"Your kids?" he asked, turning his head to observe the trio at the table.
She nodded.
They entered the sparsely furnished room her father had used for an office. Pushing aside a drawer she'd been emptying, she sat in the cracked leather chair and Mitch took the wooden one.
"Sorry about your father," he said, catching her off guard.
She fumbled with her thoughts for a moment before realizing he meant Pete Bolton's recent death. "Thank you. I came here nearly three weeks ago to sort through things and sell the ranch, but the house and outbuildings are in terrible condition, as you've seen. The Realtor wants me to fix up the property. She suggested updating the house, but I don't know if I want to go to that much trouble and expense, and I don't know the first thing about how to go about it."
"I'm a contractor," he said. "That's what I do for a living. You could leave all that up to me."
"I didn't see you in the directory."
"I'm not from Whitehorn. I'm here visiting my grandfather." When she didn't comment, he opened the folder he'd brought and presented her with several sheets of paper. "These are my references and specs on similar projects."
Heather glanced through the impressive details, not questioning his ability. "I don't have funds for a big undertaking."
He nodded understandingly. "I don't require a retainer. You wouldn't have to pay me until you've seen the work in progress. Sometimes I can get suppliers to delay billing until after the sale goes through. I could work on that. If not, I'll handle the cost until the place is sold."
That sounded encouraging. Still, there was the eventual expense of his fee, which would be considerable, with all the hours needed to get the place in shape. Remodeling would be ideal and bring the best price, but a quick fix was about ail she could afford.
He glanced at the desk and back up. "Are you home all day long?"
She nodded, wondering why he'd asked. Did he think her children would get in the way of construction projects? "Unless I go into town to shop."
"I might have a solution for both of us."
She'd been studying the papers, but she glanced up, caught off guard by the way the navy shirt sculpted his solid-looking chest and arms. She focused deliberately on his face. His disturbingly sensual lips pursed for a moment, then opened as he spoke. The odd little tremor in her stomach must have been caused by too much coffee that morning.
"Maybe we can work something out. I've been trying to find someone to keep my girls for me, so I can work. I would lower my bid considerably in exchange for you taking care of them while I do the job."
Heather dragged her distracted thoughts from his arresting appearance and mulled his suggestion over. It did sound like a wise arrangement. And she was here anyway.
Childish shrieks caught their attention at the same time. Heather listened, but Mitch immediately jumped off his seat and shot out of the room, surprising her with his agility. She followed.
Her three children had gathered at the screen door to see what was going on outside. They gave Mitch wide berth as he bolted past, then followed Heather out onto the porch.
The shiny Silverado, which had been parked on the gravel behind the house only minutes ago, now rolled slowly toward the corner of the corral, gaining momentum.
Heather watched in horror. Her gaze immediately searched for whoever had been in the back seat. Thank goodness, two blond-haired girls stood on the grass, clinging to each other, jumping and screaming as the truck crunched into the wooden coral fence, flattened the corner sections with a crack, and kept going.
Mitch had reached the girls, checked them over for injuries, then ran after his truck, which was now on the grassy slope leading to the pond. Heather followed in dismay. The screen door slammed forgotten behind her.
By the time she reached the edge of the pond, the pickup had come to a stop, the entire front end submerged in the green water, the tailgate pointing toward the horizon.
Two
Mitch Fielding stood on the bank and sank the fingers of one hand into his hair in frustration. He splayed the other hand on his hip.
Heather came up behind him in time to hear the curt expletive whistled from between his rigid lips. He turned quickly. "Sorry."
She absently waved his apology away. They both turned and gaped at his partially submerged truck. Behind them, the girls continued to howl shrill cries of terror.
A little anxious over what this stranger's reaction might be. Heather glanced at his profile. He stared in disbelief, and she couldn't help feeling sorry for him.
"You think it'll sink more?" a childish voice asked.
Heather turned to see that her own kids had followed and now stood beside them. Patrick had asked the question and gazed wide-eyed up at Mitch. Heather readied herself to hush him or move her children safely back.
Mitch studied the situation and replied calmly, "I don't think so. Probably hit a rock or something that's holding it there." He turned to Heather. "You have a truck or a tractor?"
"There are both in the machine shed," she answered with relief at his composed reaction. "I'll get you the keys." Taking a few steps, she turned back. "Need some help?"
"I need some help, all right," he muttered, following her up the incline.
Mitch couldn't believe this had happened. He'd had a perfect chance at a job; now this woman would never hire him. As he neared the girls, Ashley gaped at him with wide blue eyes, her tears subsiding. Taylor threw herself on the ground and wailed.
"Which one of you did this?" he asked.
"I told her you'd be real mad," Ashley said. "I told her we should stay strapped in just like you said."
"No, you din't!" Taylor whined, halting her histrionics long enough to sit up and argue. "You took your seat belt off first!"
"How did that truck move?" he demanded to know. "I had the engine turned off and the key with me." He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out his key ring, dangling it in front of them, but assuring himself. There was no way he would have left the key in the ignition, and the gearshift wouldn't budge without the key.
"Taylor got the 'mergency key. I told her not to."
