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Yuletide Hearts
Ruth Logan Herne


When Matt Cavanaugh returns to his Allegany County hometown, he's not as rough around the edges as he used to be. The former marine is a successful contractor, a man who now believes in the Lord and old-fashioned hard work. But when he buys a bankrupt subdivision, he discovers he's stepped on single mother Callie Burdick's dreams for her family.And when Matt learns about Callie's troubled past, he's determined to rebuild her trust—plus an entire community—in time for Christmas.










A Christmas homecoming...

When Matt Cavanaugh returns to his Allegany County hometown, he’s not as rough around the edges as he used to be. The former marine is a successful contractor, a man who now believes in the Lord and old-fashioned hard work.

But when he buys a bankrupt subdivision, he discovers he’s stepped on single mother Callie Burdick’s dreams for her family. And when Matt learns about Callie’s troubled past, he’s determined to rebuild her trust—plus an entire community—in time for Christmas.


“After working here, and then at the diner, you get to do homework duty at night?” Matt asked.

Callie glanced up and nodded, as if perplexed. “Of course.”

He’d have given anything to have a mother like that, a mother who was invested in her kid. He’d tackled his difficulties in school on his own and failed miserably. “That’s amazing, Callie.”

She glanced up. Their gazes met.

She went still, her eyes on his.

And she read his gaze, his thoughts. It was there in her slight intake of breath, the way she blinked, the quick flex of fingers as if realization just struck.

“I’ve got to reload the nail guns,” she said, breaking the connection. But that was good, right? Neither one of them had the time or energy to put into whatever was flaring between them, so it was best to ignore it.

But there was no way in this world he’d be able to ignore Callie for the coming weeks, and a big part of him didn’t want to try.

And that spelled trouble for both of them.


RUTH LOGAN HERNE

Born into poverty, Ruth puts great stock in one of her favorite Ben Franklinisms: “Having been poor is no shame. Being ashamed of it is.” With God-given appreciation for the amazing opportunities abounding in our land, Ruth finds simple gifts in the everyday blessings of smudge-faced small children, bright flowers, fresh baked goods, good friends, family, puppies and higher education. She believes a good woman should never fear dirt, snakes or spiders, all of which like to infest her aged farmhouse, necessitating a good pair of tongs for extracting the snakes, a flat-bottomed shoe for the spiders, and the dirt…

Simply put, she’s learned that some things aren’t worth fretting about! If you laugh in the face of dust and love to talk about God, men, romance, great shoes and wonderful food, feel free to contact Ruth through her website at www.ruthloganherne.com.


Ruth Logan Herne

Yuletide Hearts










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


My son, if your heart is wise, then my heart will be glad; my inmost being will rejoice when your lips speak what is right.

—Proverbs 23:15–16


This book is dedicated to my mother-in-law, Theresa Elizabeth Blodgett, a woman who has never been afraid to put her hand to any task, large or small. Her strength and devotion are a constant inspiration to me. She’s one of those gals who could have settled the west single-handedly and would have coffee waiting for the crew at day’s end. Merry Christmas, Mom!

Acknowledgments

Big thanks to Bob Dean of Dean Remodeling in Hilton, New York, known affectionately as “Bob the Builder.” Bob’s advice on construction and his dedication to a job well done helped lay the foundation for Cobbled Creek. Huge thanks to Karen and Don Ash of the Angelica Sweet Shop and The Black-Eyed Susan Café in Angelica, New York, for getting behind this project. You guys are truly amazing! Hugs and gratitude to Major Tony Giusti and his lovely wife Debby (my Seekerville sister) for their sage advice on military basics. I’m spoiled to call so many experts “friends.”

To Beth for finding silly mistakes… And there were several! To Mandy for being my right-hand gal on road trips and for giving me a namesake. I love both! To Jon, who has taken on stove and refrigerator duty. You rock! To Stacey and Lisa for the spontaneous gifts of coffee: You have no idea how that spurs me to work into the night. Thank you! Hugs and thanks to Kyle and Casey Kenyon. I don’t know what I’d do without you guys. And always to Dave, whose work ethic inspires my own: Thanks for the sandwiches. And the coffee, Dude. And for being there, night and day.


Contents

Chapter One (#uc2fcde09-12f6-58b7-8383-68589d10beff)

Chapter Two (#u192c83fc-cea1-563d-8397-1e597ad6fa58)

Chapter Three (#u99375581-8b77-5f96-8c8c-c444f0e655d8)

Chapter Four (#u19866592-a1b2-586d-b8ac-0331ed9cb2a0)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

Complete and utter desolation.

