The Rancher's Answered Prayer. Arlene James
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the fact that he and his brothers had run through these rooms like wild boys summer after summer, Wyatt felt as if they were trespassing. A lack of human habitation seemed to have reduced the gracious old house to a shabby pile, and made Wyatt abruptly doubt his plan. Then Ryder pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen, and suddenly Wyatt saw home.
The appliances, cabinets and countertops were hopelessly outdated, and most of the paint had worn off the familiar old rectangular table. Thankfully, however, the room appeared as habitable now as it had the last time Wyatt sat in one of those old ladder-back chairs.
While Ryder checked the water, Jake took Frankie into the bathroom, and Wyatt tried the burner on the big, white stove. Pipes banged as water started flowing. Wyatt struck a match to ignite a tiny flame.
“Looks like we’re low on propane.”
“Pilot light on the hot water heater must be out,” Ryder said, holding his hand beneath the gushing spigot.
“We can heat water on the stove until we can see to it,” Wyatt determined.
Jake returned, Frankie following and hitching up his baggy jeans. “Storage room is full of junk, but everything seems in working order in the bathroom.”
That was good news because unless Uncle Dodd had updated the plumbing, which seemed unlikely, the only shower in the house was in that downstairs bathroom.
“Check the bedrooms,” Wyatt said to Ryder, who strode off at a swift clip for the staircase. “Jake, think you can find a broom?”
Before Jake could even begin to look, the sound of a vehicle arriving turned them both toward the back door.
“Company already?” Jake asked, swinging Frankie up into his arms.
“Folks around War Bonnet are friendly,” Wyatt commented, “but this is ridiculous.” Through the glass inset in the back door, he saw a small, white sedan pull up next to the back stoop. He walked over and threw the deadbolt, relieved that the door swung open easily.
As Wyatt watched, a curvy brunette of average height slid from behind the sedan’s steering wheel. Dressed in a simple gray skirt with a bright pink, sleeveless blouse, she presented a polished, feminine picture. Her short, stylishly rumpled, cinnamon hair framed a perfectly oval face with enormous, copper-colored eyes. Though she seemed oddly familiar, Wyatt couldn’t place her. Maybe she was one of the town kids who the brothers had sometimes played with. Whoever she was, she was lovely.
If this is the War Bonnet welcoming committee, he thought, things are looking up already.
Then she parked her hands on her hips, tossed her cinnamon brown head and demanded, “What are you doing in my house?”
* * *
“Your house?”
After the week she’d had, Tina was in no mood to explain herself, especially not to some big lunk who probably thought he was God’s gift to women. That’s what all the good-looking ones thought, that women should fall at their big feet in stunned silence and stay that way. Well, she’d had enough of biting her tongue and hoping, praying, to be treated fairly. She’d come home—the only place she’d ever thought of as home, anyway—and here was where she intended to stay. Even if the house did look as if might fall down in a stiff breeze.
She reached into the car and grabbed her handbag. “That’s right. My house.” She lifted her chin at the big man in the doorway. “Who are you and why are you here?”
“I’m Wyatt Smith.”
Oh, no. One of the Houston nephews. She should’ve expected this. Another man crowded into the doorway behind the first, a young boy in his arms. Both had the dark Smith hair and eyes. Wyatt slung a thumb at him. “This is my brother Jake and his son, Frankie.”
Wyatt and Jacoby. Well, that was two of the brothers. “I suppose Ryder is also here.”
Wyatt frowned. “Who are you?” he asked, as if he ought to know her, though they’d never met.
“I’m Tina Walker Kemp.”
If the name meant anything to him, he didn’t show it. He folded his arms across an impressively wide chest.
“What makes you think this house is yours, Tina Walker Kemp?”
“I don’t think it,” she said, placing one foot on the sagging bottom step. “I know it. My stepdaddy left me this house.”
“Your stepdaddy,” Wyatt repeated, his tone skeptical.
“Dodd Smith.”
“Whoa!” Wyatt exclaimed. “Uncle Dodd left us this place.”
She shook her head. “That’s not what the will says.”
“That’s exactly what it says,” Wyatt countered firmly. “And I have the will to prove it.”
Tina lifted her eyebrows. “So do I.”
Just then her six-year-old son, Tyler, yelled, “Mo-om, I gotta go!”
Tamping down her impatience, Tina turned back to the car and opened the door for him. They’d just driven four hours without stopping, after all, and she’d let him have that extra juice box. Besides, if the house was safe for Jake Smith’s son, it must be safe for hers. She signaled for Tyler to join her, and he hopped down out of his seat, having already released his safety belt.
When Tyler reached her side, she automatically lifted a hand to smooth down the spike of reddish-blond hair that always managed to stand up. He automatically dodged her, jerking his head out of reach. The Smith brothers exchanged glances, and Jake stepped back, gesturing at Tyler.
“Come on in.”
Tyler followed without bothering to look to his mother for permission. Sighing inwardly, Tina followed her son up the steps. Tyler squeezed past Wyatt, who didn’t bother to move out of the way. Instead, Wyatt just stood there, challenging her with every ounce of his considerable weight. Mimicking his stance, Tina stopped on the narrow stoop, folded her arms, met his gaze squarely and purred, “Excuse me.”
His shadowed jaw worked side to side as he ground his teeth, but then he stepped back and let her pass. She walked into the kitchen, both dismayed and comforted by its condition. Fortunately, she had learned long ago to keep her opinions to herself, so she made no comment. Just in case the Smith nephews thought she might be unfamiliar with the place, however, she pointed to the back hallway and addressed her son.
“Right down there, honey.”
Tyler trotted off, flipping a curious wave to the youngest Smith, who hugged his father’s neck with one arm and copied Tyler’s gesture with the other.
“Potty,” the boy said just as Tyler disappeared from sight.
“Frankie’s what? Three now?” Tina asked Jake.
Nodding, Jake narrowed his eyes suspiciously before stooping to set the boy on his feet. “That’s right.”
The boy darted away from his father and into the arms of his uncle. Wyatt scooped him up with practiced ease. Jacoby, meanwhile, frowned at Tina.
“You sure seem to know a lot about us.”
“I ought to. Daddy Dodd talked about you constantly.”
“Unca Wyatt,” Frankie asked, pointing a timid finger at Tina, “who’s that?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” Wyatt replied dourly.
Tina sighed. “I told you. My name is Tina Walker Kemp. Dodd Smith was my stepfather. He left me this house and—”
“You are confused,” Wyatt interrupted. “Uncle Dodd left this place to us, all two thousand acres of it.”
“I’m not confused,” Tina insisted. “Daddy Dodd sent me a paper