by Julia London
Food. He couldn’t live on strained peas forever. And a bed—she needed someplace for him to sleep. But to get a food and bed, she needed to go to a store, and to go to a store, she needed a car seat. Or a babysitter.
Holly climbed onto her brown suede couch and sat on the back of it, thinking. None of her friends had babies. Some of them had kids, but they were past the baby stage. She couldn’t think of anyone who had a car seat.
She was pondering how, exactly, she was going to do this when she heard a knock at her door. Hannah! Oh, thank God, she couldn’t do it, she’s come to get Mason! Holly hurried to the door and threw it open, expecting to see her sister.
It was not Hannah. It was Quincy, with a guitar slung over his shoulder. He grinned. “Ready to work, beautiful?”
She had completely forgotten about their work session.
“What’s the matter?” he said, his smile sliding off his face. “Did you forget?”
She grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. “I need a favor.”
“Sure,” he said easily as he removed the guitar from his back.
“Can you babysit for about an hour?”
Quincy laughed. When Holly didn’t laugh, he blinked. “Babysit what?”
“Not what. Him,” Holly said, and pointed to Mason on the floor. Mason rolled onto his back and looked at Quincy.
“Wow.” Quincy pushed his hand through his long blond locks. “Where’d he come from?”
“He’s my nephew. It’s kind of a long story, but I have to run and get some food and a bed, but I don’t have a car seat, so I can’t take him.”
Quincy blinked again. “Okay,” he said hesitantly. “But I don’t know about babies.”
“They aren’t hard,” Holly lied. “Look, he has a bottle. And here,” she said, diving for the duffel bag. “Here are some animal crackers.”
Mason rolled onto his side and his hands and knees, then stalled, as if he weren’t certain where to go. Quincy grinned. “He’s a little ball of blubber, isn’t he?”
“There’s a Target just down Mopac,” Holly said quickly. “I won’t be long. Please, Quincy? I’m kind of in a bind here.”
“Yeah, sure,” Quincy said and walked across the room to Mason. He dipped down and put his hand on Mason’s head. “Hey, little man. Want to play some tunes?”
“Thanks, Quincy. I owe you one,” Holly said, and grabbed up her purse. “You’ve got my number if anything happens, right?”
“Right,” Quincy said as he tried to give Mason his bottle. Only Mason was more interested in the guitar on Quincy’s back. “We’ll work on the song when you get back. Right, little dude?”
But when he turned around for Holly’s response, she was already gone.
Chapter Six
Wyatt saw the cloud of dust rising up on the road of the Fisher property for the third day in a row, a sure indication that something was going on; there hadn’t been anyone around over there for a couple of months or more. Wyatt knew this, because he’d driven over there one afternoon with Milo in the bed of his truck to make acquaintances. He figured it never hurt to meet one’s neighbors, particularly if one wanted to acquire said neighbor’s property. But the place had been locked up tighter than Guantánamo Bay.
If he had to bet, he’d say that someone in the family had finally come to clean out the old lady’s things, and paid no more attention to it as he went about his work.
Later that afternoon, he was down near the Fisher property, patching a section of fencing in the cattle chute. Some cow had gotten a hind leg on it and kicked it clean through. He finished up, surveyed his work, and paused to take his hat off and drag his sleeve across his brow. He seated his hat back on his head and put his hands on his waist. The afternoons were getting milder now, the days shorter. He liked this time of day. It was still—just him and nature and a patched cow chute. There was no sound of traffic, no phones, no televisions—nothing but the call of mockingbirds that were thinking of bedding down for the night, or the occasional bellow of a disgruntled cow. That afternoon, it was so still that Wyatt could hear the horses over at the Russell place, whinnying for their supper.
He squatted down to gather his tools, and as he slipped the hammer into his tool belt he thought he heard something.
Wyatt paused, straining to hear it. There it was again: it was music. Someone, somewhere, was strumming a guitar. Out here, sound carried so far, he couldn’t detect exactly where it was coming from, but it sounded like it was coming from the Fisher place. It was a breezy tune that sounded like Spanish guitar, one of his favorite music genres. Whatever it was, he’d never heard it before, and he liked it. He liked it a lot. He sank down onto his knees, listening.