Peering through a driving November downpour caused by remnants of Hurricane Karl, Matt Cavanaugh surveyed what might be the biggest mistake he ever made as sheeting water sluiced from unprotected roofs. Wind-driven storm rains pummeled gaping window openings. Expensive, irreplaceable topsoil washed down unprotected berms, each muddy water trail sweeping centuries of rich, organic soil into the watershed.

Basically he was watching a large share of his life savings wash away. What had he been thinking?

“I see merit here, son.”

The memory of his grandfather’s reassuring voice eased the tension snaking Matt’s back, crowding his neck. Simple words from a gentle man, an industrious construction worker unafraid to lift a hand to any task, great or small, including the gift of unconditional love to his bad-boy grandson.

Matt clenched his jaw, then realized that would only fuel headache potential. Surveying the muddy mess he’d just purchased with significant help from the bank, he fought the urge to run hard, fast and long when a banging screen door drew his attention to the left.

A boy raced out of the faded farmhouse facing the neglected subdivision. A dog chased after him, a black-and-white spitfire, his non-pedigreed look perfect for the place and the boy, a pair of mutts enjoying the tempest.

Within seconds they were soaked, the rain blurring their features, but the combined excitement apparent even from this distance.

The boy aimed for the uncompleted subdivision, the dog racing alongside. Too late, Matt realized their intent.

The kid dived through a window opening.

The dog followed.

The kid emerged from a door opening.

So did the mutt.

Then back in another window, a little higher this time, the crazy game of follow the leader probably not the smartest of ideas for a kid and a dog around a construction site. Matt left his truck at the now-unnecessary roadblock and raced downhill. “Hey! Hey, you! Kid. Stop.”

Visions of leftover two-by-fours, nails, screws and abandoned tools raced through his head, the innocence of youth unfettered by the hazards of life. As the new owner, Matt didn’t have the luxury of relaxation. Construction insurance rates skyrocketed with a claim, and the kid and the dog were a hospital visit waiting to happen. “Kid. Stop! Now!”

The driving rain swallowed his voice and the thickening mud did a similar number on his feet. The dress shoes he put on for the bank closing weren’t meant for tromping around construction sites.

He lost visual of the quick-paced pair as he neared the skeletal houses, his descent and the rising rooflines blocking his line of sight. He wasn’t sure if the storm made it impossible to hear the kid and the dog or if they were just unusually quiet. Since unusually quiet might mean unconscious, Matt increased his pace. “Kid! You hear me? Come out of there!”

No answer.

Matt continued along the road, mud-slicked shoes slowing his progress. The graveled areas would have been inconsequential in his boots. In worn dress shoes, the rough curves and sharp points of stone reminded him that if new shoes hadn’t been on the list before, they’d gain a spot now, and all because some fool didn’t have sense enough to keep their kid out of harm’s way.

Kind of like his mother.

He refused to flinch at the memory. His mother was no June Cleaver, but he hadn’t been a choirboy either. He had the juvie record to prove his stupidity before Grandpa Gus realigned him with old-fashioned hard work, faith and fishing.

A movement drew his attention left. He darted between two incomplete houses, saw the kid about a house-and-a-half away, yelled again and took off in pursuit. The boy appeared fairly savvy about dodging among the half-built homes, so Matt ducked through a window and raced across the subflooring to the front door of the house, burst through and collared the kid just as he angled toward the house Matt had cut through.

“Hey! Hey! Let go! Let me go!”

“Not until we’ve had a few words, kid.”

“Let me go! Let me go!”

Matt held tight.

The dog raced into the fray, tail wagging, obviously unconcerned about his young owner’s welfare.

“Jake? Jake? Where are you?”

The dog’s tail flagged faster. He dashed to the front door of the house, barked a welcome, then raced back, his gaze expectant, his angled doggie look wondering what was going on.

Which reflected Matt’s feelings to a tee.

A disheveled woman strode through the nonexistent front door, her hair a mess, her shoes not quite as bad as Matt’s, her jeans rain-spattered, her fleece pullover soaked.

“In here, Mom! Someone’s got me!”

“Someone’s got you all right.” Matt sent the kid a look meant to quell and refused to relinquish his grasp, despite the fire-breathing mother striding his way. Her purposeful gait seemed militaristic even though she wore somewhat impressive heeled boots, which meant she’d most likely served at some point in time. If that assumption proved true, she should know enough to keep her kid where he belonged. He raised his chin, noted she almost matched him in height with the shoes on, met her glare and stood his ground, refusing to scowl, letting his stance make his point. “This your kid?”

