Authors: Maureen Child
“I restrained myself.”
“Another first.”
“Does your jaw ever get tired?” Jo wondered aloud.
Emma giggled. “I wish I had a sister.”
Jo smiled at her niece. “Sisters. A good idea, in theory.”
Sam jumped back into her traditional role of peacemaker. “What’s Cash doing there?”
“Besides irritating me?” Jo asked. “Grace hired him, or so he says. He’s building a pantry in the first kitchen and a cedar closet in Grace’s bedroom.”
“So he’ll be working there this summer, too?”
Jo shook her head at Mike. “Quick, aren’t you?”
“This could be trouble,” Sam said.
“If we keep Sandy and Barb away from him,” Jo pointed out, waving her hands to dry the polish, “we should make it without losing anyone else.”
“Is he a bad man?” Emma asked, eyes wide and interested.
“Not from what
I
hear,” Mike muttered.
“No,”
Sam said, ignoring her younger sister and focusing on her daughter. “Cash isn’t bad. He’s just really
friendly
.”
“Didn’t seem friendly to me,” Jo said, and Sam
couldn’t tell if she was complaining or not. “Just irritating.”
“That’s because you’re just contrary,” Mike accused Jo. “Every other woman in town would like to be . . .” She shot a look at Emma. “
Friends
with Cash. So naturally, you want him shot.”
“Not shot,” Jo argued. “Castrated, maybe . . .”
“Seems a little harsh,” Mike argued.
“What’s cas-tated?” Emma asked.
“Oh boy.” Sam slumped in her chair and let her sisters dig their own way out of this one.
A few days later, Sam was busier than anyone had a right to be.
The summer people, Chandler’s very own set of wandering Gypsies, were camped out on Grace’s property and their very presence was distracting. Two RVs, with a total of four opinionated women, were damned hard to ignore. The women had been friends for years and once all of their husbands had either died or been divorced, they’d banded together to travel the country and “see the sights.”
Brightly colored awnings were stretched out over grassy areas outside their RVs. Tables, chairs, hooked rugs, and kerosene lamps were set out to resemble outdoor living rooms. Campfires burned all day and most of the night. One or all of them had a pot hanging over the flames at all times and there was an ever-present scent of something delicious wafting in the air.
The real chore, Sam thought, was trying to keep her work crews from taking breaks under those awnings every fifteen minutes.
The women worked with the goats, shearing the
wool and then combing and carding it. Not a pleasant job, since none of the animals particularly
wanted
to stand still and have their long, tangled, dirty, and oh, God,
smelly
hair combed. But then the yarn would be spun and sold to the specialty knit shop in town.
Sam watched them and a part of her envied their freedom. Their responsibilities ended whenever they left one town behind and didn’t start again until they decided to park for a while. It seemed an easy, simple life, and since her own was tangled into knots, the thought of climbing into an RV and hitting the road was looking better and better by the minute.
“On the other hand,” she murmured, her gaze sliding from the laughing women to the small herd of Grace’s goats wandering in and out of the work area. “There’s definitely a downside.”
The goats were a whole new set of problems. They were everywhere. Dogs and cats people were used to. Chickens were irritating but avoidable. The sheep, as a rule, turned up their noses at hanging with people, but the goats . . . they were a sociable bunch. With the run of the property, they quite naturally had decided that the house and work area were the best spots to be. Bad tempered and spoiled rotten, the goats helped themselves to whatever had been left lying around and even Sam was astounded at what the blasted things would eat.
“I’m telling you, I laid my new list of supplies right here on the workbench.” Mike pushed aside hammers, levels, and empty coffee cups, looking for the eight-by-twelve sheet of paper she’d set aside only moments ago. “Somebody moved it,” she snapped, planting both
hands on her hips and scanning the crowd for the guilty party.
Hammers pounded, saws whined, and women laughed. Yet, over all that noise, Sam heard a distinctive sound that had her turning around in dread. “Not
somebody
,” she said on a sigh. “Some
thing
.”
“What?” Mike turned, too, and instantly leaped. “You little shit, give me that.”
Any other time, Sam would have enjoyed watching her little sister fight a goat for what was left of her list, now hanging from one side of the damn thing’s mouth. But it was late, she was tired, and she still had to go pick up Emma.
