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to woodcrafting. Mark wouldn’t get anything like that as long as his mother insisted on homeschooling.

      “We can aim for that,” he agreed.

      “But what can I make?” The boy gazed trustingly at him.

      “A box.” That had been his first project in shop class, and thanks to a good instructor and his own perfectionist nature, it had ended up beautifully constructed. He kept it in his bedroom and was still proud of it.

      Mark brightened. “You mean a wood box? I like boxes. I could keep stuff in it.”

      “That’s the idea. But we won’t start on it today. You need to practice on scrap wood first.”

      He was a little surprised to discover how quickly Mark took to measuring and how much pleasure he took in the tools Gabe showed him. Most kids that age would want to be slap-dash. When Gabe gave him a challenge, Mark measured and remeasured, his concentration intense.

      He knew rulers and tape measures, of course, but was fascinated by the LDM—laser distance measuring—something Gabe rarely used but owned. His favorite was the angle gauge, which looked like two straight-edge rulers hinged together at one end, and was designed to measure the angle between adjacent surfaces. The kid understood the concepts right away, too, and Gabe began to suspect he might be good at math, as Gabe had been himself.

      He let Mark do a little sawing by hand, but they hadn’t gotten far when Mark asked if he was hungry.

      “Because I am. Do you have anything to eat here?”

      Apparently, he was inviting himself to lunch. Gabe hesitated, not wanting to set a precedent, but decided feeding the kid a sandwich wouldn’t hurt anything. He’d send him home afterward.

      “Yes, but let’s clean up first.”

      That wasn’t a concept this boy had any trouble with, either, as it turned out. He remembered where each of the tools had been kept, and wiped them clean with a rag and put them away as carefully as Gabe would have. Apparently, yesterday’s admiration for Gabe’s meticulous storage had been genuine. He used a small hand broom to clean up his minimal amount of sawdust and then looked at Gabe expectantly.

      His phone rang while the two of them were putting together sandwiches.

      “Gabe? This is Ciara. I’m just checking to be sure Mark is still with you.”

      “Yes, we’re having lunch right now. I’ll send him home as soon as he’s eaten.”

      “You didn’t have to feed him.”

      “I won’t make it a habit,” he said, thinking that he liked her voice, which had a lilt to it. It made him think of the creek out back, when the water rippled over rocks.

      “All right.” Suddenly, she sounded awkward. “Um, just let me know if—”

      “If?” he prompted after she fell silent.

      “If he’s bugging you.”

      He didn’t say, “Pretty sure that’ll happen soon. Any minute, in fact.” He had a bad feeling his patience today had created a monster. He settled for “I’ll do that” and ended the call, thoughtful.

      Parents said that kind of thing all the time. He was sure his own mother had. But Ciara sounded more...resigned than he’d expected. Because she knew her son was a little unusual?

      Mark chattered unaffectedly all through the meal. He wanted to know when he could start his box.

      “After you learn some basic skills.”

      “Can I ride one of the horses?”

      “Maybe.”

      “When?”

      “Someday.”

      “Can I today?”

      “No. I have to work.”

      Thanks to his mother, he did seem to understand that adults had to apply themselves to their jobs. But when Gabe asked what his mother did for a living, he was vague.

      “She used to work at a doctor’s office. You know. She made appointments and stuff.”

      “What about now?” Gabe didn’t even know why he was curious, but he was.

      “She sews.” His forehead crinkled. “Sometimes people send her something and she uses it to sew, like, I don’t know, a pillow or something. It’s boring,” he concluded.

      Gabe laughed, raised his eyebrows at the boy’s empty plate and said, “Time for you to go home now.”

      “You don’t have cookies or anything?”

      “Afraid not.” Desserts for Gabe were store-bought, and therefore rarely worth the bother. Sometimes he thought nostalgically about his mother’s home-baked cookies, but not often.

      “Can I come again tomorrow?” Mark asked eagerly.

      Precedents, Gabe reminded himself. “Depends how involved I get. Check with me tomorrow.”

      “You mean, I have to call every time?”

      “Unless we’ve made arrangements in advance.”

      “Like, today you say I can come tomorrow.”

      “Right. But I’m not saying that today.”

      “Oh.” His shoulders sagged a little, but he let Gabe steer him toward the door without further protest.

      Nonetheless, it seemed like forever before Mark finally got on his bike and pedaled back down the driveway.

      Gabe shook his head and made his way to the barn.

      His generosity today was going to bite him in the ass. He knew it. As he set up to get back to working, he practiced nice ways of saying no.

       CHAPTER THREE

      “CAN’T YOU TAKE a break yet?” Ciara’s son asked from where he stood in the doorway.

      Oh, why not? She reached the end of the seam, lifted her foot from the sewing machine pedal and turned with a smile. “What’s up?”

      “Gabe says I can’t come today.”

      His despondency was all too familiar, as was the starburst of frustration and hurt for him that filled her chest. He had come home so excited yesterday, so...proud, as if he’d done something right. And now—

      She wanted, quite fiercely, to detest Gabe Tennert, but in fairness couldn’t. He’d been nice. That didn’t mean he was obligated to become her son’s best buddy.

      “I’m sorry, honey,” she said gently. “He’s a busy man.”

      Mark’s expression brightened. “But he says I can come tomorrow. That I don’t have to call or anything. He said ten-thirty. We made an appointment.” He savored the concept. “Maybe he’ll let me have lunch with him again.”

      “Really?” Ciara hoped he hadn’t noticed how amazed she sounded.

      “Yeah. So what I was wondering is... You promised we could get a dog. So can we go today? Please, Mom?”

      Oh, Lord. She was never going to get anything done.

      “Why don’t we wait for the weekend?” she suggested in an automatic delaying tactic.

      He looked at her as if she had a screw loose. “But tomorrow is Saturday, and that is weekend. And I’m already going to Gabe’s.” He paused in apparent pleasure at the idea and then continued. “And they might not be open on Sunday.”

      She supposed that was a distinct possibility. Ciara had done some research on animal shelters and rescue groups after she’d bought this house, and decided the Spokane Humane Society would offer the

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