“Let him go.”

Matt ignored the command. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to have a kid running around a construction site? The things that could happen to him?”

The woman’s gaze returned his look, one on one. “I’m well aware, thank you very much, although Jake knows his way around construction sites. Usually.” She leveled a tough, knowing look to the kid, shoulders back, feet braced, her posture adding evidence to Matt’s guess that she’d been in the military at one time. “Were you supposed to leave the house?”

“N-no.”

“And what if something happened to The General?”

The General? Matt frowned, followed her glance to the dog and realized it must be the dog’s name.

The boy snorted, a pretty gutsy act for a kid being collared by an absolute stranger while his mother reamed him out from a few feet away. “The General knows all the enemy hideouts. He’s trained to sniff out snipers and UXBs.”

“UXBs?”

The woman kept her gaze on the boy, her profile taut, worry lines marring a perfect forehead over sea-green eyes. Light brown hair fell to her shoulders, a side clip meant to keep the bulk of it out of her face, but the storm had outmaneuvered the clip’s potential. She shoved the errant hair back, obviously irked. “Unexploded bombs. London. The Luftwaffe.”

“I get the war reference.” Matt switched his gaze from her to the kid as he released the boy’s collar. “What I don’t get is how he gets it. You’re what? Seven? Eight?”

“Almost nine.”

“Which means eight.”

The kid’s glare matched his mother’s, obviously a genetic trait. “You can’t play around these houses. It’s off limits,” Matt told him, his voice stern. He turned his attention to the woman, realizing she was probably chilled through, the November day wretchedly wet and cool. “You’ll keep him out of here?”

“Yes.” Something in her look told Matt she didn’t say things lightly. That quality reassured him. She turned and hooked her thumb toward the door. “Jake, let’s go. The banker’s got better things to do than chase you around where you don’t belong.”

Her words registered as she neared the door, the kid following, head down, chin thrust out, forehead furrowed. “I’m not a banker.” Matt strode forward and yanked down a bill of foreclosure notice attached to the front window. “I’m the new owner.”

Her head jerked up. She stared at him, then the house, then him again, utter disappointment painting her features. Wet, bedraggled, rumpled, cold and wickedly disappointed.

Her look grabbed a piece of him, the air of disillusionment needing comfort and joy, but at the moment, confronted with the enormity of what he’d undertaken less than two hours ago, Matt’s personal comfort level had nose-dived into incredulity.

“Seek and ye shall find. Knock, and the door will be opened, son.”

Gus’s wisdom reminded Matt that he wasn’t in this alone, that despite Gus’s death while Matt served in the desert sands of Iraq, he’d never be alone again, not in spirit anyway.

“You bought this house?”

The reality of the recent transaction tightened his neck, his look. “I bought the subdivision.”

“All of it?” The kid’s air reflected his mother’s again, a shadowed starkness making Matt feel like a crusty headmaster, cold, cruel and crotchety.

The cold part was accurate, his wet clothes and the brisk wind a chilling reminder of what was to come. He met the kid’s eyes and nodded. “All of it. Yes.”

“But, Mom—”

“Stop, Jake. It’s all right.”

“But—”

“I said stop.”

The kid’s baffled look made Matt feel like scum, but why? Why should it matter if…

“You bought Cobbled Creek?”

A new voice entered the fray.

Matt swung around.

Three older men stood at the back door opening, backs straight, heads up, their posture definitely not at ease.

Military men, despite the paunch of one and the silver hair of another.

The man in the middle stepped forward, drew a breath and extended a hand. “I’m Hank Marek.”

The name sent a warning bell of empathy. Hank Marek of Marek Home Builders, the now-defunct contractor that started this project over two years ago.

Matt wasn’t a sympathetic person by nature. He’d hard-scrabbled his way up the ladder of success despite illegitimate beginnings followed by a fairly miserable upbringing, but coming face to face with the man who lost his dream so that Matt could have his, well…

He hauled in a breath and accepted Hank’s hand. “Matt Cavanaugh of Cavanaugh Construction.”

The older man’s face revealed nothing of what he must be feeling inside, the loss of his work, his livelihood, his well-designed subdivision the victim of overextended loans and the burst of the housing bubble.

The other men stepped forward, concerned.

Hank moved back, nodded and directed a look beyond Matt to the woman and boy. “There’s stew just about ready and the temperature’s supposed to dip lower tonight before coming back up tomorrow. Jake, can you help me fire up the wood stove?”

The boy scowled Matt’s way, scuffed a toe, huffed a sigh, then trudged past Matt, the dog trailing behind, their mutual postures voicing silent displeasure.

