by Arlene James
Hap happened to be in the kitchen, and by the time Holt got there, he’d burned the bacon.
“Does that look too done to you?” he asked, shoving the plate beneath Holt’s nose.
“We’ve gotta get your glasses checked,” Holt told him, taking the plate and sliding it onto the counter.
Hap grunted and handed over the spatula. “I reckon you better try your hand at the eggs this morning, then.”
“You don’t suppose the Garden’s open, do you?” Holt asked glumly, referring to the café downtown.
Hap shook his head. “We could always ask Cara Jane to help out.”
Sighing, Holt went to the refrigerator. “I don’t know about her. Something’s just not right there.”
“She lost her man. All alone in the world with a boy to raise. That’s what’s not right.”
“We don’t know that,” Holt grumbled, taking the egg carton from the refrigerator. “Why, for all we know, she isn’t even that kid’s mother.”
“Have you looked at that child?” Hap scoffed. “If she’s not his mama, then she’s real close kin.”
Holt had to admit that they favored each other. “Could be she’s hiding out.”
“From who? Not the law. That I won’t believe.”
Okay, she didn’t strike Holt as a hardened criminal, either, but something about her didn’t ring true. For one thing, he reasoned silently, a woman like her attracted men like honey attracted flies. If she’d hung tight back in Oregon, some fellow would have stepped up to take care of her and little Ace quick enough. Even if she’d loved her husband to distraction—and somehow he didn’t think that had been the case—it didn’t make a lick of sense for her to strike out on her own looking for someplace “happier.”
“How do we even know she’s widowed?” he asked, taking down a bowl to crack the eggs into. He preferred his eggs over easy but that didn’t mean he could cook them that way. Better to just scramble them and have it done with.
Hap considered, then shook his head. “I know that look too well. ’Sides, why lie about it? There’s no law against leaving a husband. Even if she’s scared of him, wouldn’t it make more sense for her just to tell us that?”
“You mean, if he was abusive or something.”
“Exactly.”
Holt pulled open a drawer and took out a fork. “For all we know, she was never even married.”
Hap humphed at that. “Don’t strike me as that sort.”
“Maybe not, but that would explain why she’s not living off her husband’s Social Security somewhere. It just doesn’t add up. She hasn’t been completely honest with us.”
“No reason she should be, I reckon,” Hap said, hobbling into the other room. “Maybe once she gets to trust us.”
It seemed to Holt that his grandfather had that backward. How were they supposed to trust her if she didn’t level with them about herself and her situation?
He cracked half a dozen more eggs and then took a certain pleasure in going after them with the fork.
Cara tapped on the window, her breath fogging the glass. Wearing the same clothes as he had the day before, Holt looked up from beating something in a bowl and reached out with one hand to flick open the door. His hair stuck up in disarray, and he needed a shave. Somehow that made him all the more attractive.
“’Morning,” she muttered, sliding into the narrow room sideways, Ace on her hip. The dark shadow of Holt’s beard glinted reddish-gold up close, she noticed.
“Happy New Year.”
“Oh. Yes. Happy New Year.”
“Sleep okay?”
“Just fine, thank you,” she lied. As if he knew that her conscience pinched her, Ace patted her chest before grabbing a fistful of the front of her aqua-blue T-shirt. “Except,” she amended, “I keep hearing a giant clock in the distance.”
Holt turned to lean a hip against the counter. “A giant clock?”
“Well, not tick-tock, exactly. More like ka-shunk, ka-shunk.”
Holt chuckled, folding his arms. “That’s not a clock, giant or otherwise. It’s a pump jack on an oil well out back.”
She goggled at him. “Oil well! But wouldn’t that make you rich?”
Holt flattened his mouth. “Hardly. And it doesn’t belong to us. A previous owner kept the mineral rights to the property.”
“Ah.” That hardly seemed fair, but what did she know about it? To cover her ignorance, she smiled and asked, “How was the party?”
He went back to beating what she now recognized as a bowl full of eggs. “’Bout like you’d expect for a room full of old folks and a domino table.”
Since she’d never had experience with either, she said nothing more about that. “Is your grandfather around?”
“He is. You and the boy wanting some breakfast?”
“No. No, thanks. We’ve eaten already.” Crackers, applesauce and warm cheese sticks, but Holt didn’t need to know that. “I can finish that up for you, though, if you want.”
“If you’re not eating, it wouldn’t be fair to let you cook,” he grumbled.
“I don’t mind.”
He jerked his head toward the doorway. “Hap’s in the other room.”
“Your choice,” she mumbled, stung. So much for winning his favor.
Slipping by him, she carried Ace into the dining room. Hap sat with his head bent over a big black Bible. He looked up, smiling, and nodded at a chair. She sat down with Ace on her lap. She heard the clump of Holt’s boots as he stepped into the doorway behind her.
Ignoring Holt, Cara said to his grandfather, “I’d like the job, Mr. Jefford.”
“Well, now, that’s fine.” Hap gave his head a satisfied nod.
“There’s just one thing,” she went on, heart thundering. “I’d like for Ace and me to have our own place. If we could stay in one of the kitchenettes, that would be great.”
