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“Nothing too complicated,” he muttered. “But what we really need is housekeeping, someone to clean the rooms, do the laundry and upkeep. And it would really help if you could cook.”
A troubled expression crossed her face. “I’m no short-order cook, if that’s—”
“No, no, that’s not what I mean. See, this is my grandfather’s place, and he needs somebody who can fix a decent meal for him at least once a day.”
She visibly relaxed. “That I can do.”
Nodding, he asked, “Any references?”
Once again, she avoided his gaze. “I don’t know…I mean, it’s just Ace and me now. M-my husband and I pretty much kept to ourselves.”
Holt battled with himself for a moment. His every instinct told him that she was lying to him. A stranger without references or an address, he knew absolutely nothing about her. But she needed the job, and he needed the help. Besides, hadn’t he just asked God to send someone? He looked at the baby on her hip and nodded, motioning toward the apartment door. He didn’t know how anyone could manage the workload around here with a kid in tow, but that issue could be addressed later.
“Let’s go talk it over with Hap.”
She walked toward the end of the counter, speaking softly to the boy, who crammed his fist into his mouth and chewed. She had a petite figure, as those slim jeans showed, and tiny hands and feet, but she moved like a woman.
Stepping past her, he reached for the knob on the door that led into the small apartment where his grandfather lived.
“This way.”
Holt Jefford pushed open the door to the apartment and stepped aside to let Cara and Ace pass. A tall, lean man with a ruggedly handsome face and intelligent, olive-green eyes, he made Cara nervous. Perhaps it had to do with the lies. Waves of suspicion had washed over her back in the lobby, but if he suspected that she’d lied, then why would he agree to let her speak to this Hap person?
Cara paused to look around, finding herself in a small private apartment. Unlike the warm, appealing lobby with its wood paneling and black leather furniture, this place appeared a bit dingy and cluttered, from the overstuffed bookcase against one wall to the old-fashioned maple dining set. Yet, it had a certain well-used hominess about it, too.
“Hap uses the front room as the main living area,” Holt said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the lobby. Three doors opened off the end of this room, which functioned primarily as an oversized dining area. “Bedrooms,” Holt supplied succinctly. “Bath in between.”
Cara nodded, uncertain why he’d mentioned this, before letting her gaze pick out details. A long narrow kitchen with incongruous stainless steel countertops opened off the wall opposite the door through which they had entered.
The acrid smell of burnt food permeated the air.
“Granddad,” Holt called. “Company.”
An old man limped into the open doorway, a spatula in hand. The faded denim of his overalls showed grease spatters, and his thinning yellow-white hair stuck up on one side. The two men shared a pronounced resemblance, although age had stooped the shoulders of the elder, whom Cara suspected had once been a redhead.
She found herself musing that this Hap must have been as handsome in his youth as his grandson was now. She met the welcome in those faded green eyes with smiling relief.
“And charming company it is,” the old fellow rasped. Cara dipped her chin in acknowledgment, readjusting Ace on her hip.
“Granddad, this is Cara Jane Wynne,” Holt said. “My grandfather, Hap Jefford.”
Hap Jefford nodded. “Ms. Wynne.”
“Cara Jane, please,” she said, determined to make that name wholly her own.
At the same time Holt spoke. “She’s applying for the job.”
Hap’s eyebrows climbed upward. “Well, now. That’s fine.” Hap limped forward, his left hip seeming to bother him some, and smiled down at the child chewing on his fist. “And who’s this here?”
Cara hitched her son a little closer. “This is my son, Ace.”
“Not a year yet, I’m guessing,” the old man said pleasantly.
“He’ll be ten months soon.”
“Fine-looking boy.”
Holt sniffed, and Cara felt a spurt of indignation—until she suddenly became aware of stinging eyes.
“Granddad, did you forget something in the kitchen?”
Jerking around, Hap hobbled through the doorway, Holt on his heels. “Land sakes! I done made a mess of our dinner. Again.”
Holt sighed. No wonder he’d asked if she could cook. Cara knew that she had an opportunity here, if she proved brave enough to take it. She lifted her chin and crowded into the narrow room next to Holt, feeling his size and strength keenly. She tamped down the awareness, concentrating on this chance to prove herself.
“Maybe I can help.”
Hap twisted around. “You can cook?”
“I can.” She looked pointedly to the skillet, adding, “But it’s been a while since I’ve even seen fried okra.”
“Charred okra, you mean,” Holt corrected.
Hap handed over the spatula with an expression of pure gratitude. “There’s more in the freezer.” He gestured at a large piece of sirloin hanging over the edges of a plate on the counter. “Do what you like with that. I set out some cans of sliced taters to heat in the microwave. Opener’s in this drawer here. Anything else you need, just nose around. Holt will set the table while me and Ace get acquainted.”