“Callie? I’ll see you at home?”

“I’m on my way, Dad.” She pivoted, her mud-slicked heel tipping the move.

Matt started to lean forward to stop her fall, but she managed to right herself despite the wet floor and the mud. High, flat, wedged heels marked her departure with a tap, tap, tap as she hung a right turn at the door. She strode up the drive to her car, the soaking rain deepening the pathos of an already melodramatic situation.

Matt watched her go, then headed to the back door opening. The older men and the boy trudged in measured steps across the banked field, faded flag stakes symbolizing the wear and tear of waiting through too many seasons of sun, wind, snow and rain.

Matt watched their progress, his brain working overtime, the reality hitting him.

Hank Marek lived alongside the subdivision he had tried to create in the beautiful hillside setting, the curving road nestling the homes in the ascending crook of the Allegheny foothills.

It was that eye for setting that drew Matt to the initial showing, then the ensuing auction, his appreciation for the timeless, reasonably priced and aesthetically pleasing housing, a plan that not only fit the terrain but added to it, a rarity.

But he had no idea Hank lived in the quaint, small farmhouse on the main road, just steps away from the sign labeling Cobbled Creek a community of fine, affordable homes.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered a prayer that combined a plea for understanding and a silent lament that he might be following the foolish imprint of the older man’s footsteps, and headed to his truck, the cold, soaking rain a reminder that winter loomed, and he had an amazing amount of work to do in a very limited time frame.

Which was probably something he should have thought a little more about before papers were signed and money exchanged, but the delayed closing was the bank’s fault, not his. Matt understood the time constraints he faced, but God had guided him this far. Someway, somehow, they’d get these sweet homes battened down for the winter.

As he crested the rise to his truck, the woman’s car backed toward the roadway, a wise decision on her part. Mud-slicked shoulders weren’t to be trusted in these conditions, and when she curved the car expertly onto the road, then proceeded to the farmhouse beyond, he recognized the meaning behind Hank Marek’s words.

The woman and the kid probably hated him for who he was and what he’d done. On top of that, they appeared to live across the street from where he would take over Hank’s dream because he was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.

The hinted headache surged into full-blown reality, a niggling condition spawned from a really nasty concussion while fighting in Iraq, a grenade explosion too close for comfort. But if occasional bad headaches were his worst complaint after a double tour in the desert, he really had no complaints at all.



Dad’s dream is gone.

Callie steered the car into the drive, angled it between the catalpa tree and Tom Baldwin’s classic Chevy, then headed inside, determined to put on a happy face despite what just happened. The smell of Dad’s stew reminded her of how often her father had been there for her, supportive, honest, caring and nonjudgmental.

Returning that respect was imperative now.

The men trooped in, their footsteps heavy on the back porch. Callie pulled out a loaf of fresh-baked Vienna bread crusted with sesame seeds, placed it on the table and settled a plate of soft butter next to the bread, her mama’s custom because cold butter seemed downright unfriendly.

Right now a part of Callie felt unfriendly, but not to Dad and the guys. Or Jake, her beautiful son, her one gift from a sorry attempt at marriage to a fellow soldier.

Hank dropped a hand to her shoulder. She looked up, sheepish, knowing he’d see through her thin attempt at normalcy. “It’s okay, Cal. He’s young. Looks competent. And he must have the numbers behind him because the bank signed off. Those homes need someone now, not next spring when things might look better for us.”

He was right, she knew that; she’d been handling his books for three years, and truth be told she did as well with a nail gun as she had with an M-16 and a computer spreadsheet, but—

“The important thing now is to save the houses. I’m hoping Matt Cavanaugh and his crew can do that.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Hank had personally planned that subdivision to honor her mother, the name reminiscent of her mother’s childhood home along the shores of Lake Ontario, the quaint family cobblestone a salute to artisans of old. Hank had been determined to carry that classic neighborhood warmth throughout Cobbled Creek, his plans lying open on a slant board he’d erected at the back of the family room. He didn’t glance their way now, and neither did she, the thoughts of all that time, effort and money gone in the blink of an eye, a slash of a pen.

Hank lifted the stew pot onto the center of the table. Tom and Buck grabbed bowls, napkins and utensils, the old-timers a steady presence at the Marek homestead. Jake put The General on the back porch and shut the door. He ignored the dog’s imploring whine and triple tail thump, a sure sign The General would rather be curled up on the braid rug alongside the coming fire, but the smell of wet dog didn’t rank high on Callie’s list.

An engine noise drew her attention to the north-facing kitchen window.

