CHAPTER FOUR

      SAM SAT ON THE LEATHER SOFA in the apartment above the tack room and channel-surfed the seemingly unending selection of television programs. “Wow, Mom,” he said. “This is the neatest TV. It’s huge.”

      Molly came out of the bedroom where she’d been storing their clothes in twin knotty pine dressers. “It sure is,” she said, admiring the high-definition picture on the thirty-two inch flat-screen set. Her father’s TV got fifteen channels and operated with an antenna fashioned out of two crooked rabbit ears wrapped in aluminum foil.

      Sam settled on a Western movie with cowboys galloping across a rugged prairie. Reaching for his Coke, he said, “This whole place is so cool.”

      “Be sure you put the glass back on the coaster,” Molly advised. “Otherwise you’ll leave a mark on the table.” She agreed with Sam’s evaluation of their living quarters, but was trying not to appear overly impressed. After all, they’d be leaving all this behind in a few weeks. She didn’t know why the Carricks no longer had a stable foreman, but it couldn’t have been because he had a complaint about his apartment.

      The living room was furnished with a butter-soft sofa and two brown leather chairs flanking a solid cherry coffee table. A game table and matching barrel chairs sat against a burgundy-painted wall. The pictures above it were typical Texas: prints of longhorn steer, fields of cattle, the capitol building in Austin. Each was framed to match the geometric rugs on the light maple floor.

      The kitchen, with its expansive windows and white shutters, was a dream. Molly examined the top-of-the-line brushed-steel appliances, the hand-painted ceramic counters and the heavy oak dinette on the burnt-sienna Mexican-tile floor, imagining her uncle Cliff’s reaction. He would have given a week’s profit to prepare one meal in this state-of-the-art environment.

      But the most pleasant surprise was the bedroom. A king-sized bed with a rustic four-post frame dominated the center of the room. It was covered in a plush Navajo spread, which matched the drapes on the two windows. A walk-in closet had built-in shelves where Molly was able to store Sam’s toys. Molly especially loved the window that looked out on the suede green lawn. She could picture herself reading for hours here with the sunlight streaming in.

      She sat next to Sam on the sofa and pretended to watch the movie. “I can’t even imagine what the Carricks’ house must be like on the inside,” she said after a moment.

      Sam looked up at her with wide brown eyes. “It can’t be any better than this one.”

      She smiled. She couldn’t imagine Marshall Carrick or his son, Brady, designing the Victorian with gabled roofs, whimsical cupolas and stained-glass casement windows. She’d only been acquainted with Angela Carrick for a few brief moments, but she believed the willowy woman in ostrich feathers, with her wavy blond hair and those long thin fingers that seemed made to play a piano, was the mastermind behind the Carrick house. If that were so, why did the nervous woman seem out of place in an environment that must once have suited her so perfectly?

      “Mama, I’m hungry.”

      Deep in thought, Molly hadn’t realized that Sam had shut off the television. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Goodness. It’s nearly seven o’clock. You must be starved.” She went into the kitchen and examined the refrigerator where she’d put the few items she’d brought in a cooler from Prairie Bend. “We still have some sandwiches left. And chips and cookies. How does that sound?”

      “I’m sick of sandwiches,” he said.

      “Then we can go to the convenience store we passed when we drove out here. I can get a frozen pizza.”

      “Okay.”

      She grabbed her purse, bundled Sam into his jacket and headed for the door. Opening it, she nearly ran into a plump dark-haired Mexican woman on the threshold. She carried a platter covered with a checkered cloth, and whatever was under the napkin smelled spicy and hot and heavenly. Molly’s mouth watered. “Hi.”

      “Hello,” the woman said. “Can I come in? I’m Serafina, Trevor Dobbs’s wife.”

      Molly opened the door wider. “It’s nice to meet you, Serafina.”

      “How do like this place?” Serafina asked as she took the platter to the kitchen.

      “It’s lovely.”

      “I’m having another bed brought up tomorrow,” she said. “It’s a folding one, but has a nice thick mattress. It will be good for the boy.”

      “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”

      She placed the platter on the table. Sam followed her as if she were the pied piper. “What’s under that napkin?” he asked.

      Serafina smiled. “I thought you might be hungry, niño. I’ve brought you some supper.”

      “How kind of you,” Molly said. “But we don’t want to be any trouble.”

      “It’s no trouble,” Serafina assured her. “And it’s not much. During the week we eat simple food.” She removed the cloth, releasing deliciously scented steam, and pointed to the various offerings on the plate. “Some tacos, enchiladas, beans, corn. It should be enough for you and the boy.”

      Molly didn’t need to ask, but she said, “What do you think, Sam? Does it look good?”

      “It