“Oh, no. Ace will stay with me,” Cara insisted, looking down at her son. Too late, she realized that might have sounded rude, as if she didn’t trust the old man. Then again, she didn’t trust anyone. How could she? “I—I’m used to working with Ace close by,” she said, hoping that would be explanation enough.
Hap traded a look with his grandson, and Cara held her breath until the old man nodded, smiled and said, “You and the boy will join us for dinner, of course.” He somehow managed to make it an order without it sounding like one. Cara breathed a silent sigh of relief.
“Thank you.”
“No need for that when you’re cooking. We’ll talk about the job later.”
Nodding, Cara told herself not to blow this. It had been months since she’d cooked a meal, but surely she could manage this. Hap hitched himself past her and out into the other room, while Holt remained behind to lean a hip against the counter. Ignoring him, Cara sat Ace on the floor in a corner near what appeared to be the back door and removed his knit hoodie and the sweater beneath it. She took a small wooden toy truck from her jacket pocket and gave it to Ace before looking around her.
The apple-green walls and cabinets of pale, golden wood contrasted sharply with the industrial-grade metal countertop, but everything looked neat and clean if an odd mixture of the old and new, the professional and the homey. Noting the lack of a dishwasher in the small, cramped room, Cara glanced hopefully at the solid door next to the refrigerator.
“That goes out to the laundry room,” Holt told her.
So, no dishwasher. She checked the sink. And no garbage disposal. Well, she’d survived a lot of years without those things.
“There’s a big coffee can for scraps,” he said, pointing to the cabinet beneath the sink. “It goes into the Dumpster out back when it’s full. There’s extra cans on a shelf above the dryers.”
Nodding, Cara got down to work. She went to the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, moving past the tall man who watched her like a hawk. She found the okra in a half-empty plastic bag and a small box of frozen green beans.
“Okay if I use these?”
Holt glanced at the box of green beans, then at the boy now tapping the truck on the floor. “Sure. Use anything you want.” With that, he moved to an overhead cabinet and began removing the dinner dishes, taking his time about it.
While Ace banged happily, Cara scraped the blackened okra and grease into the can under the sink, replaced the lid, cleaned the skillet and began looking in cabinets. Finally she asked, “Oil?”
Holt nodded at the tall, narrow cabinet doors across from the refrigerator. “In the pantry. Oh, and, by the way, there’s a chance my brother Ryan will be joining us, too.”
That meant three Jefford men, not just two, which explained the huge slab of steak. Cara removed her jacket, hoping he wouldn’t notice the sleeveless tank tops that she wore in the dead of winter, and started heating the oil in the frying pan.
“Should I set a place for Ace?” Holt asked. “We don’t have a high chair.”
“No, that’s all right,” she answered without looking at him. “He’ll sit in my lap, eat off my plate.”
Holt went out, carrying dishes and flatware.
Cara’s hands shook as she reached for the skillet, but a glance at her son stiffened her resolve. She could do this. She had to do this. Everything depended on it.
Chapter Two
Hap sat at the end of the table in his usual chair, reading from his Bible, when Holt carried the dishes to the table. He looked up, waggling his eyebrows and jerking his head toward the kitchen, but Holt didn’t know what to make of Cara Jane Wynne yet. Shrugging, he began to deal out the plates onto the bare table. Charlotte had always kept the table covered with a fresh cloth and place mats, like their grandmother before her, but Holt and Hap had quickly found them a deal of work to maintain.
Hap crooked a finger, and Holt stopped what he was doing to lean close. “So? Tell me ’bout her.”
“Not much to tell,” Holt muttered. “She came in off the street, says she hasn’t worked since high school and grew up in Duncan but last lived in Oregon. My guess is she’s homeless and desperate.” Hap made a compassionate sound from deep in his chest, and Holt frowned. “That doesn’t mean she’s trustworthy,” he pointed out softly, then stiffened when she spoke from the doorway behind him.
“Excuse me. Are there serving dishes you’d rather I didn’t use?”
Hap smiled and shook his head. “Use what you like. She that cooks gets to make the decisions in the kitchen, I always say.”
“Okay.”
Frowning some more, Holt laid the flatware, then went back to the kitchen to fill three glasses with ice and water.
Holt toyed with the idea of calling his brother to come over and evaluate Cara Jane. The satellite cell phones that their new brother-in-law Ty had given them for Christmas made it much easier to keep in touch, but Ryan often could not be called away from whatever activity currently required his supervision. As an assistant principal, history teacher and all-around coach, Ryan wore many hats. If they saw Ryan tonight at all, it would be briefly.
