enough of the caving to someone else’s whims.
She dug through her purse, trying to find the business card Byron had given her. She pulled out a scarf, mittens, a notepad, and a pair of scissors. Three pencils. A pen. The nub of a crayon and her wallet.
“Need some help?” Sullivan said, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Good golly! You nearly scared the life out of me!”
“Sorry about that.” He didn’t look sorry. He looked amused. “I didn’t realize you were so engrossed in your hunt.”
“It’s not exactly a hunt. I was looking for the business card Byron gave me.”
“Feeling the need for chocolate?”
“Just thinking that I’d like to visit his shop one day. It sounds quaint.”
“It is. Penny-candy jars on shelves. Old-fashioned cash register. A glass display case that’s been there since the doors opened. And chocolate so good people come from all over the country to try it.”
“Really?”
“That’s what they tell me. I haven’t lived around there since I was a teen.”
“You’re living there now.”
“Hopefully not long-term,” he responded.
“You don’t like Benevolence?”
“I don’t not like it.”
“That’s not an answer, Sullivan.”
“No. I guess it isn’t.” He took the purse from her hand and pulled the business card out. No fuss. No muss. No digging through whatever else Rumer had tucked away. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” she muttered, taking the card and the purse, one of the mittens falling from her hand, the scarf trailing the floor as she bent to pick it up.
“Here.” He took everything except the card, somehow managing to grab it all before she could stop him.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping.” He put everything back in the purse and handed it to her.
“You do know women don’t like their purses messed with?”
“What women?”
“Me.”
He smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“It’s a little too late for that. You already messed in it.” And found the card that she would have sworn wasn’t there.
“Then, I’ll have to make it up to you. I’ll bring you to Chocolate Haven one day.”
“That would be . . .”
Fun was the word she almost used.
Because going to a quaint chocolate shop in a quaint town with a guy like Sullivan sounded interesting and exotic and nice.
For once, her brain was working faster than her mouth could speak, and she didn’t say what she was thinking.
“. . . hard to do while I’m taking care of the kids,” she finished.
“Like I said, the kids love Chocolate Haven.”
Oh.
Okay.
Not the two of them.
The eight of them going for chocolate.
That she could handle. “Is the shop big enough to fit all of them?”
“Probably. If we order quick and get out fast.”
“We could go after Heavenly’s choir competition.”
“If she participates, and I doubt she will.”
“Why wouldn’t she? You don’t get volunteered to be in things like that. You have to sign up.”
“Can you actually see Heavenly signing up for anything?” he asked.
“No, but, then, I’ve never seen her when her mother wasn’t in a coma and her father wasn’t . . .”
“Dead? It’s okay to say it. The words don’t make things any worse or any better. And, you’re right about Heavenly. It’s hard to say what she was like before this happened.”
“Has she been in the family long?”
“They fostered her for a year or two, I think. I’m a little hazy on the timeline. The adoption was finalized a couple of months ago. I do know that.”
“Poor Heavenly,” she murmured, remembering her own journey through foster care—the constant revolving doors, the neat little ranchers, the tiny apartments, the smiling foster parents and the grouchy ones. The unknowns had been the hardest part, getting into the caseworker’s car and being driven off to the next place and the next.
None of them had ever been home.
Even Lu’s place had never really felt like that.
“I feel sorry for her, but there’s not a hell of a lot I can do to make things better. I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve tried to explain things.” He raked a hand through his hair. No ring on his left hand.
Not that she’d been looking. She’d just happened to notice. In passing. “I can tell you from my experience in the foster care system that all the patience in the world isn’t going to help. All the love and support you offer won’t be enough to change things if she doesn’t want them to.”
“Teacher and foster parent, huh? You’re way overqualified for the job.”
“Foster child,” she responded.
“Lu adopted you?”
