Her Small-Town Hero. Arlene James
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Cara quickly carried her son from the room. She knew that she’d overreacted badly. Those old men meant no harm. They had no designs on her son. But Ace was her child, her responsibility, and she would give no one reason to question her ability to care for him.
Apparently her overreaction had been noted, for as she pushed the door closed, she heard Hap say, “She’s mighty protective.”
“Protective?” Justus scoffed. “You’d think we was trying to steal him.”
“There’s a story there,” Grover murmured.
Carefully pushing the door closed, she laid her forehead against it. Ace tried to copy the motion, bumping her head with his. It didn’t hurt, and he didn’t fuss, but she soothed him with petting strokes anyway, sick at heart. Had she given them away? She shook her head. Impossible. These people had no idea who she really was. So they deemed her an overprotective mother. Let them think what they wished. Nothing mattered except keeping Ace safe and with her.
Except that they were bound to tell Holt how she’d reacted today, and that would be one more black mark against her in his book.
But she didn’t have time to worry about Holt now. She had work to do. Sighing, she carried Ace out to the laundry room, got him into the backpack and returned to the apartment to fold up and move the portable crib.
One more room, and then dinner. And Holt.
He had not failed to show up for dinner the past two nights. On both occasions, he’d looked so weary that she’d have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t watched her as though he expected her to pull a weapon and demand his wallet at any moment.
She held out the faint hope that he would have other plans for tonight, this being Friday. Didn’t single men go out on the weekends in Eden, Oklahoma? Apparently not, because when she laid food on the table that evening, his big, booted feet were beneath it. As on the previous occasions, he barely spoke to her, just stared when he thought she wouldn’t notice. She suffered through the meal in silence and hoped he would stay away the next time.
Not so. Even Hap expressed surprise when Holt arrived the next night. “It’s not our usual Saturday night out,” he exclaimed.
Holt brushed aside the old man’s comments. “What of it? Still got to eat.”
His brother Ryan arrived thirty seconds later. A big, bluff man with a good thirty pounds on Holt and dark, chestnut-brown hair and hazel eyes, Ryan greeted Cara with open delight.
“You are the answer to our prayers,” he told her, holding her hand between both of his after their introduction.
Holt scowled and asked if Ryan would mind parking himself so they could eat. Ryan, who seemed to accept his role as younger brother with equanimity, sat. Hap prayed. Ryan then made friends with Ace, who occupied her lap as usual, while Holt scoffed down three pieces of grilled chicken and a truck-load of macaroni and cheese before taking his leave again. At no point did he so much as speak to Cara, letting his nod suffice for both greeting and farewell.
Ryan, a very pleasant man, came into the kitchen later to sheepishly apologize for his brother. Cara pretended complete ignorance.
“I can’t imagine why you’d think I’d be offended. I just work here.”
“Work,” Ryan said, “is a lot of the problem. You see, right now Holt’s working too much. Well, he’s always worked too much. It’s just that now he’s trying to catch up. My fault,” he added with gentle self-deprecation. He then went on to explain that he had a hard time getting away from his responsibilities at the school, which had left Holt to take on the motel pretty much by himself. “Which is why I’m so delighted that you’re here.”
Cara didn’t bother to point out that Holt obviously did not share that delight. Instead, she thanked Ryan, finished the dishes, picked up Ace and slipped out quietly. She couldn’t help thinking, though, that it wouldn’t hurt Holt to be nicer to everyone, including his brother.
With Ryan turning out to be such a friendly man, much like Hap in that regard, Holt’s surliness seemed all the more pronounced. It smarted that he didn’t seem to like her, so much so that she intended to keep her distance on Sunday, her one full day off. On Sundays the Jeffords “closed the office.” Sunday, Hap had told her, belonged to God, though they’d rent to anyone in need of a room who wandered by.
Ace actually let her sleep in a bit that morning. After feeding him breakfast and watching a church service on TV, she thumbed through a magazine and finally stepped outside. The weather had turned surprisingly warm. On impulse, she packed a lunch of sorts from her meager provisions, loaded Ace into the backpack and headed for the park.
Separated from the motel grounds by a stream that wound through the gently rolling landscape, the park had to be entered via a bridge adjacent to the downtown area some three blocks to the east. Along the way, Cara explored the town.
There wasn’t much to Eden, as far as she could tell on foot: some houses built before the Second World War, some houses built after, and just a couple blocks of old brick storefronts on the main street, which happened to be named Garden Avenue. Absolutely everything stood closed, everything except, of course, for the inviting little white clapboard church on the corner of Mesquite Street, which ended right at the back of the motel. The church appeared to be doing box office business, judging by the number of cars that lined the street and surrounded the building.
The sign next to the sidewalk identified it as the First Church of Eden and named Grover Waller as the pastor. The place had such a warm, inviting air, much like Grover himself, that Cara took note of the service times. Perhaps she and Ace would visit there next Sunday. Since she assumed that the Jeffords attended there, given their close association with the pastor, it might even win her some points. But not with Holt.
She’d learned the hard way how impossible it could be to win the regard of someone who had made up his or her mind not to like her. Her in-laws had hated her on sight, but Cara had tried to win their regard, nonetheless, without success.
Putting the little church behind her, she took Ace to the park, where they ate their lunch in solitary peace and sharp winter sunshine.
Holt paced the floor in front of the reception desk that next Saturday night. Cara had never seen him dressed to go out. He “cleaned up good,” as Hap put it. Wearing shiny brown boots, dark jeans with stiff creases, a wide leather belt, open-collared white Western shirt and a similarly styled brown leather jacket with a tall-crowned brown felt hat, he looked like the epitome of the Western gentleman. All cowboy. All man. He’d gotten himself a haircut, too, which gave him a decidedly tailored air but did nothing whatsoever to blunt his impatience.
“You really don’t have to wait,” she said again, bouncing Ace on her knee. “It’s been almost two weeks. I can manage the desk until Ryan gets here.”
In truth, she didn’t expect to have to manage anything. The motel stayed full, or nearly so, during the week, but few guests strayed in during the weekends.
The last weekend had yielded only two rental opportunities, an older couple on their way up to visit relatives in Nebraska and a very young couple obviously looking for privacy. Hap had kindly but firmly turned away the last pair, saying only that he couldn’t help them. Cara had learned a valuable lesson on how to handle an awkward situation that day.
“He should have been here already,” Holt groused.
Cara opened her mouth to say that she was sure Ryan would be along soon, but just then, through the plate glass window, Cara spotted a now familiar late-model domestic sedan slow and turn off the highway into the lot. “There he is.”
Holt spun to the window, bringing his hands to his waist. “It’s about time.” Striding to the end of the counter, he called through the open apartment door, “Granddad! He’s here!”
“Comin’!” Hap called back, muttering, “Hold your horses. Always chomping at the bit.”
Cara