LITMIR.BIZ

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an attempt that appeared aimed at hiding his pleasure at Jake’s announcement, Jason merely shrugged. “I’m goin’ outside, Pa. Just call me when you’ve got it ready, and I’ll take it to her,” Jason offered. Quite a turnabout for the boy.

      Jake thought of what he might say in such an epistle. Something that would signify his change of heart, without letting her know he’d be beholden to her should she accept the task. He wheeled his chair to the dusty desk in one corner of the parlor. The rolltop slid up readily and he found a writing tablet there. A small bottle of ink and his pen lay beside it, both of them unused for so long. He’d had no reason to write a note to anyone in that length of time. Perhaps the ink had dried out.

      He drew the paper before him and dipped the pen into the inkwell, pleased that it came out stained darkly. How to begin? Dear Miss Merriweather… Perhaps. Then again, she wasn’t his dear anything, now that he thought about it.

      Alicia. There, that looked fine. Not that she’d given him leave to call her by her given name, but he’d managed to fight with the woman. Twice, for pity’s sake. That ought to entitle him to some small bit of intimacy.

      And at that word, he stilled. Intimacy. He’d only thought it, not spoken it aloud, but the result was the same. How on God’s green earth could he think of Alicia Merriweather and intimacy in the same breath? She was a female intent on spinsterhood, a woman determined to make inroads on his life, and more frightening yet, he was on the verge of inviting her to do that very thing.

      Jake pushed his chair away from the desk and looked across the room. The draperies were closed, only a crack of sunshine peeking through a place where the two panels didn’t quite cover the window. Cord’s words reverberated in his mind.

      You need to open these windows and let the breeze blow through.

      Rena would be heartsick if she could see her house as it was today. Just three summers past, the windows had gleamed from her efforts with vinegar and water. The floors had been burnished to a fare-thee-well, and even when the wheels of his chair had sometimes marred the surface, she’d only brought out her cloth and worked for scant moments on the trail he’d left behind, and then bent to kiss him as she passed his way.

      He rolled closer to the window, tugged ineffectively at the heavy drapery and watched as a cloud of dust rose in the air. Another tug brought the rod tumbling to the floor and he winced as bright sunlight flooded the parlor.

      Now, isn’t that better? He looked around quickly, for a moment convinced he’d heard her beloved voice. And then a flurry of movement from the yard caught his eye and he groaned aloud. Mrs. Blaine, a widow who had worked for him for all of three days, was marching with a militant stride up his front walkway. Even as she halted before the door, just out of his sight, he heard the back door open stealthily and his hackles rose.

      “Mr. McPherson! I know you’re in there. Come and open this door.”

      The woman had a voice loud enough to wake the dead, he thought, his ever-present anger fueled by the demanding tone. His chair rolled across the parlor floor and into the hallway. The doorknob turned at his touch and he looked up at the Widow Blaine’s furious face.

      “Your boy has really done it this time!” Mrs. Blaine announced, her nostrils flaring, her teeth set rigidly. “If you don’t do something about him, the law is going to get involved.”

      Jake sat glumly in his chair, wondering what Jason could possibly have done to infuriate the woman so. He raised his hand to cut her off mid-tirade. “What did Jason do, ma’am? And when did he do it?”

      “What did he do?” Her voice elevated with each word.

      “That’s what I asked you,” Jake said softly.

      “I don’t need to listen to your smart mouth, Mr. McPherson. I worked in this house. I know the sort of man you are and what you expect of your help. And I certainly know that your son is capable of any number of pranks.”

      “What did he do?” Jake asked again, his voice a bit stronger, his anger beginning to match that of the woman before him.

      “He tore up my vegetable garden. That’s what he did. The tomatoes were just about ready to put in mason jars and the corn was ready to pick.” She took a deep breath. “On top of that, he tore down my scarecrow.”

      “When did he do this?” Jake asked mildly, hoping against hope that Jason was not the culprit, and fearful that he was.

      “Just about an hour ago,” she said.

      Relief ran through his veins. “How do you know it was my son?’ he asked.

      She sniffed, her gaze triumphant. “I saw him myself, a boy with a blue shirt and brown hair. Watched him run from my backyard, I did.”

      Jake smiled grimly. “I’ll warrant there are a number of boys Jason’s size with blue shirts and brown hair.” He looked back over his shoulder, and his voice rose as he called his son’s name. “Jason? Come out here.”

      Wearing a brown shirt, Jason came through the kitchen door and down the hall.

      “Did you tear up Mrs. Blaine’s garden?” Jake asked him.

      “No, sir,” the boy answered. “I’ve been here since school got out.” He looked at the Widow Blaine. “You can ask my teacher. She was here and we was talkin’ for a long time with my Pa.”

      “Did you change your shirt within the past thirty minutes?” Mrs. Blaine asked, her eyes moving over the boy’s form.

      “No, ma’am,” he answered politely. “I’ve worn this one all day long. Yesterday, too.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe the day before, too.”

      Jake winced at that revelation. “Does that answer your question, Mrs. Blaine?” he asked, motioning Jason to step closer. From his chair he drew the boy to his side, his long arm circling the narrow shoulders, his hand gripping Jason’s upper arm. “You’re welcome to check with Miss Merriweather if you like. I think you’ll find she’ll verify my son’s story.”

      “Well, I know what I saw,” Mrs. Blaine said with a good amount of righteous indignation. Turning on her heel, she stepped from the porch, almost tripping over the broken step. Only a quick grab at the railing stopped her from landing head over heels on the sidewalk.

      She turned back and shook her finger at Jake, a good imitation of a schoolmarm if he ever did see one. “This place is a disgrace. You need to get it fixed up.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” Jake called after her as she stormed off. “Just as soon as I get my new legs I’ll do that very thing.”

      “What new legs, Pa?” Jason asked softly, bending to look into his father’s face.

      “I was being sarcastic,” Jake told him. “Joking.”

      “You never joke around, Pa.” The boy looked dubious and Jake reached up to touch Jason’s face with his fingertips.

      “Do you know that I love you, son?” he asked. “I know I don’t tell you often, but I do.”

      “I don’t remember you ever tellin’ me that,” Jason said bluntly. “You just holler a lot. Especially when we get a new housekeeper.”

      “Yes, I suppose I do,” Jake said. Frustration struck him a low blow as he shut the door, lending it a push that vibrated through the floorboards. He turned his chair back to the parlor and rolled to his desk. The single sheet of paper lay there with but a single word written on the top line. Without a word, he picked it up and crumpled it in his hand.

      He would not, could not ask the woman to take Jason in hand. It would not only ruin her reputation to be hanging around his house, but make him look like an absolute failure as a father. He could not transfer his responsibility so readily, let her take the boy shopping, tend to his needs. Some way, he’d figure out another plan.

      “I KNEW the meaning of it, Pa.” Jason’s

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