“No. I was in foster care because my mother was a hardcore drug addict and lost custody of me when I was a kid. Since my mom was a runaway and not using her real name, it took a couple of years for CPS to realize I had relatives. Once they did, they contacted Lu, and she agreed to take me in.” She knew she sounded cold and unaffected. She knew she was wearing the look that she’d perfected years ago. The one that said she didn’t care and it didn’t matter.
But, of course, she did and it did, and she was too old to pretend things that weren’t true.
“I’m sorry, Rumer.”
“Why? Lu is great. So is Minnie. They may be a little odd, but they’re good people, and I’m fortunate they agreed to finish raising me. If they hadn’t, I’d probably be living the same kind of life my mother did.”
“Did?”
“A figure of speech, Sullivan. She’s still alive. As far as I know.” She turned away, done with the discussion. Her past wasn’t something she shared. Not with anyone.
She wasn’t sure why she’d shared it with him.
He was nearly a stranger, for God’s sake! A man she’d met a few hours ago. She’d spent four years living with Jake, and she’d never mentioned a word about her early childhood.
Then again, he’d never asked.
She frowned. “I guess we should go to Sunday’s room.”
“Why? So, we can stop talking about your past?” he asked, and she turned to face him again.
“Because, I’m worried about her. The surgeon doesn’t seem to believe that she’s improving. I do.”
“She’s been unresponsive since the accident, Rumer.”
“She wasn’t tonight.”
“Maybe not, but I’m not telling the kids that. They don’t need to get their hopes up and then have them dashed.”
“We all need hope sometimes,” she argued.
“But most of us would prefer not to have it crushed because we were given wrong information and had wrong expectations.”
“I didn’t take you for a pessimist, Sullivan.”
“I’m a realist. There’s a difference.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“Then, maybe you’re standing in the wrong place,” he offered with a quick smile that made her heart jump and her pulse race.
Not good.
Not good at all!
“We’re both standing in the wrong place. We were heading to Sunday’s room. That seems like a better plan than hanging out here,” she responded, and then she walked into the hall and away from Sullivan as fast as her clompy oversize boots would allow.
* * *
They spent an hour in Sunday’s room.
She didn’t move a hand or twitch a finger.
To Sullivan’s surprise, Rumer was almost as still.
She packed a lot of energy into her small frame, and he’d seen her put it to good use with the kids, but she’d turned that part of herself off. Instead of bustling around and organizing, she’d spent the entire time sitting beside Sunday’s bed, holding her hand and talking quietly about the farm and the children.
He wasn’t sure if she expected a response, but she seemed determined to fill the quiet with soft, easy words and sweet descriptions of Twila’s birthday party.
She made it sound like a princess party—the kind where little girls danced, rode ponies, and jumped in bouncy castles.
She didn’t mention the burnt cakes, the boys’ jaunt down to the river, or Moisey’s wandering. She didn’t say that the house was a mess or the kids were running wild, or that she’d been hired because Sullivan didn’t know what the hell he was doing. She said the things he’d have wanted to hear if he were the parent lying in the hospital bed. And, he appreciated that, because he’d run out of words days ago. He’d used them up talking to teachers, casserole deliverers, kids, random people from random government entities who were all there to get a piece of whatever pie Matt had left.
He hadn’t left much—minimal life insurance, a few thousand dollars in the business bank account. Matt hadn’t paid property taxes the previous year. He owed money on farm equipment that had been purchased a couple of years back. There’d be an insurance settlement eventually. The truck driver who’d killed him had been on company time, driving a company rig. No amount of money could bring Matt back, but at least Sunday wouldn’t lose the farm. Sullivan and his brothers had already sent a check to the county for past taxes. They planned to pay off the equipment, too. Porter and Flynn would be back in a week to sit down and go over the finances.
They’d been in crisis mode before and during the funeral.
Now, they were planning things out, trying to prepare a future for six kids who might or might not get their mother back.
His phone rang, and he pulled it out, glancing at the number. Porter. Finally.
“It’s about time,” he said by way of greeting.