The music ended abruptly, and just like that it was gone. Wyatt remained in one spot, waiting for it again. When a minute or two had passed, he picked up his tools and walked back to his truck, wondering who that was, playing the guitar out here in the middle of nowhere.
He’d forgotten about it the next day when he and Troy rode out to check on the cattle.
The cattle had moved to the northeastern corner, which butted up against the Fisher homestead. As he neared the herd, Wyatt could see a thin tail of smoke above the tops of the trees, coming from the general vicinity of the Fisher house. It wasn’t enough smoke to be a fire—or not a very big one—but Wyatt was unaccustomed to seeing any sign of life there at all.
The cattle were unconcerned. They came lumbering toward him, hoping for hay, as he rode into their midst. “Shoo,” he said to them, as Troy slowly pushed through. Milo barked at a pair that got too close, and they darted into the brush.
Wyatt kept on until he reached the fence that separated his property from the Fisher homestead. Below him, he could see the old house. The smoke was coming out of the chimney. Looked like someone had lit a fire and found the birds’ nests, he guessed. All the windows had been cranked open. He heard a baby cry, and squinted in the direction of that sound. He spotted the baby then, sitting on a quilt spread out in the yard, facing the house.
Milo heard the baby, too, and slipped under the barbed wire and went racing toward the house.
“Don’t do that,” Wyatt groaned, and dismounted, climbed over the fence, and started striding down the hill after his dog.
Milo was eagerly sniffing the baby’s diaper. The baby regarded Milo curiously, but then Milo put his snout in the baby’s neck, and the baby opened its mouth and screamed.
A woman raced out of the house as Wyatt reached the edge of the overgrown yard. “Get away!” she screamed at a tail-wagging Milo, and threw something—a shoe, Wyatt thought—at the dog, then snatched the baby up as if she were snatching it from the jaws of a wolf. Milo, who had never been one to take criticism well, slunk away, running up under the wraparound porch with his tail between his legs.
“Sorry about my dog,” Wyatt said.
The woman—maybe mid-thirties, he thought, with a peasant blouse and a pair of jeans that fit her pretty darn good—gasped with surprise when she saw him and clasped the crying baby’s head to her shoulder like she feared Wyatt would yank him right out of her arms. “Where did you come from? What are you doing here?” she demanded breathlessly, and looked around as if she expected Ninjas to leap out of the bushes at her. “I have a gun.”
Wyatt almost laughed at that. “Hopefully, you won’t need it. I’m your neighbor,” he said.
“Neighbor!”
“Look, there’s my horse,” he said, and raised his chin toward Troy, who was munching contentedly on some grass by the fence. “I live right over that hill.”
She looked at Troy, then at Wyatt, her expression full of suspicion.
Wyatt sighed. He took his phone from his pocket and tossed it at her feet. “Call nine-one-one if you need to.”
She looked at his phone, then peeked up at him. “You should keep your dog on a leash,” she said, her voice calmer.
“Keeping him on a leash would be impractical out here,” he said, thinking tha
t was painfully obvious. “And besides, he’s a good dog. He wouldn’t hurt your baby.” The baby was missing a shoe, and Wyatt noticed it in the grass and bent down to pick it up. “I’m sorry we scared you. I saw the smoke and thought you might need help.”
“The smoke?”
Wyatt pointed to the chimney.
She twirled around and stared up at it. “Oh my God,” she said, and sighed loudly at the smoke pouring out of her chimney. When she turned back to Wyatt, her expression had softened. She had a pretty face, he thought, with gray-green eyes and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose. Her shoulder-length hair was a strawberry blonde, more blond than red, and shaggy. She was, he couldn’t help noticing, a nice-looking woman. Cute. “I didn’t know it was smoking that bad,” she said, looking embarrassed.
“Yes, ma’am.” He handed her the shoe. She stooped down to fetch his phone and handed that to him. Her fingers were slender, he noticed. No manicure, the nails cut short.
They both looked up at the smoking chimney a moment.