Holt could have used Ryan’s input, but he understood only too well what it meant to be busy. His own drilling business and ranch and now the motel kept him tied up. Maybe, just maybe, Cara Jane was God’s answer to that dilemma. He wondered if hoping so made him selfish or if not quite trusting her made him unfair. He didn’t want to be either.
He took his time ferrying the glasses from the sink to table, making two trips of it. She never once glanced his way, but he found it difficult to take his eyes off her and the boy, who had pulled himself up and wrapped his chubby little arms around his mother’s knees. Was she the poor little widow woman she seemed or something much more dangerous?
Holt felt sure that Cara Jane and Ace Wynne were going to be around until God had accomplished whatever purpose had brought them here. If that meant Holt could soon get back to his own life, so much the better, but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that all was not as it should be with her.
Cara placed the last platter on the table, Ace on her hip, and took a final survey of the meal: golden-fried okra, pan-grilled steak, buttered potatoes, green beans and carrots straight out of the can. Nothing fancy and nothing fresh.
You’re not in California anymore, Cara.
Suddenly that warm and sunny place called to her. She’d left with no regret. Nevertheless, she suddenly found herself missing certain aspects of her old life, such as the warmth and sunshine.
Cara pulled out the chair and took a seat at the table, shifting Ace onto her lap.
“Gracious Lord God.”
Hap’s gravelly voice jolted Cara. She looked around to find the Jefford men with bowed heads. To her shock, Holt and his grandfather had linked hands. More shocking still, each of their free hands rested atop the table as if they’d reached out to her. Embarrassed, she pretended not to notice, holding Ace tight against her midsection and bowing her own head as Hap prayed.
“We thank You for this food and the pretty little gal You sent to cook it up for us. And thank You for bringing our Charlotte and Ty back safe from their honeymoon. We look forward to them coming home. You know we want only their happiness and Your will. Amen.”
“Amen,” Holt said. “Let’s eat.”
The two men practically attacked the food.
“My stars!” Hap declared, sliding a piece of pan-grilled steak onto his plate. “Will you look at that.” He shot a grin at Cara, displaying a fine set of dentures. “Haven’t had a piece of cooked meat I could put a fork in since our Charlotte up and married.”
Over the course of the meal, Cara began to have doubts about her cooking, mostly because of this Charlotte of whom they spoke so glowingly. Charlotte, it seemed, was nothing less than a chef. They spoke of “good old country cooking” and such things as dumplings, chitlings and black-eyed peas.
“Speaking of black-eyed peas,” Hap said, “good thing we’re not superstitious.”
“Why is that?” Cara asked idly, pushing Ace’s hand away as he grabbed for steak and offering him a piece of carrot instead.
Holt braced both forearms against the tabletop and stared at her. “You grew up in Oklahoma and you haven’t heard of eating black-eyed peas on New Year’s for good luck?”
Cara dropped her gaze back to her son and tried not to tense, hoping the question would simply pass.
“Would that be New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day?” Hap interjected. “Never was sure myself.”
Relieved, she poked a green bean into Ace’s babbling mouth with her fingers.
Holt stabbed potatoes with his fork, saying, “Well, if you want them for tradition’s sake, I’m pretty sure there’s a bag in the freezer, and since we don’t believe in luck anyway, we might as well have them tomorrow as tonight, you ask me.”
“You don’t believe in luck?” Cara heard herself ask.
Holt looked up, eyeballing her as if she’d just beamed in from another galaxy. “As Christians, ma’am, we believe that God is in control of our lives, not random luck.”
“Oh. I—I see.” Except, of course, she didn’t. God could not have been in control of her life or it would not have turned out like this.
Hap winked at Cara. “For tradition’s sake, then. I like my black-eyed peas. Reckon if you stuck around you could rustle up a mess for us, young lady?”
Cara blinked. “Oh, I, um…”
“If you can cook beans, you can cook peas,” Holt put in impatiently. “Just throw in a ham bone and make some corn bread.”
“Now, Holt,” Hap scolded mildly, “if it was that easy, we’d be doing it our own selves, wouldn’t we? ’Sides, maybe she and the boy will be spending the holiday with family. Did you ever think of that?”
“Is that right?” Holt asked her. “You have folks around these parts?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” Hap said, shaking his head. “But if you got no family around, what brung you here? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”
Cara opened her mouth, but Holt supplied the information before she had a chance to speak.
“Cara’s a widow,” he announced. “Looking for more cheerful surroundings.”
Hap sat back in his chair, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “Now, that’s a grief that I know too well.” He looked Cara in the eye. “Both my wife and my son have passed from this world. You must have some family somewhere, though. They no comfort to you?”