While Hap scratched his neck, Holt spoke up. “What’s wrong with Charlotte’s room?”
“It’s too small,” she said bluntly, not looking at him. “Ace would have to sleep with me all the time.” She addressed Hap again. “I could pay something, maybe half, so you wouldn’t be out the whole rent.”
To her relief, Holt walked back into the kitchen.
“No need for that,” Hap said, reaching out to pat her hand. “’Course, if we’re full up and need the space, you and Ace might have to move in here temporarily. That room of Charlotte’s is a mite crowded, but I’m sure she’ll take all her stuff when she and Ty get their house built.”
He went on chatting for some time about the house that Charlotte and her husband, Tyler, were planning to build in Eden, while Cara floated on a wave of relief and delight. When Holt came in with two plates of scrambled eggs, burnt bacon and white bread, Cara smiled brightly. Employed and with a place of her own, she finally let herself believe that this might work out.
“I’ll see to those black-eyed peas now,” she said cheerfully, rising to her feet and sliding Ace onto her hip, “and clean up the kitchen once you’re done here.”
Hap chuckled. “It’s a holiday. The cleaning can wait till later.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jefford.”
“Call me Hap. We’re one big happy family here. Glad to count you in.”
Smiling, Cara nodded and started to turn away, only to be brought back down to earth with a thud when Holt said matter-of-factly, “I’ll be needing your ID and Social Security number.” He forked up a big bite of eggs before pinning her with his gaze. “For the employment papers.” She felt the color drain from her face, even though she’d expected this. He seemed not to notice, digging into his food. “You can give it to me after you get the peas on.”
She nodded before making her escape.
One more lie, she told herself. Just one more, and then everything would be fine.
Chapter Four
H olt lifted the employment forms from the printer tray and placed it on the desk in front of Cara Jane. “That’s the last one. At least
I think so. These are all I use with my crew, and I don’t see why this should be any different.”
“Your crew?” she asked, busy filling in the blanks.
Ace played beneath the counter at her feet, crawling back and forth and screeching from time to time. As he answered her, Holt couldn’t help smiling at the sounds of a little one at play. “Roughnecks. I run a crew of roughnecks. Two crews, actually, and three rigs.”
“Oh.” She kept her gaze trained on the tax form in front of her. “I remember you saying something about being a roughneck last night.”
He suspected that she didn’t have the faintest idea what a roughneck was. “I don’t usually work as a motel maid,” he told her drily. “I’m a wildcatter.”
This time she did look up. “Wildcatter?”
He leaned forward slightly. “A driller. For oil.”
Comprehension finally dawned. “Oh!”
Holt frowned. Wouldn’t a girl who grew up in Oklahoma know something about the oil business?
Eyes narrowed, Holt pointed to the signature line. “Just sign here. Then I’ll need a copy of your Social Security card and driver’s license.”
She signed on the appropriate line and pulled her wallet from the diaper bag at her feet.
“So you don’t actually work for your grandfather at all,” she said, handing over the laminated cards.
Holt inclined his head. “Just helping out since my sister married. Well, before that, really. Since they got engaged at Thanksgiving. They didn’t marry until December seventh.”
“That’s not much of an engagement,” Cara Jane commented wryly, pushing back the desk chair and leaning forward to reach for Ace.
“Two whole weeks,” Holt supplied, carrying her license and Social Security cards to the scanner.
She straightened, pulling Ace up onto her lap. “Goodness. I was engaged for two years.”
Holt punched a button and looked at her as she stood, swinging the boy onto her hip. “Didn’t you say you married at eighteen?”
“That’s right.”
He gaped. “Your parents let you get engaged at sixteen?”
Her gaze met his briefly. “Let me? I doubt they even noticed.” She poked the boy in the chest with one fingertip, saying, “Don’t you go getting any ideas, dude. You’re going to college before you get married, just like your daddy.”
Holt latched onto that tidbit of information. “So your husband had a degree?”
She glanced at him, wary now, and Holt could see her trying to decide what to tell him. Finally, she said, “He was a lawyer.”
A lawyer? Holt thought of those two lightweight suitcases he’d carried into her room and the eight-year-old car from which he’d taken them. He put that together with her reaction and came up with…more questions.
“I thought lawyers usually made a pretty good living.”
“So did I,” she said.
Rubbing his prickly chin, Holt pondered this bit of information, remembering that she’d said her husband hadn’t wanted her to work, even though they’d been married at least six years, by Holt’s reckoning, before Ace’s birth. Holt filed that away, allowing her to change the subject as he retrieved her identity documents.
“So,” she said, a bit too brightly, as he handed them over, “you’re not employed here, but I take it you live here.”
“Here at the motel?” He shook his head. “Naw, I have a little place of my own, a ranch east of town.”
“I see.” Her expression changed not a whit, but relief literally radiated off her. “I guess that means you’re, like, married.”
Folding his arms, Holt asked, “Why would you think that?”
She lifted a shoulder, using both hands to anchor Ace on the opposite hip. “I don’t know. Seemed like a reasonable conclusion for a man your age.”
