AFTER LEAVING the children in the kitchen with Hannah, Hank walked toward the three-car garage across from the largest stable. Thinking about his son always left him melancholy, in spite of the fun he’d just had with the children. Lord, he missed Jamie.

      Willie lived in an apartment on the second floor, with blue window boxes that the man himself had filled with red geraniums and white alyssum.

      Hank needed to talk to Willie, to make sense of his conflicting feelings about that woman.

      He climbed the stairs, knocked, then walked into a home as spotless as a Betty Crocker test kitchen. Willie’s fastidiousness always took Hank by surprise.

      “Willie,” he called. “You here?”

      Willie stepped out of his bedroom buttoning up a clean denim shirt, covering the fuzz of gray hair on his chest.

      “How’d the trip to the ranch go?” he asked, tucking the shirt into his pants.

      “Good,” Hank said. “You got any coffee on?”

      Willie poured him a cup and handed it to him black.

      Hank took a sip. “She…ah…she’s a good person.”

      Willie’s face registered surprise. “So you feel better about her now?”

      “More sympathetic, I guess.” Hank wandered to a window that faced the yard. “She’s got a lot going on inside.”

      Maybe her vulnerability around the kids would work in his favor. Given her own shortcomings, she might be compassionate and forgiving once she saw the office. Was he willing to take that chance?

      Aw hell, he needed her to see that there was no problem with the ranch. If he scooted her in there in the next day or two, maybe she could be finished by the end of the week, relieving him of this lump of dread in his stomach.

      So what if she gave him a hard time about the state of his files? Embarrassment was a small price to pay for peace of mind.

      Hank turned from the window and rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen, I’m going to let her see the books.”

      “Why?” Willie sipped his own coffee from a mug that read Bronc Riders Like To Buck.

      “I need Amy to see that everything’s okay with the finances, so she can go home and get Leila off my back.”

      Hank sat in a big armchair and balanced his cup on the arm.

      “What if it turns out there really is something wrong with the ranch’s finances? Something real bad?” The possibility made Hank shudder. “She’d have to find it ’cause I sure as heck couldn’t.”

      “Makes sense, I guess,” Willie said.

      “Yeah. I’ll get her to fix it then she can head home.” He wanted her off the ranch before he cared for her even more than he did now.

      “When?” Willie asked.

      “When’s she going home?”

      “No. When are you unlocking the office for her?”

      Hank stood, crossed to the kitchen and set his cup on the counter. “Tomorrow or the day after.”

      He turned to Willie, seeking approval of his plan. “Amy’s gotta get emotionally invested in this place. I think I know how to do that.”

      “How?” Willie asked.

      “I’m going to show her around the ranch before I open up the office to her. Let her see how much it means to the children.” He drummed his fingers against his thigh. “I saw something in her today. She really likes kids. She cares about what happens to them.”

      “That’s good.” Willie nodded. “If she does find a problem, she’ll be more likely to try to save the ranch than to sell it.”

      Hank filled with hope. “Exactly my thinking.”

      He rubbed his twitchy belly. He was banking a lot on being able to get the city woman to care about his ranch.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      THE FOLLOWING morning, Amy entered the dining room late for breakfast, head pounding from too little sleep, confused and groggy from yesterday’s roller-coaster ride of emotions. Maybe she’d bitten off more than she could chew by coming here.

      She rubbed her temples. She needed to get into the office to see what kind of challenges she faced there.

      The dining room was empty. The children and Hank must already be outside working on the chores someone mentioned they did every day.

      She stepped through a swinging door that led into the kitchen.

      Light poured through numerous windows. Every spotless white cupboard, drawer, countertop and appliance contrasted against blue walls. The focal point was a huge, glossy oak plank table in the center of the room, where a small woman stood rolling out pastry.

      Amy recognized Hannah, the housekeeper, by Leila’s description. So this little bird-boned woman was a nurse. More power to her.

      Hannah looked up and smiled when she saw Amy.

      “Morning,” she said, then scuttled to the sink, as delicate as a sparrow and twice as quick.

      She rinsed her hands and dried them, then turned back to Amy.

      The wrinkles on Hannah’s face created a network of enough complexity to put a map of New York City to shame. Her skin was not as darkly tanned as Hank’s, but close. Amy bit her tongue to keep from telling her she should have used sunscreen over the years. Amy guessed her to be in her sixties, but the lines added years, as did the soft white hair.

      Hannah smiled, sending a few rivers to crisscross with a couple of mountain ranges, and waved Amy closer, then wrapped her arms around her. “Leila’s friend Amy, so glad to meet you.”

      Amy strained against the contact, but found the woman’s grip surprisingly strong, the meager bosom warm and her scent reminiscent of home in years long gone—of a vanilla and cinnamon essence that seemed to have taken root in the woman’s pores. Amy stiffened against her own sentimentality.

      Pulling out of the housekeeper’s embrace, she said, “Hello, Hannah.”