The Magnificent Seven. Cheryl St.John
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everything else.” With a sigh, Mitch picked up his cold burger and took a bite, just as Ashley knocked over her malt.
Twenty minutes later he released their hands to get his wallet and pay the cashier. He ran back to leave a generous tip at the table for the patient waitress.
A bulletin board on the wall by the cash register caught his attention and, ignoring the yanks on his hands, he scanned the notices of cars and household items for sale. He was particularly looking for someone to watch the girls for him so he could line up a few jobs. Most of the Want Ads had been placed by junior and high school students; the twins needed someone more experienced. Much more experienced. A warden, perhaps.
One notice caught his eye. Handyman Wanted. He released a small hand to tap the card with his forefinger.
“Know anything about this one?” He directed his question to the gray-haired waitress in orthopedic shoes standing near the cash register.
“That’s Pete Bolton’s ranch,” she replied. “His daughter was in here a couple of weeks ago, looking for someone to help her fix up the place to sell.”
That sounded like just the job for him. A couple of months back he’d had to sell all of his contracts, to take care of the girls. His mother had been caring for them, but one calamity after another had pulled him from work sites, until it wasn’t fair to his customers or his subcontractors for him to continue. While trying to figure out what to do, he’d decided that Garrett Kincaid’s invitation was just the solution.
This had been the perfect time to do some traveling, and he’d been eager to spend more time with, and get to know, this grandfather he’d never known existed until last May.
“Do you have some paper I can write the number on?” he asked.
“Sure, sugar.” She fished in her pocket, came out with her order tablet and a pen, and scribbled the phone number, tearing off the sheet and handing it to him.
The bell over the door clanged and he turned to see one of his daughters dash outside.
“Thanks.” He stuffed the paper into his shirt pocket and pulled the other child out the door behind him.
Lily Mae Wheeler got up out of her permanent seat in the first booth and walked over to Charlene, her gaudy jewelry clanking at her wrists and weighing down her bony chest.
“Heard he was at Garrett’s ranch,” she said to let Charlene know she’d been the first to hear. “Nobody knows much about him yet, ’cept his wife died when those two were just babies. Those children are holy terrors, have you ever seen the likes?”
“Must be difficult for a young father to raise two girls alone,” Janie said sympathetically, coming up beside them.
“They need a good paddling, if you ask me,” Lily Mae scoffed.
“Be interesting to see what happens at the Bolton ranch this afternoon, wouldn’t it?” Charlene said with a devilish smile.
The three exchanged amused glances.
Engaging her ten-year-old daughter’s help, Heather Johnson tackled the stack of dishes from lunch and breakfast.
“We need a dishwasher, Mom.” Jessica dried a chipped plate and stood on tiptoe to place it in the cupboard.
“I didn’t think we were going to be here long enough to need one,” Heather replied with a regretful sigh. She turned and glanced at her sons who sat on the worn linoleum floor with coloring books. With his tongue angled out the side of his mouth, five-year-old Patrick studiously labored to keep the purple crayon inside the lines on the page. Two-year-old Andrew spent more time chasing the crayons under the table and tasting them than he did coloring, but at least her boys were temporarily occupied.
When she’d brought her children to the ranch after her father’s death, she’d planned to take a two-week vacation, go through her father’s personal belongings, and sell the property. A neat-and-tidy plan, something that should have gone smoothly.
Now, two and a half weeks later, she still hadn’t been able to make any progress on selling. She hadn’t planned on all the repairs that the real estate lady had suggested be made to get a decent price. Heather hadn’t been back to Whitehorn in years, and the property had deteriorated more than she’d imagined. Her father obviously hadn’t paid any more attention to the house than he ever had to her.
She shrugged off the depressing thought and gave Jessica a smile. “Thank you, angel. You are a big help to me, you know that?”
Wiping another plate, her daughter nodded in a grown-up manner. “Can we do something fun after this, Mom?”
A little pang of regret snagged Heather. She knew it hadn’t been much fun for Jess to help with the boys all morning while Heather went through boxes and trunks and years’ worth of accumulated junk. “What would you like to do?”
“Catch turtles in the pond?”
Heather wrinkled her nose. “Who’s going to wade out there with the net?”
“You’ll help, won’t you?”
Heather had to admit she’d been appreciating this much-needed time with her kids. She loved her public relations job in San Francisco, and the sense of self-worth it had always brought, but she often felt guilty about the time she missed with her children. This time with them had been enjoyable, even though it had to be spent here—the last place on earth she’d choose to vacation.
She tapped Jessica on the nose with a sudsy finger. “Okay, I’ll help you catch a turtle.”
Jessica grinned that knockout smile, revealing dimples that would one day drive young men crazy. Heather’s heart gave a sad twinge at the thought. She wasn’t too concerned about her daughter’s future. She’d tried her best to ensure Jessica wouldn’t make the same mistakes Heather had made.
Patrick jumped up and ran to the screen door that overlooked the long gravel drive. “Somebody’s coming! It’s a way cool truck!”
Andrew got up, crunching crayons beneath his red-and-blue tennis shoes in the process, and followed his brother. “Thumbody coming!” he mimicked.
Heather dried her hands and moved to the door. She’d been expecting the man who had called earlier about interviewing for the handyman job. The blue-and-silver duel cab Silverado pickup leaving a dust trail must belong to him.
“This is the appointment I was expecting.” She hung up the towel. “We’ll be discussing business in the other room. I want all of you to play quietly in here until we’re finished.”
She waited for the children’s nods of understanding, then stepped back to the door.
The driver parked in the gravel area behind the house, but instead of getting out right away he turned toward the back seat. Heather noticed a couple of heads she hadn’t seen at first. He’d brought children to a job interview? One big strike against him.
She stepped out onto the back porch, the age-splintered boards creaking precariously beneath her feet.
He exited the truck at last, closing the door and glancing over his shoulder.
He was tall, she noticed right away. Maybe thirty, with sandy-brown hair and a golden tan attesting to hours working in the sun.
The jeans he wore encased long legs and slim hips. A navy-blue, button-down knit shirt, work boots, and a slim black folder with a clipboard completed the classically sexy look of a handyman. Heather could picture him with a tool belt around his hips and smiled to herself. Certainly nothing wrong with his appearance.
He neared the porch. “Mrs. Johnson?”
She composed her face and nodded.
“Mitch Fielding.”
She reached to shake his hand. He had calluses on his palms. Hardworking. Steadfast. Where had that come