Matt Cavanaugh’s black truck sat poised at the end of Cobbled Creek Lane. Sheeting rain obscured her vision, but something about the truck’s stance, strong yet careful, imposing yet restrained, reminded her of the man within, his shoulders-back, jaw-tight stance just rugged enough to say he got things done. His dark brown eyes beneath short, black hair hinted Asian or Latino, maybe both, his look a mix that defied the Celtic last name. She’d faced him almost eye-to-eye in three-inch heels which put him around five-eleven, not crazy tall, but with shoulders broad enough to handle whatever came his way.

She refused to cry, despite the disappointment welling inside. Stoic to the end, she’d been practicing that routine for years now.

Too long, actually, don’t you think?

Callie pushed the internal caution aside. Survivors survived because they manned up, took the shot and stood their ground. Four years in the military taught her how to draw down the mask, put on the face, pretend disinterest as needed.

“Great bread, honey. Thanks for picking it up.”

Callie turned, flashed the men a smile, laid a gentle hand on Jake’s shoulder and nodded. “You know I’ll do anything to keep you boys happy. Any word on when this storm’s going to let up?”

Jake took her lead, such a good boy, so much like his grandpa. “Supposed to be nice tomorrow, Mom.”

“Perfect.” She smiled, ruffled his hair and sank into a seat alongside him. “We’ve got to finish the front of the house while we can, get it cleaned up so we can decorate for Christmas. We’ll save cleaning the gutters—”

“Again?”

Callie sent Jake a “get serious” look and nodded. “Yes, again, they’re filled with leaves and maple spinners. You know we can’t leave them like that for winter.”

“We don’t want ice damming that porch roof again,” interjected Hank.

Tom took up the thread, his face saying he’d play along, pretend everything was all right. “I remember Callie up on that roof last winter, luggin’ that smaller chain saw, cutting through the ice.”

“Bad combination of events, all around,” agreed Buck. “To get that much snow, then warm up just enough to get a quarter inch of ice. Rough circumstances.”

“But nothing we couldn’t handle,” Callie reminded them all. She’d used the short chain saw to hack through the pileup, pretending she didn’t recognize the risk of being on a roof bearing thousands of pounds of unwanted ice, chain saw in hand. The roof’s shallow slope helped steady her, but that flattened slope caused the initial problem, the lack of height allowing snow to gather and drift beneath the second-story windows.

“Exactly why we used steeper roof pitches on the subdivision,” Hank reminded them. His expression said he was determined to face this new development like he handled life, head-on. “Quick water shed is crucial in a climate like ours.”

“It is, Dad.”

“Right, Grandpa.”

Mouths full, Buck and Tom nodded agreement, pretending all was well, but Hank’s old buddies were no fools. Faced with the new realization that Hank’s dream was in someone else’s hands just beyond the big front window, Callie was pretty sure that nothing would ever be all right again.


Chapter Two

“What do you mean you’ve got no crew?” Matt asked his roofing subcontractor the next morning. “I can’t do a thing until we get these places under cover with good roofs. We’ve got water-damaged plywood to replace, it’s November and I need the crew you promised today. Not next April.”

Jim Slaughter, the owner/manager of Slaughter Roofing and Siding sighed. “I’m tapped out, Matt. Fewer housing starts and reroofs. I’m filing for bankruptcy restructuring and hoping I can keep my house so we’re not tossed out on the street. I had to let the guys go.”

Matt’s marine training didn’t allow temper tantrums or bad vibes, even though he was tempted. “Who else might be available?”

Jim went silent, then offered, “You’ve got the Marek family right there, and Hank is friends with Buck Peters. They’ve all done roofing.”

Ask the guy whose dream got yanked out from under him to finish that dream for someone else? Matt didn’t have the callousness to do that.

Did he?

Matt eyed the farmhouse across the way. A ladder leaned up against the front. While he watched, the woman came out of the house with a bucket. She climbed the ladder, the unwieldy bucket listing her to the right until she settled it on the ladder hook. She pulled out a large green scrubbie and began washing the faded paint systematically, until she’d extended as far as she could, then she climbed down, shifted the bucket and the ladder and repeated the process despite the cold day.

A scaffolding would be so much easier. A power washer? Better yet.

He clenched his jaw and shook his head internally. “Another option. Please.”

“I’ve got nothing. Literally. There aren’t a lot of roofing contractors close by and making time for your job would be hard with a clear schedule. For anyone with jobs lined up, getting yours in would be next to impossible and a lot of people let their crews go from November to March because of the holidays and the weather. I was hoping to hold out, but the closing took too long.”