Emma
.
The bright spot in Sam’s universe.
She was still finding it hard to believe. She had her daughter back. And it was as though the missing eight years had never happened. Everything was good. Everything was just as she’d always dreamed it could be.
Well, except for the fact that Jeff was here too and showed no sign of giving in on the custody issue.
Mike dug her heels in, wrapped both hands around the goat’s snout, and tried to pry its jaws apart. Sam shook her head.
Jeff.
A curl of heat unwound inside her and Sam told herself to squash it like a bug. Unfortunately, her body wasn’t listening. She could lie to everyone else and was actually doing a fine job of it. But there was no point in lying to herself.
Jeff still had the ability to twist her insides into a whimpering, pleading mass of
want
.
“Give it up, you hairy rodent,” Mike threatened.
The goat snorted through clenched jaws.
Sam lifted her head and stared up at the startlingly blue summer sky through the leafy canopy above her. A soft wind blew past, ruffling her ponytail and sending a few stray locks of hair into her eyes. She brushed them back and took a deep breath. Her stomach growled as she caught the scent of what smelled like stew coming from a bubbling cauldron hung over one of the campfires.
“Dammit, stop eating my
list
!” Mike shifted her grip on the goat, grabbing its head between her palms until she could stare it dead in the eye.
It chewed.
Mike steamed. “Listen to me, you little rat bastard,” she growled. “As far as I’m concerned, we can get the wool off you from the
inside
out.”
The goat stared at her for a long minute, then, apparently deciding that paper wasn’t an attractive enough snack to risk disembowelment, spat what was left of the list at Mike’s feet.
Mike let it go and the goat scampered off for greener pastures, so to speak. As she bent down to pick up the sodden, stringy mass of pulp, Mike threw another glare at the animal. “Can you believe this?” She grimaced at the dripping mess in her hand, then lifted her gaze to Sam. Thoughtfully, she asked, “Got a taste for goat burgers?”
Sam laughed and checked her wristwatch. “No, but you go ahead. One less goat around here could only be a good thing. I’m outta here.”
“Hey,” Mike said, reaching out to pull Sam to a stop. “How come you get to leave early?”
“Gotta pick up Emma.”
Mike grinned. “You’re really enjoying saying that, aren’t you?”
“Oh yeah.”
Grin fading, Mike asked, “What about the weasel-dog? He lightening up on the custody thing yet?”
“No.” Sam shoved her hands into her pockets and told herself that it was just a matter of time. It had been a week already. Jeff’s wedding date was looming—something she really didn’t want to think about, for reasons she didn’t care to explore. So he was bound to cave soon. He
had
to, if he wanted to marry Cynthia Perfection. “He will, though.”
“I still say you should talk to Jackson.”
Jackson Wyatt was Carla Candellano’s husband and a very good attorney. Sam knew Mike was right. She should get herself a lawyer to handle her side of this. And maybe she would. Eventually. If Jeff refused to bend. But for now, Sam wanted to handle this herself. To find a way to reach a compromise with Jeff. For their sakes and for the sake of their daughter.
“If I have to get a lawyer, I will,” Sam promised.
“There’s a dodge.”
“I’m not
dodging
anything,” Sam argued. “Jeff and I should work this out. Together.”
“Hey,” Mike said, “maybe he’ll do what he did before. Run away.”
“If he does,” Sam reminded her tightly, “he’ll take Emma.”
“Then we hunt him down like the weasel-dog he is.”
“Not really helpful,” Sam pointed out, not seeing the humor in any of this.
“Sorry. But he can’t win this, Sam,” Mike said,
reaching out to slap her sister on the back. “Emma’s as much yours as she is his. And as long as you don’t go all sappy and hormonal on us, the battle’s ours—” She stopped and stared.
Sam looked away.
“You’re not.”
Sam sighed.
The hum of activity around them drifted into the background as Mike’s gaze narrowed on her. Sam wanted to shift position guiltily, like a burglar in a lineup.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mike blurted, throwing her hands high before letting them slap down against her thighs. “You’re still hot for him.”
