The Single Dad's Redemption

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And nothing—not his prayers to the God who no longer cared, not his lawyer and not even a witness who’d seen him that night elsewhere—had made one bit of difference.

Chapter Five (#ulink_81d4057f-082b-59d5-9035-eae64034b94c)

At five o’clock Keeley flipped the sign in the front window to Closed and peered out at cars driving past, windshield wipers on high. Thunder rumbled again, making the wood flooring beneath her feet vibrate.

“I cannot believe this is the third rainy day in a row. The forecasters say it’s a ‘stalled front.’ I’m just praying it decides to pack up and move on tomorrow.”

Connor came out of the back room, his Western-style oilskin coat draped over his arm. “Why then?”

“The Antique Walk starts Friday.”

“You’ve mentioned it before, but I’m still not sure what it involves.”

“There’s usually a big flea market at the fairgrounds, with a carnival and rides, but everything could end up a big, muddy mess if the ground doesn’t dry out first.”

“Sounds like quite an event.”

“It’s supposed to be. Several of the churches put up food tents, the 4-H clubs set up a petting zoo and the FFA—Future Farmers of America—club coordinates a tractor pull and a horse show. The quilters raffle some beautiful quilts for charity—the list goes on and on.” She bustled around the store, pulling down the window shades facing the sidewalk and adjusting the positioning of the merchandise. “But it only works out well if the weather is nice and we get the big crowds from Minneapolis and Chicago.”

She moved to the cash register and began counting the money into neat stacks, tallied the total and slipped the money into a zippered bank deposit bag to drop off on the way home.

“Last spring was cold and windy, so we had the smallest crowd in years. We ended up in the red on event costs and didn’t reach our donation goals for heart disease and cancer research, either.”

Connor walked to the front door and studied the sign displaying the store hours. “So, your store is open tomorrow afternoon?”

She nodded, dropped the bank deposit bag into her purse and grabbed her car keys from a drawer under the counter. “All of the stores in town are open Sunday afternoons. Weekends are the busiest times during high season, and none of us can afford to close for the entire day, even if we want to. It would really decimate the weekend traffic coming from the big cities.”

“So, do you want me to come in tomorrow?” He shouldered on his coat.

“I’d like you here every day, if possible. Your time in town will be short as it is.” She smiled. “You’ve caught on really fast and your help means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

“The more hours, the better. Noon, then?”

“Perfect.” She eyed the light rain outside. “How on earth do you start a campfire when it’s this wet?”

“Can’t.”

“Then how will you cook your supper? Do you have a propane gas stove or something?”

“Something like that.” Thunder rumbled again as he opened the door to step outside. “G’night.”

“Wait.” Guilt lanced through her at the thought of him heading out into the rain. She slung her purse over her shoulder and hurried after him. “I’m definitely giving you a ride home tonight.”

He turned to face her, the rain sluicing down his coat. “I don’t mind the walk at all, ma’am.”

“I just had an idea. I’m heading over to Dad’s house to make supper and I’d like you to come along.”

“That isn’t necessary. Really.”

She waved away his protest. “Consider it a part of your workday, because this will help me a lot, as well. You can talk to Dad while I make supper and then you can eat with us. I am sure there’ll be a time or two when I need to send you over there, so it’ll help if he gets to know you. Maybe not anything about your, um, recent past, though. Not just yet.”

Frowning, he hitched a shoulder as if wanting to turn her down. “Well...”

She bit her lower lip. “I want to apologize in advance for anything Dad might say or do that seems rude. He wasn’t always that way. His doctor says it’s probably part of his dementia.”

A corner of Connor’s mouth kicked up into a brief grin. “Actually, it sounds just like home.”

Not for the first time, she wondered about what Connor’s life had been like before he’d ended up in prison.

Not always happy, apparently, from his hints about his troubled family life back at the ranch. Yet he’d been nothing but polite, with the subtle undercurrent of Texas charm that made her heart warm. Whatever he’d suffered during his unjust incarceration, he’d still managed to come through it as a kind and decent man. “So you’ll join us?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

This was strictly business—a way to help introduce Dad to this stranger. So why did she feel such a flicker of delight at his answer?

Connor would be leaving town in no time. She’d never see him again. And she’d already had too many lessons in the art of failed relationships to ever risk her heart again.

She would not—could not—have any personal interest in Connor Rafferty.

He raised an eyebrow and she realized she’d been staring at him while sorting out her thoughts. She scrambled for something else to say.

“Um, just steer clear of Dad’s dog and you’ll be fine.”

“I think I’ll manage...though it sounds like your dad might be the bigger challenge.”

She bit back a laugh. “I forgot. You had a career riding bulls or broncs or something equally intimidating. Right?”

“Saddle broncs.”

“So you can easily deal with a grumpy dog.” She ushered Connor out the back door of the shop and then locked the door behind them. “I’ve had a five-pound pot roast in Dad’s Crock-Pot since this morning, simmering away with plenty of fresh vegetables and garlic. I hope you’ll enjoy it more than a soggy campground and cold food.”