“Sorry, bro. I just finished with a client.” A former marine, he’d spent ten years serving the country. Now he served overpaid celebrities, high-level government officials, and just about anyone else who was willing to pay the price for personal security. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s stable. They had to resuscitate her twice.”
“Were you able to get in touch with Flynn before the surgery?”
“No. He’s probably out in the middle of nowhere without cell reception. God alone knows when I’m going to hear from him.”
“Sorry you had to make the decision on your own. We agreed to do this as a team. Flynn and I are falling short on that.”
“So am I,” he muttered, and Porter chuckled.
“Don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure you’re great at playing Mr. Mom. And, for the record, I would have made the decision to resuscitate, too, and I’m pretty damn sure Flynn would have. Those kids need their mother.”
“Not if she’s got no quality of life and they have to spend the rest of theirs watching her suffer,” he muttered, and regretted it immediately.
“Shhhhh,” Rumer hissed. “She might be able to hear you.”
“Who’s that?” Porter asked. “A nurse? If so, see if she’ll talk to me. I have a couple of medical questions I want to ask.”
“She’s the new housekeeper you and Flynn advertised for.”
“Really? I just wrote up the ad and sent it in a couple of days ago.”
“And forgot to tell me.”
“That was Flynn’s job. I did my part.”
“I guess my desperation was obvious.”
“Nah. We just figured you needed some time to work. None of us are going to be able to do the full-time parent thing. Not for long stretches of time. Not with that many kids. Eventually, we may have to split the kids up and each of us take a couple—”
“How about we discuss that when you’re here next weekend?” Much as he wasn’t enjoying the responsibility of taking care of six kids, he wasn’t ready to contemplate splitting them up.
“That’s fine. Tell me about the hired help. Is she as old as Methuselah?”
“Not even close.”
“A former marine?”
“No.”
“A glutton for punishment, then? You know the kind: dour. Mean-looking. Has a dozen cats and a couple of those yappy little dogs.”
“Not even close. She’s a teacher.”
“Of what? Primates? Does she work at a zoo?”
“No, but in a couple of days, she’ll be able to add that to her résumé.”
Porter laughed. Full-out. Bold. Just like he’d always been. Out of the four Bradshaw brothers, he’d been the most daring. Not the oldest, but usually the leader. At least when it had come to getting into trouble. “Good point. You hired her quickly. Afraid she’d figure out how bad things were and run?”
“Desperate,” he admitted, meeting Rumer’s eyes.
She smiled. Just a quick curve of her lips, but it caught his attention. Held it. Because, the angle of her jaw was perfect, the curve of her cheek, the misty blue-gray of her eyes—they were a Renaissance painting, alive with detail and texture and color.
And, suddenly, he wanted to cross the room, run his palm up her nape, let his fingers tangle in her hair. He wanted to drink in every detail of her, explore every angle and curve and plane.
“You still there, Sullivan?” Porter asked, breaking the spell, chasing away the quick heat that had been flooding through him.
“Yeah.”
“Did you hear the question?”
“I missed it.” He turned away, irritated with himself. Frustrated that he was in the middle of a mess of problems, and had been thinking about creating another one.
“Did you check her credentials?”
“Whose?”
“The new hire?” he asked.
“I haven’t had time. Things have been crazy here.”
“They’re probably not going to be any less crazy anytime soon. Send me her résumé. I’ll run a background check through the system at work. Actually, I’m at the office. Give me her name. I’ll get things started. I don’t like the idea of her spending nights in the house with the kids, if we’re not sure of who she is or where she came from.”
“She doesn’t look like a knife-wielding lunatic to me, so I think we’re good.”
Rumer laughed.
Porter did not.
“I’m not worried about knives or lunatics. After growing up the way we did, I’ve got no doubt you can handle yourself. I’m worried about pedophiles, child traffickers. Basic scum-of-the-earth evil that should never get within two hundred miles of a kid.”
“I don’t think she’s any of those things, either,” he said. “She was a teacher until a couple of months ago. She had to have a background check for that.”
“Why’d she leave teaching?”