But then she locked those gray-green eyes on him. “Why are you here?” she asked, eyeing him curiously, taking in his dirty jeans, his sleeveless chambray shirt. He’d cut the sleeves off with a knife and supposed it looked a little untidy, and he knew his jeans had seen better days. Well, hell, he hadn’t expected to meet anyone today.
“Did you come here for a reason?” she asked curiously.
“Fence needed fixing.”
She looked up at the fence. The baby began to squirm in her arms, but she held him tight. She was obviously expecting a different kind of neighbor. She looked back at him. “Mind if I ask your name?”
“Wyatt Clark,” he said obligingly. She didn’t so much as blink, which said to him she obviously hadn’t heard about him around town. Wyatt knew people talked about him. Two years ago, he’d been a story too juicy to ignore: completely in love with his wife, trying for a baby, and then her first husband came back and made Wyatt the most pitied guy in all of Cedar Springs. In all of Texas, for that matter. Maybe even the United States.
“I’m Holly Fisher,” she said, and extended a hand.
Wyatt hesitated a moment before taking it. Her hand was soft and slender, like her fingers. “I was sorry to hear about your mother,” he said. In truth, he hadn’t been sorry to hear about the old lady’s death at all; it had just been news. But it seemed the right thing to say, as she softened considerably.
“Oh. Thank you.”
Wyatt was aware that his own hand was rough and callused, quickly dropped hers, then shoved his in his pocket. “What’s his name?” he asked, looking at the baby.
Holly suddenly smiled at the restless baby, a pretty, glowing smile. “This is Mason,” she said, and put him down on the quilt. Mason didn’t seem to like that; he started to cry, his little fists on top of his knees. “And Mason is not himself today. He’s been very fussy. Maybe because I smoked up the house.” She seemed amused by her observation.
Mason leaned over on his hands, placed his feet flat on the ground under him, and tried to stand, but fell over on his butt. That made him cry harder. His shirt-front was covered with drool and his jeans—the kind that snapped between the legs—had spots of saliva on them also. Mason suddenly stopped crying and used Holly’s leg to hoist himself up, then clutched her as he wobbled on his fat legs.
Wyatt smiled. He liked toddlers. He wished he could be like a toddler, discovering something new every single day, his only concern eating and sleeping. Mason looked to be about the same age as Grace, and she’d just started walking about a month ago. Now he couldn’t keep her in one place.
Mason fell on his rump again.
“Glad to see someone is here to take care of the place,” Wyatt said.
“Oh, I’m not here,” Holly said, and shook her head so quickly that a silky strand of hair fell across her face. “I mean, I’m here for the time being, but I’m not really living here,” she said, as if she found the idea reprehensible. “Just temporarily. I live in Austin.”
“Ah.” He wondered how long she was going to be here, and hoped it was at least long enough for him to make a discreet inquiry or two about buying the place. He looked up at the smoking chimney. “You need help with your chimney?”
“No, thanks.” She hooked her hands in her back pockets. “I couldn’t get the flue open, and I smoked the whole house; and then I got it open, but the wood is green I guess, and whoosh—all that smoke went out the chimney. I don’t think it’s been used in a while.” She smiled sheepishly. “I’m not exactly Rhonda Rancher, but I’ve got it.”
Wyatt nodded. The baby used her legs to haul himself up once more. He stuck his head between her legs and blinked big blue eyes up at Wyatt. But when he tried to move through her legs, he fell again and helped himself to a stick on the edge of the quilt. Holly took the stick from him before he put it in his mouth, and Mason wailed.
Wyatt subscribed to the theory that you let kids experiment. That’s how they learned. But Holly picked him up, as if she suddenly feared he’d eat all the sticks in the grass—and there were plenty, as the yard hadn’t been tended to in a long while—and the baby cried harder. She sighed again and put him on her hip, bouncing him. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
“Looks like he’s teething,” Wyatt observed.
“I don’t know,” she said, frowning at the baby. “I gave him a teething ring and he threw it down.”
“Freeze a wet washcloth and then let him chew on that,” Wyatt suggested.
