LITMIR.BIZ

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phone rang, and one glance at the screen was enough to cut his sentence short.

      “Sorry, it’s my kid’s school. I have to take this.” He stood. “When the waitress gets here with our food, ask her to bring me some tomato juice, will ya?”

      Eden went back to pleating the napkin. Her landlord wanted an answer. More accurately, he wanted to sell Latimer House, the sooner the better. A lot depended on whether or not Joe would do the right thing. She felt like a passenger in a leaky dinghy, sinking slowly, while a big storm loomed on the horizon.

      “You’re up and at ’em early...”

      Eden jumped, and then looked up into Nate’s smiling blue eyes. “I could say the same thing.”

      “Had some early-morning appointments. Thought I’d grab a cup of coffee before heading back to the Double M.” He pointed over her left shoulder. “I’ve been sitting right over there.”

      She glanced at the red counter stools behind her. He’d been near enough to hear everything she and Joe had discussed.

      He slid into Joe’s seat. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear me back there, shuffling the pages of yesterday’s Denver Post. Bet I read the same article four times, trying to tune out what you guys were saying.”

      “Oh, good grief. I’m so embarrassed.”

      “Why?” Nate harrumphed. “That guy should be embarrassed, not you.”

      The waitress delivered breakfast. “Coffee, sir?”

      “Sure. Why not.”

      When she left, Nate pointed at Joe’s food. “I saw your pal leave. Seems a shame to let perfectly good flapjacks go to waste.”

      “See, that’s why I hate sitting with my back to the door.”

      The waitress brought over his coffee and topped off Eden’s mug. “Thanks, hon,” he said.

      “Hon? I haven’t heard that since I left Baltimore.”

      “Yeah, it’s one of the few things I picked up out there that I can’t seem to put down.”

      Eden smiled. “I always loved the way everybody used the term. Made the city seem so much friendlier.”

      “Speaking of friendly, think your pal is off wheeling and dealing to spare himself a lawsuit?”

      The idea made her laugh. “I bet he’s halfway to his office by now.”

      “Well, good riddance to bad rubbish, I always say.”

      “And I haven’t heard that one since grade school.”

      Nate shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just as true today.”

      “I don’t know if it’s fair to lump him in with the trash just yet.”

      Nate returned her halfhearted smile. “So what’s your next move?”

      Move. What a peculiar choice of word, considering what she and the boys might be doing in the very near future. She sighed. “It’d be easy to blame Joe for everything the tenants did to Pinewood, but there’s no escaping the fact that the house was—and is—my responsibility. I should have checked on things myself.”

      “Still, he had contractual obligations. What if you lived in Chicago or San Francisco? Or Baltimore?” He grinned. “I really like that name, by the way. Pinewood has a homey ring to it.”

      “That’s what my grandfather thought.” Eden had no sooner finished the sentence when her cell phone pinged. “Well, speak of the devil,” she said, opening the text.

      Sorry to stick you w/tab. Son fell @ school, broke a tooth. Here’s my offer: Templeton Prop. Mgmt. will replace missing appliances, light fixtures, faucets, vanities. You make cosmetic repairs. If agreeable, call & I’ll recommend contractors.

      She repeated the message to Nate, trying her best to sound lighthearted.

      She could almost read Nate’s mind: Joe had all but ignored Pinewood; what made her think she could trust him now? If the answer affected her alone, it wouldn’t matter nearly as much. But the boys had put their trust in her. Why hadn’t she seen this coming, and done something to prevent it?

      “Hard to believe a few measly words could solve so many problems, isn’t it?” she said, sliding the phone into her purse.

      “Uh-huh.”

      She took a sip of her coffee.

      “Do you believe the guy this time?” Nate asked.

      This time? Even a near stranger understood that Joe’s word was less than stellar.

      “Aw, don’t pay any attention to me,” he added. “Ask anybody. I tend to rain on parades.”

      “No, you made a valid point. To be honest, I don’t have a clue if he was sincere or not, or if something like a text message would stand up in court if he wasn’t.”

      “I know a couple good contractors. How about I make a few calls for you? We can meet them at your grandparents’ house—your house—and see which one can give you the most for your money. And if that snake slithers out of his promise to share the costs, I’ll front you the money for repairs.”

      “What? I can’t ask you to do that!”

      “You’re not asking. I’m offering.” He grinned and, using Joe’s fork, speared a bite of sausage. “I like your boys, so we’ll consider it a donation to Latimer House.”

      She could tell that he meant every word, but she couldn’t take his money. Eden never had a problem accepting checks from Cora Michaels and other regular donors. What made Nate’s contribution feel so...different?

      “I appreciate the offer, really I do, but I just can’t—”

      “Fine. I get it.” He held up a hand, preempting her rejection. “Who knows? Maybe ol’ Joe will do the right thing.”

      There was an awful lot riding on that maybe.

      That leaky dinghy seemed deeper in the water now, and despite the sunshine on the other side of the windows, she sensed that storm was closing in fast.

      * * *

      NATE POSITIONED THE Phillips head drill bit into the crosshairs of a loose screw, wincing when it slipped and gouged his left thumb. “Nearly bored a hole clean through it,” he mumbled. “My own fault for letting my mind wander.”

      On the other side of the stall gate, Patches bobbed his dark-maned head, as if in agreement.

      “Okay, smart guy. I’d like to see how well you’d concentrate with a pretty filly running around in your head.”

      The Paint only snorted and went back to munching contentedly from his eye-level hayrack.

      “Nobody likes a smart aleck, y’know,” Nate said, moving the tool to the next loose screw in the hinge.

      Fellow ranchers had accused him of spoiling his horses. “You treat them nags better’n I treat my wife!” Phil Nicks often joked. But Nate wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d personally drawn up the blueprints for the new barn that housed ten stalls, each with wrought iron gates, rails and yoke openings, swivel grain and water doors, and windows set high enough that the horses could stick their heads out to watch the goings-on outside. An insulating wall-to-wall rubber mattress system covered the floors, and oscillating fans helped circulate the air. Since the flicker of fluorescent bulbs made some of the horses jumpy, he used nothing but incandescents, purchased by the truckload when the government banned them in favor of swirled compact fluorescent, LED and halogen bulbs. Finally, at one end of the barn, he’d installed a wash bay, and across from that, a tack storage cubicle outfitted with saddle and bridle holders and swing-arm blanket racks.

      “If ever you take a wife,” Phil had said

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