The Drifter's Gift

Sam gave a sharp, reproachful shake of his head. The fact was, no matter how much he craved a glimpse of that life, he wasn’t about to mislead anyone to get it.

To Joe he said, “I’m a bachelor. You know what they say about old dogs.”

Joe grimaced. “Yeah, I know. I’m an old dog myself.” Finishing the cookie, the big man brushed his hands. “Where are you staying tonight, Fido?”

“The Park Motel, outside of town.”

“That dive? I wouldn’t let my pet spider stay there.”

With a brief smile, Sam said, “It’s fine.”

Joe pointed a finger. “You’ve been living with men too long. So listen, you’ll come to dinner tonight Tomorrow you can move your gear to the house. We have plenty of room.”

Sam held up a hand. “Thanks, but I—”

“No, don’t give me any crap.” Pulling a piece of paper from the mess he called his in box, Joe muttered, “Besides, you’ll be doing me a favor. My mother’s all over me to get married. Give her someone new to torture.” He grabbed a pen. “Here, I’ll give you directions.”

“Thanks, you’ve convinced me. I’ll stay at the motel.”

“What? Naw, seriously—”

“Seriously, Joe, I’ve got plans tonight. But soon.” Sam reached for the bag of cookies, rolled the top of the paper sack and stood, relying on the cane more than he wanted to after a long day of sitting. And he did have plans. He just hadn’t realized it until this moment.

Wanted, man to work on small organic farm…room, board… Plus, he amended silently, the kind of cookies Santa likes. And no strings.

All they wanted was a worker. Testing his bum leg, he decided that as a worker, he could come through just fine.

Rising, Joe held up a sheet of computer paper. “I had personnel print up a list of the jobs available in the store.”

Leaning on his cane, Sam raised a brow. “What are they?”

Joe snapped the paper with a flourish, then cautioned, “Remember, this is only a preliminary list.”

“Uh-huh. Is there anything on that page that involves wearing a giant crow costume and waving people into your parking lot?”

Eyes widening, Joe lowered the list. “That’s not a bad idea. Not a crow, though. What’s that Froot Loops bird?” He fished around for a pad of paper. “We could do a tie-in with breakfast cereals. Sugar-sweet savings. How does that sound? I—Hey, where’re you goin’?”

“Get the elf to do it. She’d make a great bird.” Sam tossed the words over his shoulder on his way to the door. He knew where he was headed. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“What about dinner?”

Raising the bag of cookies, Sam smiled. “All I need is a quart of milk. I’ll call you.”

“You’re going to break my sister’s heart?” Joe put a hand over his chest.

Grasping the office doorknob, Sam paused long enough to answer. “No. I’m not going to break anyone’s heart.”

Moving carefully, Dani lifted a steaming apple-raisin pie from the oven. She could feel the heat of the deep-dish Pyrex through her oven mitts and saw that some of the juice was still bubbling up through the heart-shaped vent she’d cut into the crust.

Setting pie number twelve atop a baking rack on the crowded counter, she tallied her creations—four apple-raisin, two cranberry-pear and six pumpkin pies, dozens of cookies, cooled and ready for boxing, in five varieties—molasses-ginger, milk chocolate chip, honey-nut peanut butter, the oatmeal-coconut crunch she’d given Timmy yesterday for Santa Claus, and the buttery Russian tea balls that sold so well around the holidays.

Sweet Dreams, the baking business she ran to earn extra money during the winter, was doing surprisingly well for a home business, but she was pooped. She’d been baking since four this morning. It was now one in the afternoon, and she still had a half dozen sour cream banana breads and her popular cinnamon-streusal orange coffee cake to go.

She would be up most of the night tonight, baking and packaging, but Pop would make the deliveries for her tomorrow and Timmy would be in school, so perhaps she’d grab a nap then.

Closing the oven door, Dani decided to give the reliable old workhorse a twenty-minute breather while she sat down with a cup of coffee. It was warm in the kitchen, pleasantly so, given the chill outside. Pouring a mug of coffee from the pot she’d been nursing all day, Dani felt her stomach contract with hunger.

Bypassing the fresh cookies that represented her profits, she helped herself to one of the giant oatmeal-coconut crunch cookies she’d made yesterday and plunked herself into a chair at the table. Every muscle in her shoulders and back groaned in protest at the change in position, but her legs, relieved of the pressure from standing so many hours, thanked her.

Working so hard made her body feel old before its time, but in some ways she didn’t care. She was working for her son, so a sore muscle was no more resented than one of the permanent silvery stretch marks she’d acquired during her pregnancy.

These things—sore muscles, stretch marks—were just battle scars. As long as she won the war, who cared if she emerged a bit dog-eared? And the war in this case was raising a happy, well-adjusted child on her own.

Taking Timmy to see Santa yesterday had made her aware all over again how lucky she was. Watching her little boy poke at Santa’s white beard, seeing him politely hand over the cookies he’d asked her to bake, her heart had swelled with love. How could a father not want to be there? She would never understand it, not if she lived to be a hundred, not if she had twelve more children!