It had, through no fault of Matt’s. Bankers didn’t comprehend weather-related restrictions and rushed work meant shoddy work.

Matt didn’t do shoddy. Ever. He inhaled, eyed the house across the street and released the breath slowly. “If I get help, can you crew with them?”

“If it means fighting my way out of this financial mess, I’ll work night and day,” Jim promised.

“Can we use your equipment?”

“Absolutely.”

Matt made several futile phone calls, carefully avoiding people who wouldn’t give him the time of day for good, if old, reasons. And while plenty of construction workers were laid off, most had left the area, unable to survive on nonexistent funds. Half the remaining subcontractors were the type Matt wouldn’t trust with his hammer, much less his livelihood, and the others were too busy to take on a huge project like Cobbled Creek.

Matt eyed the Marek place again and squared his shoulders, determined to find another way. He took two steps toward his truck, then gave himself a mental slap upside the head.

Jim made two very important points earlier. Was Matt willing to risk his investment on the possibility of bad workmanship?

No. His intent was to implement the appealing design plan that drew him initially. Of course it was less than beautiful now, and that had steered other developers clear. But Matt saw the potential and was determined to watch this pretty neighborhood spring to life under his guidance.

But rot problems would continue if the homes sat unroofed for another winter, and in the Allegheny foothills, rough weather came with a vengeance. He could complete inside work between now and spring, but outside endeavors were dictated by conditions. Lost time meant lost money, an unaffordable scenario to a guy who’d just invested a boatload of his and Grandpa’s money into this venture.

He pivoted, then headed across the front field, his gaze trained on the house facing him, uncertainty and determination warring within.



Callie strode into the house after her lunchtime waitressing stint and came to an abrupt halt when she saw Matt Cavanaugh seated at their kitchen table, sipping coffee like he was an old friend. A heart-stopping, good-looking old friend.

Except he wasn’t.

“Callie, Matt needs some help.”

Callie bit back a retort, trying to separate the tough-as-nails guy before her from the situation that wrested her father’s dream out of his hands.

Nope. Couldn’t do it.

She moved past the table, set a couple of plastic grocery bags on the counter and headed for the stairs. “I’ll leave you men to your discussion.”

“It’s a family decision, Cal.”

Callie swallowed a sigh, one hand on the baluster, her feet paused, mid-step, then she shielded her emotions and faced them, albeit slowly. “About?”

“I need a work crew for roofing,” Matt explained. His deep voice kept the matter straightforward and almost a hint detached, as if this wasn’t about as insulting as life could get because he was talking about roofing their homes, their dreams, their project. “Jim Slaughter’s run into bad times, he had to let his crew go and you guys know how crucial it is to get these houses roofed.”

Hank nodded. “It broke my heart to see them sitting unprotected. Uncovered.”

Callie knew that truth firsthand; she’d lived, breathed and witnessed her father’s depression. His Crohn’s disease had contributed to the ruination of what could have been a beautiful dream, a feather in his cap. She’d prayed, promised, cajoled and bullied God and this…

She swallowed a sigh, eyeing Matt, trying to look beyond the tough-guy good looks, the steel gaze, the take-charge attitude so necessary in a good contractor.

But right now this man represented their failure through no fault of his own other than being fiscally sound at the right time. While she couldn’t hate him for that, a part of her resented his success in light of her father’s failure.

A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.

Churchill’s quote stuck in her craw. She crossed the room, poured a cup of coffee, moved back to the table, sat and eyed the two men. “I’m listening.”

“Matt’s offered some good money if we can crew alongside Jim Slaughter while his business is restructured.”

So Jim’s company had succumbed as well, and he had a nice, hardworking wife and two kids. Callie choked down a sigh. “Good money as in?” She turned Matt’s way, keeping her affect flat, her gaze calm. Extra money was worth getting excited about for a combination of reasons, but taking it from the victor who now owned the spoils?

That cut. Nevertheless, her twenty-five hours of waitressing offered small monetary respite, not nearly enough to get by on, and she’d crewed for her father and his construction friends for years after leaving the military.

Matt’s calm expression went straight to surprise. “You crew?”

And there it was, old feelings rubbed raw, his look reminding her of her ex-husband’s disdain, how Dustin found her unfeminine and unappealing. She met his gaze straight on. “Yes.”

The bare-bulb wattage of his grin should have come with a warning label. Sparks of awareness flickered beneath her heart, but she’d served in the military for four years and good-looking smiles had been a dime a dozen. But something about his…

“Well, that’s an unexpected bonus.”