“It’s nothing,” Sam said quickly, with a glance around to make sure no one else was close enough to overhear. Bad enough she was having this talk with Mike. She’d just as soon not have everyone in Chandler knowing that Jeff was still able to light up her body like a fireworks show. “I’m handling it.”
Mike snorted and folded both arms across her chest, completely hiding the Marconi Construction logo. “Yeah, you
handling
him is what I’m worried about.”
“Cute.” Sam turned away, snatched up her purse and slung it over her shoulder, rifling through it one-handed to find her keys. “Nothing’s going to happen, okay? He’s
engaged
.”
“Uh-huh. He may be engaged to Ms. Fabulous, but he’s still
married
to you. That makes
her
the other woman.”
Well. Sam hadn’t really thought about it like that. And it might have been better if she hadn’t. Her hormones didn’t need any encouragement, thanks. Besides,
she told herself sternly, they’d had their shot nine years ago. It hadn’t worked. Their time was over—and it wouldn’t be fair to
anyone
to try and change the rules now.
“All I’m saying is . . .” Mike broke off and huffed out a blast of breath on a disgusted sigh. “Speak of the weasel-dog and up he walks . . .”
Sam whirled around and watched Jeff and Emma approach the worksite. She hadn’t expected him. And seeing him like this, completely unprepared, she felt a wild rush of something hot and liquid and dangerous flash through her.
Good Lord
.
“Oh yeah,” Mike murmured, leaning in close. “You’re gonna be just fine around him. No problems here.”
“Go kill a goat.”
Mike snorted, spared one quick, murderous look for Jeff, then stalked off.
“Mommy!” Emma raced right for her and Sam automatically bent down to scoop her up. Joy raced through Sam and worry drained away. How could she possibly worry about tomorrow, when
today
she was holding her little girl close?
Then Jeff stepped up into the dappled shade, smiled down at her, and Sam thought . . .
Oh yeah. That’s how
.
He shouldn’t have come.
Jeff knew that, but he hadn’t been able to stay away. Nine years apart. A lifetime. An eternity. He’d become accustomed to thinking of Sam only as a memory, and he’d learned to live with the occasional pang. Now, seeing her was mesmerizing. He couldn’t seem to get enough.
And that was dangerous.
For both of them.
The more time Jeff spent in Chandler, the harder it was to remember his daily routine in San Francisco. This world, this life, was so far removed from his. Here, there were no high-rises. No impatient clients or business lunches.
A flicker of guilt zapped him as he thought about all the extra work he’d put his assistant, Sallye, through lately. She’d canceled his meetings, rescheduled appointments, and managed to convey her displeasure at his suddenly cavalier attitude toward work.
Couldn’t blame her for being surprised, he thought. In the last five years, since he’d taken over the reins of the family bank, Jeff had been the model executive. He’d balanced work and home and slowly turned himself
into exactly the kind of man his mother had envisioned.
That thought hit him harder than it had the last time it had drifted through his brain.
Had he really become the Hendricks family scion? Was he just another link in the long chain of dutiful bankers he’d sprung from? Was that it? Was he destined now to spend his life in a buttoned-down world?
Dreary thought.
Which was why this time in Chandler was so damn appealing. Here, there were beaches and the forest and the small town where every storekeeper greeted you like a long-lost friend—rather than a hefty receipt on legs.
Here, Emma was happy.
Here, there was Sam.
Dammit.
“I was just leaving to pick up Emma,” Sam said, her voice dragging him out of his thoughts.
“Yeah, well,” he said, shoving both hands into his jeans pockets. “Emma wanted to show me Grace’s goats, and . . .”
I wanted to see you
. . . God, he hoped to hell he hadn’t said that out loud.
Sam smiled and the power of it slammed into Jeff and rocked him on his heels. He was rushing blindly through a minefield. And though he knew the danger was right here, all around him, he couldn’t seem to care.
“She had a good time here yesterday.”
“Yeah,” he said, enjoying the fact that for the moment, there was no enmity between them. “It’s all she’s talked about.” And he could admit, if only to himself,
he’d felt more than one twist of envy when listening to his little girl talk about her aunt Jo teaching her how to hammer a nail, or about Mike showing her how easily faucets come apart, or about how her mother had given her a paintbrush and let Emma help paint a wall.