Honorable Rancher. Barbara Daille White
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start something more.
Give them time alone again—
“We have a lease,” she said, her voice shaky. “Signed and sealed on the dotted line.”
“I’m not arguing that.”
“Good.” She rose, marched across the office and flipped the hanging sign on the front door. From the outside, it would now display Closed.
She must have read his mind.
“Well, then,” she said, “as there’s nothing else to discuss, I’ll leave you to get your measuring done.”
Disappointment jolted him. “No need for you to go.”
“Oh, but there is. I’ve got customers to lure in, and all that. Please lock up on your way out.” Clearly all too eager to get away, she went through the door and closed it behind her even more quickly than Kayla had done.
He slapped the clipboard against his palm and shook his head. What the hell had he been thinking, wanting to get her alone? Hadn’t that led to enough trouble?
So much for his plan of working around here—every time he would come in to do something, she’d just take off again. He couldn’t ask her to stay at her desk, anyway, when her job required her to keep on the move. But he wasn’t beaten yet.
She didn’t know what a mistake she’d made by walking out on him. By forcing his hand. By making him twice as determined to find a way to make things easier for her.
He smiled, turning another idea over in his mind, one he liked much better than hoping to corner her in her office.
An idea he’d stake his ranch on she wouldn’t like at all.
* * *
“I DIDN’T DO IT, MAMA!” P.J. called the minute she walked in the door late that afternoon.
Now what?
After Ben had invaded her office, seeming to take up all the oxygen in the room, she’d found it hard to breathe. Needing to go somewhere—anywhere—to escape, she’d spent a long morning researching at the local library. Then she’d spent an even longer afternoon back at her desk, searching for listings, hoping to find something to tempt Caleb’s friend next week. Yet somehow, as she worked, she could still see Ben in the room.
Coming home to P.J.’s vehement denial gave her an instant diversion. Chances were, he had done whatever it was. She just hoped it wasn’t something too serious.
“Didn’t do what, P.J.?” she asked.
Instead of answering, he took her by the hand and led her to the downstairs bathroom.
Water trickled from beneath the vanity. Puddles saturated the tiles. The loose edges of a half-dozen vinyl squares had already started to curl. She groaned. “P.J., where’s Anne?”
Dana couldn’t ask for a better babysitter. She willingly picked up P.J. after kindergarten and nine-month-old Stacey from day care. And she was always available in the evening when Dana had to show properties to her clients.
When she had clients.
Best of all, Anne loved the kids. And that mattered most.
“She’s in the backyard with Stacey,” P.J. said.
Chances were almost guaranteed that Clarice, her elderly next-door neighbor, would have her eye on the yard, too. “You go out there with them, please, while Mama cleans up this mess.”
After walking barefoot through the rising water on the bathroom floor, she tied a rag around the leaking pipe and put an empty bucket beneath the joint. Finished, she looked around and shook her head. This was the floor—and not to mention, now the pipe—that should be replaced, not the perfectly good tiles Ben wanted to change in the office.
The floor and the plumbing headed a long list of things that needed fixing around here. She couldn’t afford the repairs. At this point, she couldn’t afford to move anywhere else, either. In any case, she didn’t own this house, only rented it.
In the kitchen, she grabbed the phone and punched her absentee landlord’s number. Despite numerous reminders about repairs, she’d let George slide, knowing he had his own financial worries. She tried to ignore the issues, but her list had grown to a couple of pages, the minor fixes had given way to major problems, and this new situation threatened her family’s safety.
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