When she frowned, he explained, “Numbers-wise. I knew your father was experienced, and his friend Buck, but to have a third person.” He raised his shoulders in a half shrug. “That’s clutch in roofing. And Jim Slaughter will help, too, so that makes five of us.”

“Six, actually.”

Matt turned back toward Hank.

“Tom Baldwin might be on in years, but he’s a solid roofer. I know that firsthand.”

“Excellent.” Matt swept Callie another quick smile, just quick enough to make her want to shift forward.

Therefore she pulled back. “Except I haven’t said yes.”

“That’s true.” Matt stood, his shoulders filling the tan T-shirt beneath a frayed brown-plaid hooded flannel, the plain clothes adding to his hard-edged charm. “Here’s my number.” He handed her a business card, reached across and shook her father’s hand, his frank gaze understanding. “Can you let me know by tonight?”

“Of course.” Hank stood and walked Matt outside. “Let me talk to Buck and see if he’s available. Tom, too.”

“And, sir…” Matt hesitated, then turned, his eyes sweeping Hank, then the subdivision across the road. “I know this is difficult,” he began.

Hank cut him off. “Things happen for a reason, son. Always did, always will. I can’t pretend I wasn’t disappointed by my run of bad luck, especially because it affected more than me.”

Callie knew he’d shifted his gaze her way, but she kept her eyes down, not ready to rush this decision, although seeing Matt’s grin on a regular basis wouldn’t be a hardship. No, she’d definitely go to delightful. Maybe even delicious. But seriously off limits.

Like you’re all that much to look at in hoodies and jeans with a tool belt strapped around your waist? Step back into reality, honey. Been there, done that. Bad ending all around.

“But I’ve wound ’round God’s paths all my life,” Hank went on, “the ups and downs, the back-and-forths, and we’ve always come out okay in the end.”

“Good philosophy,” Matt noted. He moved across the side porch, then down the steps. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

“I’ll call,” Hank promised.

Callie stared at her coffee, not wanting it, not wanting to be broke, not wanting to work for the attractive guy across the street who seemed bent on getting them involved in his success while facing their loss.

“It’s a good opportunity, Cal.” Hank laid a hand on her shoulder, his gentle grip understanding.

“The location’s convenient.”

“Yes.”

She sighed and stared out the window, seeing nothing. “And the money’s good.”

“And welcome.”

“I’ll say.” She paused, drummed her fingers along the table top, then slanted her eyes to his. “I know we have to say yes, Dad.”

He winced, then shrugged, understanding her mixed feelings.

“But I have to recount the reasons why before I do it.”

“Like bills to pay?”

“For one.” She nodded toward the school bus lumbering down the road. “I spent my Christmas budget on school clothes and supplies for Jake. He grew so much this summer that nothing fit, so I had to totally re-outfit him.”

“And my little stash went toward truck engine repairs.”

Two relatively minor things had dissolved their meager savings. Callie hated that, but then gave herself an internal smack upside the head.

Jake was strong, healthy and athletic, a good boy who loved traipsing off to a fishing hole, who behaved himself in school and accepted the necessary extra tutoring with little argument. He knew his way around a hammer and saw, a Marek trait tried and true, and wasn’t afraid to don a hard hat and be a crew gopher.

Her father’s health had returned with his colostomy, and if he continued to do well, they’d be able to reverse the procedure mid-winter. And while his appetite waned occasionally, she couldn’t deny that good old-fashioned hard work was the best appetite builder known to man, and that getting back to work was in her father’s long-term best interest.

The General dashed off the porch to greet Jake, his fur blending to grays in pursuit, the flash of white tail fringe the kind of welcome any boy would love.

“But the needy will not always be forgotten, nor the hope of the afflicted ever perish.”

The words of the ninth Psalm flooded her, their comfort magnified in simplicity.

Callie liked things simple. She loved the feel of crewing on a house, walking scaffolding, climbing ladders, working a rooftop. Her father had affectionately called her his “right-hand man” from the time she was big enough to eye a square alongside him, and they’d laughed at the expression.

But you stopped laughing when Dustin walked out, citing your lack of femininity as a total turnoff.

Jake’s dad had tossed her over for the former Livingston County Miss New York entrant, a petite gal who’d promptly given him two daughters in their suburban home in Rhode Island, neither of whom Jake had ever met. Dustin made it abundantly clear that his first family was an anomaly in an otherwise perfect life, therefore best forgotten.

Jake’s entrance stopped her maudlin musings. She stood, smiled, grabbed him in a quick hug, then examined the papers he waved her way. “Another hundred on your math test?”

His grin said more than words ever could.