Obviously Brian had regretted his relationship with her, but that shouldn’t have precluded a relationship with his child. Her ex-Mr. Right hadn’t cared about either of them. He’d never even seen his son.

Timmy had an eager little heart and arms that hugged like nobody’s business. He deserved so much more than a father who was nothing but a name.

Dunking the cookie into her coffee, Dani took a careful bite.

Pop had dropped her ad off at the newspaper office yesterday. She’d experienced a few trickles of anxiety since then over what she was about to do, but she wouldn’t let fear stop her. Placing that ad gave her hope. It gave her a chance, at least, to ensure that the next time her son wanted a daddy’s kiss, it wouldn’t have to come from a toy father.

She glanced out the window, where the world seemed to be moored permanently in winter. Somewhere out there was a man who knew how to love a little boy, how to make him feel special and safe and strong in his own right. A man whose hugs were given free.

Just one decent man with the heart to stick around. That’s all she needed.

And who cared if they never had a lot of money? If she had to, she would work hard every day of her life. As long as he pulled his own weight, fine.

She doubted he’d be especially handsome, but that was okay, too. Timmy’s father had been ambitious, smart and charming. Especially charming. His attention had made her feel special. Being in a relationship with him had made her feel…

So alone she’d thought she might die.

She and Brian—and this had occurred to her only recently—had never really talked, not about anything important. She had tried too hard to please him, terrified of rocking the boat, shutting her eyes to the fact that it was already sinking. Then she’d gotten pregnant, and Brian had jumped ship.

Now she knew she would never again beg for a man’s attention, and she would never, ever let anyone hurt Timmy. When she chose a man to join their lives—if she did—it would be someone who needed and wanted them as much as they wanted him.

The peal of the phone jolted Dani to attention. Break time was over. Finishing the cookie, she crossed the kitchen and grabbed the receiver before the machine could pick up. “H’lo?”

“Hello. May I speak with Gene, please?”

“He’s not—” She covered the mouthpiece, finished chewing and swallowed. “Excuse me. He’s not here right now. May I take a message?”

There was a pause during which Dani brushed her fingers on her apron, plucked a pen from the cup next to the phone and held it over the scratch pad, waiting.

The next time the deep voice rumbled, she leaned on her elbow and just listened.

“I’m calling in regard to the position you have open. My name is Sam Mclean.”

The voice on the other end of the line was measured, rich as a truffle, smooth as caramel.

“Position?”

“A want ad was posted—”

“Want ad? Oh!” Dani straightened, her attention sharpening. Good heavens! Had the ad appeared in the Sunday paper already? Pop had only dropped it off yesterday. She’d expected to have several days, a week….

“You, um, asked for. my father?”

“If your father’s name is Gene.”

She frowned. “The notice gave his name?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Yes, ma’am. He said it politely, automatically, in a voice comfortable showing respect.

Dani clutched the phone in a death grip, using her other hand to draw dozens of tiny boxes on the pad in front of her. He was calling about that ad, but why had the paper listed Pop? Someone must have messed up and used the name of the person who dropped the materials off, or…

Or her father had deliberately used his name so he could screen-prospective sons-in-law himself. Pop! she groused silently, I’m not a little girl anymore.

Taking a breath, Dani spoke with all the authority and confidence she could muster.

“I placed the ad, Mr.—”

“Mclean. Sam.”

“Sam. I’m doing the—” she couldn’t call it hiring “—interviewing.”

Another pause, more brief this time. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Oh, forgive me. It’s Dani. Dani Harmon.”

“I’d like an interview, Ms. Harmon. That is, if you’re agreeable.”

Such a reverently polite tone. Dani twined the telephone cord around her fingers. Was she agreeable? She longed to rely on her instincts, but instinct was a hard thing to trust when you had no track record. And this was happening so quickly!

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, crossed her fingers and prayed for intuition. “I’m agreeable,” she said after a protracted moment.

“Good. I realize it’s Sunday, but I’m free today if—”

“Today?”

Swiftly, she scanned the kitchen. Every inch of available counter space was covered with pies, cookies, pans and utensils. Glancing at herself, Dani realized she wasn’t in much better shape than her kitchen. Jeans, an old fuzzy sweater, her hair pulled back in a riotous ponytail—the editors of Cosmo would never approve.

On the other hand…

A candidate for husband and father might as well see right up front what he was getting. This was a working kitchen, and she was a working mom. Back in the days when she’d been a well-paid legal secretary in Los Angeles, she would have worn a skirt and heels for a daytime appointment, silk pants and sandals for evening. Now she was a twenty-eight-year-old single mother with a cesarean scar hiding beneath her jeans and no time.for makeup. The last time she had used mascara, it was to fill in a chip on her coffee table.

So she had a choice. She could either put Sam Mclean off until tomorrow, scour the house, run out to buy a tube of lipstick and pretend she was Jane Seymour—Who, me, perspire? It was only twins