Sins Of A Tanner. Peggy Moreland
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Whit gazed at the Lone Star flag painted on the roof of the horse barn as he drove past, wondering if Matt had painted the design himself or hired it done. In either case, he liked the tribute to their home state of Texas and wouldn’t mind having a similar one painted on the roof of his own barn.
Focusing his gaze back on the road, he drove the remaining distance to the house, turned off the engine, then sank back and simply stared, remembering the first time Matt had brought him to the house. Matt had been higher than a kite that day, excited about the prospect of living on his own for the first time.
But living on his own was all Matt had to be excited about, he thought wryly as the house hadn’t amounted to much back then. An inheritance from his granddaddy, the house had stood vacant for nearly a year before Matt had taken possession of it. Judging by its condition at the time, it had been neglected for a good deal longer than that. Grass had stood knee-high in the yard and loose panels of tin on the roof had flapped in the afternoon breeze, creating an eery sound. But as Matt had said when Whit had commented on the house’s poor condition, “Hell, it’s free! Who can complain about that?”
Whit certainly couldn’t…and hadn’t. At the time he’d still been living at the Bar-T under Buck’s rule and would’ve given his right arm to have a place to call his own, even if that place was in danger of collapse at any given moment.
But the house Whit sat in front of now held little resemblance to the one Matt had shown him that day. Fresh paint and a new roof had gone a long way toward improving its appearance. But there was another quality that increased its appeal. Something that could only be sensed, not seen.
Somewhere along the way, the house had become a home.
He could all but feel the warmth that emanated from it, smell the scent of fresh-baked bread wafting from the open windows. A swing suspended from the ceiling of the covered front porch swung lazily in the afternoon breeze, the pillows scattered along its back plump and inviting. Clay pots filled with bright geraniums edged the steps, while tall wicker planters holding lacy-leafed ferns welcomed guests from either side of the door.
He wanted to believe that Matt was responsible for the changes, just as he wanted to believe that Matt had painted the Lone Star flag on the barn roof. But he knew better. Matt was never one to fret much over appearances. He was just too darn lazy to put forth the effort. If left up to him, the house—as well as the barn—would have remained in the same condition as the day he had moved in.
That left only one person who could be responsible for the changes.
Melissa.
Which made Whit wonder if she was also the one responsible for the debts Matt had supposedly left behind. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine her requesting—maybe even demanding—that he remodel the house. More so than Matt, she had come from money and was used to having the best of everything. Her father’s home in Lampasas was nothing short of a mansion, complete with a live-in housekeeper, cook and full-time groundskeeper. For her to leave all that opulence and move into Matt’s house must have been a shock for her.
But from the looks of things, she hadn’t wasted any time bringing the house up to her standards.
Setting his jaw against the resentment that rose, he climbed down from his truck and strode to the front door, anxious to get his business with her over with and be on his way. He rapped his knuckles hard against the screen door, then waited. When no sound came from within, he glanced around, then headed for the rear of the house. A shed at the back of the yard caught his attention and made him stop and stare. He remembered the building from his first visit to Matt’s place as looking as if it was one strong wind away from collapse. Nothing at all like it appeared now.
The wood frame structure had been painted a soft, buttery yellow and trimmed out in a crisp, clean white. The glass in the two windows that faced the front gleamed in the afternoon sunshine and reflected images of the flowers that spilled from the window boxes suspended below them. Though the afternoon was hot, a Dutch-style door was propped open to catch the occasional breeze.
Drawn by the open doorway, curious, Whit crossed the yard to peer inside. Against the far wall, he found Melissa sitting with her back to him, her head bent over some unseen task. Since she didn’t appear to have heard his approach, he took a moment to look around.
The room was crowded with a wild assortment of items yet he sensed an order to the chaos. Shelving lined the two longest walls and held buckets of paint, tools and what looked to be jars filled with beads and buttons. A child’s playpen was angled into a far corner and stacked high with old, faded quilts. To his left, salvaged iron was propped against the wall, visual proof that Melissa had designed the gate he had tripped over at the grand opening, just as Macy had claimed.
Not liking the stab of guilt that accompanied the discovery, he scowled.
“Where do you get all this junk?”
Startled, Melissa spun on the stool, her eyes wide in alarm. They narrowed to slits when her gaze met his.
Snatching a rag from the table behind her, she stood and wiped her fingers with quick, angry jerks of her hand. “If you’ve come to insult me again, you can leave.”
He was tempted to do just that. Leave. She was the one who needed him. He sure as hell didn’t need her or her attitude.
But he’d come to help out a friend, he reminded himself. And he wasn’t leaving until he had.
Dragging off his hat, he stepped inside.
“I stopped by to take a look at that horse you wanted me to train.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “I thought you said you didn’t have time to take on any more clients.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Seems now I do.”
She eyed him a moment longer, then turned her back and swiped the rag over the tabletop, sending white dust to clog the air. “Sorry. But I’ve already hired someone else.”
He knew she was lying and knew how to prove it, too. “Who?”
She froze, her fingers knotting in the rag. Forcing her hand into motion again, she said, “That’s none of your business.”
“I’m making it mine.”
When she didn’t respond, he lost what little patience he had left with her. Crossing the room in two long strides, he grabbed her elbow and spun her around to face him.
“Listen, dammit,” he said angrily. “I know you’re in a bind and I’m here to offer my help.”
Though the grip he had on her was strong, she didn’t cower in fear, as he might have expected. Instead she met his gaze squarely and with an anger that matched his own.
“Why would you want to help me?”
He released her arm with a force that sent her stumbling back a step. “Don’t kid yourself, Melissa. I wouldn’t spit on you, if you were on fire. I’m doing this for Matt. He was my friend.”
“Friend?” she repeated incredulously. “How can you claim to be his friend when you couldn’t even be bothered to come to his funeral?”
Shame burned through Whit, but he refused to let her see it. No, he hadn’t gone to Matt’s funeral. But it wasn’t because he hadn’t wanted to be there. He’d wanted to go, if for no other reason than to honor the friendship the two had once shared. But he’d deliberately stayed away, knowing that, if he went, he’d see Melissa.
But he wouldn’t tell her that. If he did, she might think he still had feelings for her. And he felt nothing for her. Nothing at all.
“Matt was my friend,” he maintained stubbornly. “And he’d still be my friend today if you hadn’t come between us.”
She paled at the accusation, then quickly turned away.
But not before Whit saw the guilt that stained her cheeks.
She