The Magnificent Seven. Cheryl St.John
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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