"No, you din't! You said maybe we could drive back home!"
He groaned. He'd had a magnetic holder under the front fender, with an extra ignition key, in case he ever locked himself out. But he hadn't figured they'd known it was there. He should have known better than to underestimate their uncanny ability to find something they shouldn't and wreak havoc. "How did you know that key was there?" he asked, bewildered.
"You took it out and gave it to the man who fixed the horn. That day we got a borrowed truck."
Sure enough, he had. And they'd seen him do it. How careless of him. But he'd never imagined—
"Here." Heather Johnson had returned from a trek into her house and dangled a key ring out in front of him. "I really don't know what's what on here, but I think that's the tractor key there. I'm not sure how it runs or if there's gas in the tank. If not, there's a pump beside the barn."
"Thanks." He looked down at his daughters, lost for a suitable punishment, stunned by his own incompetence. Sometimes life was just so overwhelming, he didn't know which way to turn.
"I'll keep an eye on them," the unsuspecting woman said kindly.
Mitch cast his daughters a look that would blister paint and bent over them to ensure intimidation. "You be quiet and nice until I get my truck out of the water. Then I'll deal with you."
Four watery blue eyes riveted on his face and two identical chins quivered. The girls nodded solemnly.
He located the tractor, an amazingly well-kept old Alice Chalmers that would probably bring a small fortune at an antique auction, checked it for gas, and lifted a tow chain down from the wall.
He drove the smooth-running tractor to the pond and waded out to the Silverado, lamenting his beautiful cab filled with scummy water. Noting that the gearshift was in Neutral, he made his way back to dry ground.
Hooking
the chain to the truck axle, he climbed onto the seat and slowly eased the tractor forward, pulling the truck out. Murky green water streamed all the way up the incline. He stopped the tractor in the gravel parking area and got down to secure the pickup. Water dripped from beneath the hood and from the bottoms of the doors. A long crease marred the front fender where it had scraped along the fence post. He'd sure been fond of this truck.
He opened the driver's door and a gush of water hit his already soaked boots. He glanced around and found the girls sitting on the porch with the Johnsons, the entire group watching the proceedings with apprehensive interest.
He placed the gearshift in Park and opened the other door, though not hopeful of the interior drying out anytime soon. At least Taylor and Ashley were all right. That was what was important, he told himself, gritting his teeth. It was, after all, just a truck. A very expensive truck.
Heather Johnson and the children walked toward him. She'd picked up her youngest and carried him on her hip. Her eyes held a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, and for some reason he didn't care for the fact that she was a little bit afraid of him.
"You gonna keep that turtle, mister?" The oldest child questioned him with wide hazel eyes, eyes very different from her mother's.
Mitch followed her gaze and discovered the turtle that had been swept out of his cab on that last rush of pond water. The creature had poked head and feet out of its shell and was lumbering slowly toward the grass. "No."
"Hey, look, Mama!" she said, hurrying over to kneel near the animal, who stopped and tucked its head into the shell. "You won't have to find us a turtle now! The man caught us this one. Thanks!"
The rest of the kids gathered around the turtle and touched its shell.
"No problem." He raised his gaze to the woman's and found her studying him with those golden-brown eyes that still revealed a hint of mistrust. "Sorry about our interview. And about—" he glanced around and felt tingling heat climb into his cheeks "—this. I'll fix your corral right away."
"How long do you suppose it will take for your truck to dry out?" she asked.
No doubt she wondered how soon she could be rid of him. He didn't blame her. "At least a day—just to see if it will start."
The seats and carpet would never look—or smell—the same. Wondering if his insurance would cover this, his shook his head.
"I'll give you a ride back to Whitehorn," she offered, at once very businesslike.
"I don't want to get your car wet or dirty," he said, gesturing at his soaked jeans and boots.
"I'm sure I can find you something of my father's to wear home." Apparently his actions had satisfied her fears, and he appreciated her consideration.
"I'm hungry," Taylor said.
His anger simmered anew at her words. She hadn't eaten three bites of her meal at the café. "You can wait."
"No, I can't. I'm starving!"
Embarrassed, he moved toward her.
"Why don't I fix everyone a snack while you're changing?" Heather's no-nonsense voice stopped him. He glanced over and found those disturbing eyes on him. "You can shower if you'd like. The upstairs bathroom has ancient plumbing and one of those old cast-iron tubs, but it gets the job done."
He took a calming breath. His jeans were cold and clammy and getting out of them sounded too good to pass up. "She probably won't eat anything. They're both picky eaters."
"Well, I'll see if I can't find them something." She ushered the throng toward the house, brought Mitch clothes and a towel, and directed him to the upstairs bathroom. He couldn't help watching her walk away, her denim shorts a mere teasing cover-up for a softly rounded backside. Once she'd disappeared down the hallway, he discovered a pair of faded boxers tucked between the folded jeans and shirt.
She'd been right. The fixtures were old and the room outdated, but it was an enormous space, with a window overlooking open pastureland. He imagined the room with a Jacuzzi tub and a skylight. What he'd seen of the house so far was sound and spacious, merely sadly outdated. It would make a good family home for a relatively small investment.