“What’s my age got to do with anything? If you’re thirty-six you must be married?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, I’m not married,” he told her, feeling rather indignant about her assumption, “which means I happen to be around here a lot. Every day, in fact.”
She nodded at that, inching away. “Oh. I guess I’ll be seeing you around then.”
“Count on it,” he told her, watching her snag the diaper bag then leave the room.
Even with the boy perched on her hip, she walked with a decidedly feminine stride. Holt shook his head, disgusted with himself.
A dead lawyer for a husband, engaged at sixteen, hadn’t worked since high school, assumptions and secrets, and enticing, and he couldn’t keep his gaze off her. Without a doubt, that woman was trouble walking. He just hadn’t figured out exactly how yet. But he would. Oh, yes, he would.
Cara straightened, her arms full of rumpled linens, which she stuffed into the bag on the end of the cleaning cart. She took one more swipe at the newly made bed and hurried out to check on her napping son.
The backpack allowed her to tote him much of the time, but the thing became problematic when it came to certain chores, so she’d taken to hauling the crib from room to room with the cleaning cart. The portable baby bed resembled a playpen more closely than a conventional crib, anyway, and despite the cumbersome process, having her son within sight comforted Cara.
Unfortunately, she had no choice but to take the crib into the apartment at nap time and let Hap watch over Ace while he slept. Since Hap could routinely be found at the domino table in the other room, that usually necessitated little more than an open door between the apartment and the lobby, but Cara hated not being able to watch over Ace herself.
After locking the room, she pushed the cart across the pavement to the laundry, then moved on through the kitchen to the dining area. Her heart jumped up into her throat when she saw the empty crib. Then she heard a familiar squeal, followed by men’s laughter, coming from the front room. She raced out into the lobby to find Ace sitting in the middle of the domino table, surrounded by chuckling old men, while he clutched handfuls of dominos.
“Look there, Hap,” Justus teased. “He takes after you, hogging them bones.”
“That’s my boy.” Hap patted Ace’s foot.
“You wish,” Teddy crowed.
“He’s getting in practice for when Charlotte and Ty start their family,” Grover Waller, the pastor, maintained. Round and cheerful, Grover reminded Cara of an aging, balding cherub in wire-rimmed glasses and clip-on tie, but at the moment all Cara could think was that these men had her son.
As she rushed toward them, Hap turned his head to grin at her, holding out an empty bottle. “He’s had him a little snack, Mama, and a dry diaper.”
“Took all three of us to change that boy’s britches,” Justus told her, sounding pleased.
“Strong as an ox,” Teddy confirmed with a nod.
Cara began plucking dominoes from her son’s grasp, her anxious heartbeat still speeding. “I apologize. This won’t happen again. I—I’ll pick up a baby monitor as soon as I’m paid, one I can carry around with me so I’ll know the instant he awakes.”
“No need, Cara Jane,” Hap protested. “We don’t mind watching out for him, do we, boys?”
“Not at all,” Teddy said.
“Cheery little character,” Grover put in.
“That’s kind of you, but he’s my responsibility,” Cara said, gathering Ace into her arms. The relief she felt at simply holding him against her made the preceding panic seem all the more terrible. How could she have let him out of her sight for even a moment? Yet, she’d have to do the same thing repeatedly, for what other choice did she have?
Hap again patted Ace’s foot, knocking his shoes together. “So long, little buddy.”
Cara quickly carried her son from the room. She knew that she’d overreacted badly. Those old men meant no harm. They had no designs on her son. But Ace was her child, her responsibility, and she would give no one reason to question her ability to care for him.
Apparently her overreaction had been noted, for as she p
ushed the door closed, she heard Hap say, “She’s mighty protective.”
“Protective?” Justus scoffed. “You’d think we was trying to steal him.”
“There’s a story there,” Grover murmured.
Carefully pushing the door closed, she laid her forehead against it. Ace tried to copy the motion, bumping her head with his. It didn’t hurt, and he didn’t fuss, but she soothed him with petting strokes anyway, sick at heart. Had she given them away? She shook her head. Impossible. These people had no idea who she really was. So they deemed her an overprotective mother. Let them think what they wished. Nothing mattered except keeping Ace safe and with her.
Except that they were bound to tell Holt how she’d reacted today, and that would be one more black mark against her in his book.
But she didn’t have time to worry about Holt now. She had work to do. Sighing, she carried Ace out to the laundry room, got him into the backpack and returned to the apartment to fold up and move the portable crib.
One more room, and then dinner. And Holt.
He had not failed to show up for dinner the past two nights. On both occasions, he’d looked so weary that she’d have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t watched her as though he expected her to pull a weapon and demand his wallet at any moment.
She held out the faint hope that he would have other plans for tonight, this being Friday. Didn’t single men go out on the weekends in Eden, Oklahoma? Apparently not, because when she laid food on the table that evening, his big, booted feet were beneath it. As on the previous occasions, he barely spoke to her, just stared when he thought she wouldn’t notice. She suffered through the meal in silence and hoped he would stay away the next time.
Not so. Even Hap expressed surprise when Holt arrived the next night. “It’s not our usual Saturday night out,” he exclaimed.