Wanted: Christmas Mummy. Judy Christenberry
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I speak to Mr. Graybow, please?”
“He’s busy.”
Before she could respond, the line went dead. She held the receiver from her ear and stared at it as if it had insulted her.
Irritated, she dialed the number again. The same little voice answered and she hurriedly asked, “Mr. Graybow, please.”
“He’s busy.” Again the line went dead.
With steely determination, she dialed again. “Don’t hang up!” she immediately said when the child answered again. “I’m calling about the ad. Has Mr. Graybow hired anyone yet?”
There was no response to her question but she could hear hurried whispering in the background. “Hello?”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“Well, uh, if he won’t interview me over the phone, should I come there? Is he only interviewing in person?”
More whispering.
“Can you bake cookies?”
Leslie smiled at the question. “Yes, I can bake cookies.”
“Do you like little boys?”
“Yes, I believe I do.” Not exactly a lie. She just hadn’t been around little boys that much, except for her neighbor’s grandchildren.
“Then you should come.”
“I should come? When?”
“Now.”
“But I can’t get there until tomorrow. Shall I come tomorrow evening?” How strange to allow a five-year-old to conduct his business. Mr. D. Graybow certainly seemed in need of some help. She ignored the sudden memory of that husky voice on the answering machine.
“Yeah. Tomorrow night. Bye!” Again the conversation ended abruptly.
But this time she had an answer to her question. She was to go to Wyoming to interview for a temporary job as housekeeper.
Of course, it might all come to nothing, but she’d wanted adventure. She wasn’t going to retreat at the first offer just because the future wasn’t guaranteed.
Twenty-four hours later, her opinion changed. “You are crazy!” she told herself. Leslie gnawed on her bottom lip as she stared down the narrow, deserted road. When it got dark in Wyoming, it really got dark.
Back home in Kansas City, there always seemed to be another house, a store, something around the bend. People passing you on the road.
Out here, there was nothing. She hadn’t seen another car in the past half hour. Glancing down at the piece of paper on the other seat, she wondered if she was lost. No, she hadn’t passed another road like the one shown on the sketchy map the motel clerk had given her. After she’d gotten a room, she’d headed out to the Bar-G Ranch, as per the child’s instructions last night.
She shuddered as a strong wind rocked the car and wet flakes of snow began spitting on her windshield. “Yes, you’re absolutely crazy,” she reaffirmed. Otherwise she wouldn’t have taken a child’s word that she should come. But at least she’d had a purpose to her drive today.
A break in the fence on her right that she could barely see in the dark had her easing off the gas pedal. Yes, there it was, just as the clerk had said. She flicked on her blinker and then laughed. Who cared if she signaled? She seemed to be the only driver for miles around.
Not that being alone bothered her. She’d spent a lot of time alone or with her mother for the past four years.
She drove over a cattle guard, but if she’d expected to find a ranch house nearby, she was disappointed. No habitation was within the range of her headlights.
With a sigh, she pressed back down on the gas pedal. She might as well get this over with. If this job didn’t work out, she’d have to try to make a rational decision about her future. She couldn’t continue to wander around.
Two miles later, she found D. Graybow’s house, surrounded by several other buildings. There were lights burning, she noted with a sigh of relief. She guessed they really were expecting her.
She parked the car close to a long porch that ran the length of the house. Warily she climbed the steps and rapped on the door.
No one answered at first. She rapped again. This time she heard voices, children’s voices, and then a deeper voice, accompanied by a heavy tread. She recognized that growl.
The door swung open and she stared at a handsome cowboy—tight jeans, boots and all. Of course, his shirt was wrinkled and had stains, his hair looked as if he’d just shoved one of his big hands through it and the scowl on his face was unwelcoming. But he was handsome.
“Mr. Graybow?”
“Yeah?”
Definitely unwelcoming.
“I’ve come about your ad.”
HE COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. The letters had been bad enough. The letters and the pictures, he amended. He couldn’t believe women would go so far to find a husband. Some of those things had been downright embarrassing. But to appear on his doorstep with no warning?
Something about the voice sparked a memory in him. The sexy voice on the answering machine wanting to discuss fulfilling their mutual needs! He’d had dreams about that voice.
“I realize it’s late, but he said to come tonight,” she went on, since he didn’t speak. “And I just got here from Kansas.”
“The ad was a mistake,” he snapped. And one his idiotic friends would pay for when he got his hands on them.
“Oh.”
The single syllable was full of disappointment. He looked at her, wondering why she would be so interested in marrying a stranger. It didn’t make sense to him. She wasn’t ugly. In fact, in his book she’d rate a second look with her wide blue eyes, chestnut hair pulled back in a braid and slender figure. If he were interested in marrying again, he hurriedly reminded himself.
A tug on his leg got his attention.
“Daddy?”
“Not now, Gareth,” he muttered. Somehow it bothered him that his children meet a woman desperate enough to answer that crazy ad.
“But, Daddy—”
“I said not now!”
The woman was turning away from the door when Justin, Gareth’s twin brother, called from the kitchen, “Hurry, it’s getting bigger.”
The woman stopped and stared at them, a puzzled frown on her face. He nodded at her and started closing the door, anxious to send her on her way. But a look in her eyes stopped him. She was staring in horror over his shoulder.
Uneasiness filled him as he turned to follow her gaze.
With good reason. Black smoke was trailing out the kitchen door.
Chapter Two
“Justin!” Doug yelled even as he charged down the hall. The appearance of his towheaded son at the door was a relief, but he didn’t have time to appreciate it then.
Racing into the kitchen, he grabbed the handle of the skillet on the burner, the flames in it higher than the ones underneath. As he swung it to the sink, the searing iron of the skillet burned into his hand, and he let loose a bloodcurdling yell.
A slim hand reached around him and turned on the cold water, directing the flow into the skillet. The smoke tripled as cold met hot. Before he could think how to relieve the pain that was shooting through him, that same hand grabbed his and, redirecting the water to the other sink, put his palm under the flow of water.
“Don’t move,” she ordered.
Vaguely he was aware she’d extinguished the