Holly Fisher laughed, the sound of it light and disbelieving. “I am not going to give him a washcloth to chew on. He could choke on it.”
Wyatt shrugged. It sure had worked for Grace. “Just an idea. Well, Miss Fisher, I’ll let you get back to your chimney. Probably just a buildup of creosote.”
“Of what? What’s that?”
“Fire residue. Builds up and prevents a good draw of air.” He shrugged a little. “It can be a fire hazard if you don’t get it cleaned out.”
Holly’s eyes widened.
Great. He’d just made her think she was going to burn her house down. He suppressed a sigh. “Want me to take a look?” he asked.
“Ah …”
“I wouldn’t want you to burn the whole county. I’ve got cows depending on the grazing around here.”
She blinked, then smiled at his jest, and Wyatt found it to be a very enchanting smile. Almost as pretty as Macy’s. That he could even think that without feeling a jab in his heart was a pretty good sign for him, because his heart had been living in the dead of winter for a long time now.
“I hate to be a bother,” she said.
“No bother.” Just annoying.
“Okay,” Holly said. “Thanks.” She started toward the house, walking across the yard to the porch steps, Mason riding along on her hip. Wyatt tried not to look at the sway of her hips, but those jeans rode just right, and it was … hard not to watch.
He followed her inside, stepping cautiously over the threshold and doffing his hat. The house smelled musty. The green plaid living room furniture was worn, and the lace curtains looked yellow to him, but other than that, everything was nice and neat. It looked as if she’d just arrived. Her purse was lying on the couch, and there was a playpen in the middle of the living room. Several baby toys were scattered about the rug, and a guitar case was propped up against the wall next to the door. He remembered the music he’d heard last night and wondered if she was the one who had been playing.
Wyatt could see evidence of Holly and the baby but no one else. No man, specifically.
“Would you like something to drink?” Holly asked, and put Mason in the playpen. He began chewing on the rail.
“No, thank you,” Wyatt said. He felt restless. He didn’t want to be in this house. It felt too … close. He wanted to be outside, away from an attractive woman and her baby. This all felt very weird, very déjà vu, even though he’d never been in this house before this moment.
Wyatt walked over to the fireplace and went down on one knee to look inside. The fire had never caught, and the wood she’d tried to burn was so green, she could probably bend it. “Do you have any wood besides this?”
“Mmm … I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure where it would be.”
Wyatt held his breath and stuck his head in the fireplace, craning his neck to peer upward, looking for daylight. The opening was so narrow, he could barely make out the light filtering in from above. He pulled himself out and stood, brushing his hands against his jeans.
“You should have this cleaned before you try and use it,” he said. “I know a guy who will do it for a small fee. I can send him around next time he’s working at my place.” He put his hat on his head.
“That’s okay,” Holly said apologetically. “I shouldn’t be building fires anyway. Obviously.” She smiled again, and Wyatt felt a little warm. “I’ll just … I’ll just use the heating.”
“Got propane?”
She blinked. “Propane,” she repeated.
Lord. Rhonda Rancher apparently had shipwrecked herself out here without any survival skills. “I’ll check it on the way out,” he offered. “I’ll let you know if you need any.”
“Thank you,” she said sheepishly.
Determined to get out before he was checking the plumbing, Wyatt walked to the screen door and pushed it open.
“Thank you, Wyatt. I really appreciate it.”
“Yep,” he said, and stepped off the porch. “Milo, come,” he called in a low voice, and the dog bounded out from under the porch. Wyatt walked around to the side of the house to the propane tank and checked the gauges. She had enough propane for the time being, thank God. He started up the hill to where Troy stood waiting at the fence.
“Oh, hey, Wyatt?”
Wyatt paused and looked back. Holly had walked out onto the porch with Mason. “You just put a washcloth in the freezer?”
He honestly thought every mother knew that trick. Macy was the one who’d told him. “Yes.” He touched his hat and walked on, climbed over the fence, unwrapped Troy’s reins from the fence, and hoisted himself up. He glanced back down the hill before he rode away and saw Holly Fisher on the porch with Mason, holding his hands out, helping him to walk. He could hear her encouraging him, her voice lilting in her praise.