“Her grandmother had a heart attack. Look, Porter, I know how you are. Every rock turned, a light shined in every corner and closet and hole, but we don’t have time for that. The kids need someone. She’s here, and—”
“How about I explain things to him?” Rumer asked, suddenly beside him, her curls brushing his shoulder as she grabbed the phone, held it to her ear. “This is Rumer Truehart. The Bradshaws’ new housekeeper and nanny. Can I help you?”
She listened for a moment. Nodded. Listened some more.
Finally, she shrugged. “That’s fine by me. Run whatever kind of background check you want. My juvenile record is sealed, so I doubt you’ll turn up much dirt.” She paused. “No. I’m not kidding. I was a wild child with an attitude. Just like one of your nieces. Maybe I can teach her to have some sense, so she doesn’t make the same mistakes I did.”
She paused again. Smiled. “Yeah. I make a mean apple pie, a to-die-for pound cake, and fried chicken even the pickiest eater will love. Mashed potatoes. Fresh green beans. Grilled corn with lots of melted butter. Unfortunately, the terms of my contract stipulate that I have the weekends off. You and your brothers will have to cook for yourselves while you’re here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go polish my knives and check in with my parole officer.”
She handed the phone back to Sullivan, winked, and sashayed out of the room.
And, God help him, he was smiling as he watched.
Because, it took a ballsy person to go up against any of the Bradshaw men. They’d been raised hard, and they’d become hard. Only Matthias had been gentle. He’d been like their mother—kind to a fault, easy to talk to, a rule follower who toed the line.
They’d all expected him to do what their father wanted—go into software development and make a fortune before he turned thirty. Instead, he’d married his high school sweetheart and helped run her family farm. As far as Sullivan knew, the day Matthias married, Robert had cut all ties with him. Just like he’d cut ties with his other three sons. Utter disappointments. Every last one of them. Or, so he’d said dozens of time while they were growing up.
Fun memories, and he wasn’t smiling anymore.
Robert Bradshaw had been a bastard. Maybe, he’d been raised by one himself. Sullivan didn’t know. His father had never talked about his past or the family he came from. He’d been too busy using his fists and his tongue to control his sons.
That had only worked for as long as they’d allowed it.
Eventually, they’d become too big, too strong, and too hard to be beaten down by an aging man with an anger problem. Robert must have known that. By the time they’d reached high school, the physical abuse had mostly stopped. All that remained were the verbal slings and arrows. Those had been easy enough to ignore. It wasn’t like he and his brothers spent much time at home. By that point, they’d created their own closed group. The four Bradshaw brothers against the world.
He supposed they were still like that.
No matter the trouble, they were there for one another.
Even now. Even in this. Even with Matthias dead, they had his back. They’d do what they had to for his family. For as long as it took.
He walked to the bed, lifting Sunday’s hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry. We’ll do right by your kids. I may not be able to promise much, but I can promise you that.”
She didn’t give even a hint of a response.
He set her hand back on the mattress, eyed the machines that blipped along with her heart rate. God willing, she’d recover. In a week or two or twenty, she’d be back at home with her children, gluing the pieces of their shattered lives back together.
If she wasn’t . . .
They’d cross that bridge when they came to it.
For now, he’d be thankful for the small things—the tiny movement of her hand after surgery, the cake that hadn’t burnt to a crisp, and the help-wanted ad in the Benevolence Times that had somehow made its way to the exact place it needed to be at just exactly the right time.
Sullivan had never been much for believing in miracles. He’d spent too much of his early years hoping for and never getting one. He’d listened to his mother pray to a God who didn’t seem to hear, and he’d wonder why she kept believing and hoping. Miracles, it had always seemed, were for other people and other families. Not for his broken one.
This though? It seemed like the real deal, the answer to unspoken prayers, the life preserver thrown to the drowning man. The thing he hadn’t even known he needed until it walked right out in front of him wearing bright yellow bell-bottoms and a gauzy white shirt.