He flashed a smile that warmed her clear down to her toes. “On that score, I have no doubt.”

* * *

Once he’d heard about that beef roast, it would have taken a herd of stampeding Herefords to keep him from joining Keeley and her dad for dinner.

But now that they’d been at her dad’s house for an interminable hour, Connor wished he could tactfully leave despite the otherworldly aromas wafting into the family room from the kitchen.

Paul North sat in his La-Z-Boy recliner, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

He’d said nothing when Keeley introduced the two of them, and his icy demeanor hadn’t wavered since. Now and then he directed a glare in Connor’s direction.

If eyes could shoot flames, Connor would have been a pile of cinders by now. He shifted his weight on the leather sofa and tried another topic. “So...are you a sports fan?”

“No.”

Connor had never followed sports, so that would’ve been a dead end anyhow. “Golf?”

“No.”

“Camping? Hiking?”

Paul’s thick, steel-gray brows drew together in a frown. “Do I look like someone who would go camping?”

Connor glanced around the spacious room. Paneled in dark wood and cluttered with twice as much heavy furniture as it needed, and stacks of magazines on every flat surface, the room was so full that he’d even missed noticing the fireplace at first.

Toenails clicked on the hardwood floor and a white-muzzled, overweight dog appeared at the end of the sofa. It swiveled its head toward Paul then took a long, hard look at Connor, its teeth bared and hackles raised.

The dog and Paul had such similar personalities that Connor nearly laughed. “Nice dog.”

“Be careful. Bart doesn’t like anyone but me.” From the tone in his voice, Paul was proud of it, too.

But just then Bart ambled over to Connor, sniffed at the hem of his jeans, gave a sigh of contentment and planted his rear on the floor.

Connor reached down to ruffle the shaggy hair on his neck and scratch behind his ears. The old dog flopped down to rest his chin on Connor’s running shoe. In seconds he was snoring, his flaccid cheeks whuffling in and out with each wheezy breath.

Paul eyed his traitorous dog, and the old man’s bushy eyebrows lowered. “I guess he thinks you’re okay,” he muttered.

“Have you had him long?”

“Twelve years. He was a rescue from the animal shelter. No one wanted him till I came along, and we’ve been pals ever since.” A glimmer of a smile appeared briefly at the memory. “You have dogs?”

“I did, when I was still on my dad’s ranch in Texas. It was a long time ago.”

“A ranch?” Paul’s aloof expression faded. “I thought maybe you were some tramp.”

From the kitchen came the sound of a strangled laugh, and Keeley peered around the corner of the door. “Dad—for heaven’s sake. I told you he’s camping while his truck is being repaired. That doesn’t make him a hobo.”

When she disappeared back into the kitchen, Paul gave him a narrowed look. “A real ranch?”

Connor nodded, relieved to finally find some common ground. “Real. Horses. Cattle mostly. Around four hundred acres of hay.”

“I read a lot of Westerns. Seems like a great life, out there with the wide-open spaces. Clean air.”

“That’s what I miss most. But it’s a hard life and a lonely one at times.”

The rich aroma of beef roast grew stronger now, coupled with the scent of biscuits and something that smelled suspiciously like apple pie.

Homemade apple pie? The very thought made Connor’s mouth water and stomach rumble. The food had been okay in prison, as far as institutional cooking went, but he could already tell that this meal would be unbelievably good. “I’m guessing your daughter is a very good cook.”

“She’ll do.”

“I heard that, Dad,” Keeley teased from the kitchen. “So beef pot roast for Connor but bread and water for you.”

Paul ignored her. “Now, my wife, Frances—there was a woman who could cook. She could make magic happen in the kitchen.” Paul settled back in his chair, his eyes closing as he drifted back through his memories. “Flakiest piecrusts and fluffiest biscuits you ever tasted. And her fried chicken? Whoo-eee. She could make a man almost cry, just by promising to make it for supper.”

Once again Keeley appeared at the door to the kitchen with a pot holder and a smile. “What Dad said is all true. Mom was a wonderful cook. Even using her recipe files, I can’t measure up.”

Connor’s estimation of Keeley moved up another notch.

Apparently the old man didn’t appreciate how much his daughter helped him, and he certainly didn’t consider his words before speaking. Yet she remained consistently kind, handling him with grace and a touch of humor. Traits so far removed from the party girl he’d married that he couldn’t even begin to compare them.

He could only hope that Marsha had matured during the time he’d been in prison. That she’d become a better mom, a stronger person...and that her latest conquest was a man who was good to their son. Shaking off his thoughts, he turned to Paul. “I’m sorry about your loss.”

Paul’s eyes opened and his smile faded as he came back into the present. “It’s been a long time. Fifteen years and four months.”

“It must have been hard, losing your wife so young.”

“Car accident. All three kids were in the car with her, but only she died.” Paul stood slowly, as if favoring a multitude of arthritic joints. “She took my heart with her to the grave, and then I had to raise those kids on my own. Hardest thing I ever did.”

At least he’d had the privilege of raising them, though from his sour expression he’d considered it far more work than joy.