Showering in the old tub, he found himself wondering how much land went with the house. Garrett wanted to give him a section of the Kincaid ranch, but right now the details were hung up in court. If Mitch had the money and the inclination to stay in Montana, this would be a good spread to look into.
Heather's father had been as tall as Mitch, but wider, so the jeans hung precariously on his hips. He wrapped his wet clothing in the towel he'd used and carried them down to the kitchen.
"I'll wash those and you can get them when you come back for your truck," Heather said, reaching for the bundle.
"No, you don't—"
"Don't argue," she insisted. "A few more things won't make a dent in the amount of laundry I do."
"Well, thank you." He released the bundle, but not his grip on his waistband.
"Here." She fished in a drawer and came up with a length of twine.
Mitch thanked her and tied the cord through the belt loops, then glanced toward the kids.
Taylor and Ashley sat at the round oak table with her children, nearly empty plates in front of them.
"We never got around to proper introductions," Heather said. "This is my daughter, Jessica, and these are my sons, Patrick and Andrew. Children, this is Mr. Fielding."
"Mitch, please," he corrected, appreciating her cordiality. She had every right to think him the biggest loser in history. Times like this, he would agree. "And you met Taylor and Ashley."
Heather nodded.
Had she ever. "They ate something?"
"Just a small snack. Grapes and raisins and a few cubes of cheese with crackers, nothing to spoil their dinner."
Spoil their dinner? As if! He marveled at the concept of them eating the nourishing fare she'd provided. The food she described was more than they ever ate for dinner! How had she done it? He wanted to ask, but he didn't want to appear even more incapable in her eyes.
"Children, wash your hands and use the bathroom. I'm going to get the Blazer." She opened a cupboard and took out a small purse.
Her children obediently carried their plates to the counter and washed their hands at the sink. Jessica pulled out a chair and helped Andrew. Mitch watched in awe.
The twins miraculously fell in behind and washed their hands without a complaint, then took their turns in the bathroom. They were still in shock over the truck incident, waiting to see what horrible punishment was going to befall them, otherwise they'd have been their usual contrary selves.
He would enjoy this compliance while it lasted, he decided, and followed the children out to the Blazer
Heather had pulled up to the back porch. She got out and locked up the house, checked all the riders for seat belts, then returned to the driver's seat. Her delicate scent, something fresh and feminine, drifted toward him, and once again those disturbing eyes touched his face. This time her gaze was like a breezy caress that fingered across his brow, along his jaw.
His imagination had gone into overdrive. He looked away, and she changed gears.
"I appreciate this," Mitch said, though she really hadn't had much choice once he'd been stranded in her backyard. Get them to town or have them on her steps, he guessed.
She drove toward the county road.
"About the job. . ." he dared.
"I don't think that's going to work out," she replied, firmly crushing any scrawny hope he'd held.
"I had a great idea for that upstairs bath," he said, anyway. "Of course you need one downstairs, too." He explained his concept of the bath he'd envisioned. "If you change your mind, I'll be glad to work out the details with you. Like I said, I can delay payment, and I know I could keep costs down."
"Thanks," she said, not giving him any encouragement. "I'll keep that in mind. Where am I taking you, anyway?"
"The Kincaid ranch," he replied. "Know where it is?"
"You'll have to point the way."
He nodded.
"I suppose you've heard all about the grandson roundup."
"No."
"Garrett Kincaid is my grandfather." He studied her profile, then let his attention drift to those shapely legs.
She glanced over and caught him looking. King of Cool here, he scoffed at himself. "I've only been here two and a half weeks. I live in San Francisco. I don't plan on sticking around, and I don't really know anyone in town anymore."
He'd grown used to everyone knowing his business, so the fact that she hadn't heard all the local gossip was refreshing. For some weird reason, he found himself wanting to tell her his side of the story. "My mother is from here," he explained. "I grew up thinking I had no family on my father's side. Hearing from Garrett last year was a surprise. My biological father was Garrett's son, Larry. When he died, he left quite a few descendents—to my grandfather's surprise. Seven of us, to be exact."
"Wow."
"Wow is right." He kept his voice low. "He was married when he had an affair with the nanny—my mother. Apparently Larry gave her money for an abortion, but she kept it and moved to Minnesota. She told me she sent him a photo and a letter after I was born, but he never responded, so she went on with her life. Married my stepdad, had more kids."
"You don't sound upset or bitter."
"People do what they have to do. My mom did the best she knew how. My grandfather never knew about me—about any of Larry's illegitimate children—but once he found out, he did what he thought was right. Well, six of us, anyway. He's still looking for the seventh. He got us all together and is working to give us each a piece of Kincaid land."
"He sounds like a nice man."
"He is."
"And Larry?" She cast Mitch a inquisitive glance.
"What about him?"
"How do you feel about him?"
A personal question. One he hadn't anticipated from her, but he didn't mind. Her curiosity hinted that she may think a little more kindly of him than he'd worried. "I don't really know how to feel. He never wanted to be a part of my life, and I've had a fine life without him."
Heather turned onto the long strip of road that led across the Kincaid ranch to the house. "This it?"
The Magnificent Seven Page 2