No Place Like Home. Debbie Macomber
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ready in ten minutes,” she announced. “Time to put your tools away and wash your hands.”
Almost from the minute they’d arrived, Molly had been scrubbing and cleaning that kitchen. It comforted him, somehow, to see her put the house to rights. His own sweet Molly would’ve thoroughly disapproved of his housekeeping methods. He probably should have hired one of the women from town to take a scrub brush to the place, at least before his granddaughter arrived to find such a mess.
He’d always intended to hire a housekeeper, but had yet to meet anyone he wanted in his home for longer than five minutes. Nor did he like the idea of a stranger touching his Molly’s things. Maybe Ginny, but she didn’t keep her own house too well, and he’d wager she’d be insulted if he suggested she clean his, even if he was willing to pay her.
Tom and Clay didn’t need to be told twice about dinner. They were inside the house quicker than two jackrabbits. Walt wasn’t as fast on his feet. He heaved himself up, grateful that the boys had put away his carvings and tools. That Tom might have a smart mouth on him, but at heart he was a considerate kid. Walt took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of something delectable. He didn’t know what his granddaughter had cooked, but the tantalizing smells wafting from the kitchen told him he was in for a treat. Preparing meals had become an onerous chore; more and more of late Sam had been seeing to his dinner.
Walt trusted Sam, and that trust hadn’t been given lightly. It was why he’d asked his foreman to drive Molly into town earlier in the day. When they returned, Sam had silently carried in the groceries and left immediately afterward. Walt smiled to himself, amused at the way Sam was keeping his distance since Molly’s arrival.
Walt headed for the kitchen, moving at his own pace. Although Sam hadn’t said anything, he probably wasn’t too keen on Molly dating Russell Letson. It surprised Walt that she’d agreed to have dinner with that puppy of an attorney. The boy hadn’t let any moss grow under his feet, that was for sure.
Letson was a good man, shy and kind of quiet. Nothing like his father, who’d been outspoken and opinionated. His son seemed to keep to himself. He wondered why Russell hadn’t married. Of course there weren’t a lot of marriageable women around Sweetgrass.
Now that Molly was here, Walt suspected plenty of young men would be dropping by the ranch. Once they got a good look at his granddaughter they’d find excuses to visit. Pretty as a picture, Molly was. Smart, too, and a fine cook. Given time, she’d make a good rancher’s wife.
He believed that Molly needed a man, although he was sure she’d disagree with him. He’d like to see her get married again. She was still young and if she remarried, she’d probably have more children. It saddened him to realize he wouldn’t be around to know and love them, but he refused to think about that. He was determined to enjoy what time he had with her and the boys and let the future take care of itself.
He paused in the doorway leading to the kitchen. He barely recognized the room. The walls shone because Molly had washed them, the floor boards gleamed with wax, and the windows sparkled behind new gingham curtains Molly had sewn on her grandmother’s old Singer. She’d found a length of cotton up in the attic; his Molly must have bought it shortly before her death. As the boys hurried about setting serving dishes on the table, Walt marveled at the change in the room. So it took him longer than it should have to realize the table was only set for four.
“What about Sam?” he asked, surprised that Molly had excluded the foreman.
Molly’s chin came up slightly, as if she was affronted by the question. “I invited him over, but he said he had other plans.”
That was interesting. Walt watched his granddaughter as she brought a platter of chicken from the counter to the table. Her lips had thinned slightly when she mentioned Sam. Now that Walt thought about it, he’d sensed a bit of tension between the two.
“What other plans?” Walt pressed.
“He didn’t say.”
And Walt figured she hadn’t asked, either. Grinning, he glanced out the kitchen window to the small foreman’s house where Sam lived. Beyond that stood the old bunkhouse; the run-down structure was a reminder of the Broken Arrow’s glory days, when the spread had been large enough to justify hiring on several hands. Now there was only Sam. His battered truck was parked the same place as before, which meant he hadn’t left the ranch.
“Isn’t he hungry?” Walt demanded. The man had too much pride for his own good. His stubbornness was cheating him out of the best damn meal he was likely to get. Not that there was any point in telling him. Might as well argue with a tree stump.
Clay put a green salad on the table with a bottle of no-fat dressing.
Walt frowned. He preferred his own brand and he didn’t care if it was loaded down with fat. A man could only be asked to sacrifice so much. As it was, he already had one foot in the grave. His cholesterol count was the least of his worries.
“Do you want me to invite Sam again?” Molly asked, standing stiffly behind the kitchen chair.
Although she’d made the offer, Walt could see she had no desire to do so.
“If he doesn’t want to eat with us, fine. The choice is his.”
She nodded. “My thought exactly.”
* * *
Sam hardly knew Russell Letson, and he wasn’t sure why he was so angry with the guy. Except for that incident his first day in Sweetgrass, he and Russell had very little to do with each other. Which was fine with Sam. It occurred to him, as he pitched a forkful of hay into Sinbad’s stall, that he couldn’t think of a single reason to dislike the man—other than the fact that Letson had invited Molly to dinner. True, Sam had an innate distrust of lawyers, but he had no personal reason to feel wary of Russell Letson. And, of course, what Molly chose to do was none of his business.
Then why did it bother him so much?
The muscles across Sam’s shoulders tightened. He’d mucked out the stalls and put down fresh straw—although it wasn’t really necessary—simply because he felt the need to keep moving. If he worked hard enough and long enough, maybe his thoughts would leave him alone.
Not only did Sam dislike Letson, he wasn’t sure he liked Molly Cogan, either. Not that anyone was asking his opinion. Nor was he offering it.
An endless series of questions buzzed around his head like pesky flies. But Sam decided he wasn’t going to concern himself with the answers. He wasn’t willing to waste time analyzing his feelings about Molly. First and foremost, why should he care who she dated? He didn’t, dammit!
Perhaps he should think about moving on. He’d worked on the Broken Arrow Ranch longer than anywhere, and he wasn’t the kind of man who was comfortable staying in any one place. When he was in town that afternoon, he’d gotten the addresses of a number of large ranches in the state. This was as good a time as any to inquire about jobs. He’d been here too long, and he’d grown restless. At least that was what he told himself.
But he realized almost immediately that it was a lie.
Working for Walt Wheaton had given him a sense of satisfaction. The old man had needed him, and Sam had definitely needed a job. And more. He’d needed a home, needed some respect, needed to be useful. He was willing to admit that now, although it wasn’t easy. The last six months had given him perspective.
The bitter taste of his anger was gone and he was able to look back on his time in prison with a sort of...acceptance. He’d been drunk and stupid, raging over the loss of his career and every dime he’d saved. He’d been looking for trouble that night—almost four years ago now. The fight had been his fault, and he’d paid the price for his stupidity.
Sam had thought he’d learned his lesson, but he hadn’t been in Sweetgrass more than a few minutes when he made the same mistake. He’d gone into Willie’s for a beer; all he’d wanted was to quench his thirst. Everyone in the bar had been content to ignore the quarrelling couple. Sam, too. Until the drunk