“And a plus on your homework sheets.” She ruffled his hair, nodded toward a plate of cookies and the refrigerator. “Grab a snack, there are fresh apples in the crisper. I’m heading out front to get more of that mold washed off.”

“Can we work on my science project tonight?”

“Absolutely.” Halting her work on their home’s western exposure for dinner, dark and homework left her little time to make progress, but Jake’s enthusiasm over schoolwork outranked everything. His excitement came after years of grueling practice, nights when he hated her, mornings spent crying, not wanting to get on the bus because school proved too difficult.

“Success is not final, failure is not fatal: It is the courage to continue that counts.”

Churchill’s words uplifted her, World War II a favorite study topic for Jake, and having served in Iraq, Callie understood war rigors firsthand. While hyped battles might gain more press, small battles, fought daily, wore down the enemy, except when the enemy came from within.

She pushed that thought aside, refusing to revisit old feelings that should have abated long past. Sure, she’d been dumped. Callie was adult enough to handle that. But Dustin dumped Jake, too, and despite prayer and her best efforts, what did she long to do?

Give her ex the quick kick he deserved for abandoning a God-given miracle. The first gift of Christmas. A child.

But Callie refused to dwell on Dustin Burdick’s shortcomings, although that proved harder at holiday time. She was home, safe and sound, with a beautiful son, a warm house and good friends. What more could she need?

The sound of a generator drew her gaze across the street. A light winked on in the model home, the only home near completion, and she caught sight of Matt Cavanaugh trekking back and forth from his truck to the pretty Cape Cod house, lugging things inside.

She pulled her attention back to the task at hand and climbed the ladder with her bucket and thick, green scrubbie, determined to get as much done as she could despite the chill, waning light.

Determination. Valor. Perseverance. She had the heart of a lioness and the grit of a soldier, two things vital to soothe the scarred soul of the woman within.


Chapter Three

Matt recognized Hank Marek’s name and answered his phone quickly, praying for a “yes.”

“We’re in, Matt.”

Thank you. Matt breathed the thought heavenward, knowing what even a day’s delay could mean this time of year. They’d already been hammered by squalls packing hail, wind and rain. Time was of the essence.

“Everything’s being delivered tomorrow morning,” Matt told him. “I started roof examination today, but my day got chopped by having to order supplies.”

“We’ll be there at eight,” Hank promised. “Callie works the lunch shift in town, but she’s got Wednesdays off, so we’ll have her all day tomorrow.”

“What about Thursday?” Matt asked, assuring himself it was strictly a job-related inquiry.

Yeah, right.

“She’ll split things up. She’ll crew with us, then the diner, then back here.”

Matt knew how abbreviated days curtailed time frames, but did his frustration stem from Callie’s prior commitment or…

No.

He refused to go there. Callie would be working for him. Matt didn’t mix business with pleasure, no matter how intrigued he was by soft brown hair and gold-green eyes.

“That’s her job,” Hank continued.

It didn’t take good math skills to realize roofing paid more, but Matt liked people that honored their commitments. His mother forgot she had a child when the world discovered he was Neal Brennan’s illegitimate son. He was eight years old when life capsized. His mother sought solace in a string of random men, while his stepfather found comfort in a bottle. That left no one around to raise an eight-year-old kid with learning problems. Jake’s age, he realized.

“But Buck and Tommy are available whenever. With respect to Tom’s age I wouldn’t put him on the tallest roofs, but he’s sure-handed and has a good eye. And quick.”

“He’s welcome, then. Anyone else you can think of, Hank?”

A moment’s hesitation followed, then Hank offered, “Your um—” indecision lingered in the older man’s voice, his tone “—father’s in town.”

“Stepfather, you mean.”

“I guess.”

Matt didn’t blame Hank for sidestepping the issue. When your biological father turns out to be the wealthy but drug-using, gambling vice-president of a local big business, Walker Electronics, the poor guy who’d been publicly emasculated took a hard hit. Don Cavanaugh became the classic definition of deadbeat dad, but because he wasn’t Matt’s dad, Matt guessed the expression didn’t apply.

But it hit hard when the guy you called dad for eight years walked away and never looked back because of biology. That hurt, big time.

“He crewed with me a few times when I really needed help,” Hank explained further.

“Then you know he’s fairly unreliable on a day-to-day basis.”

“When he’s drinking, you’re right. He’s sober right now.”

Sobriety was temporary in Don Cavanaugh’s life, a hit-and-miss condition Matt would rather miss. “I can’t trust him.”

“Then I won’t mention this when he’s around. He’ll notice when you change the sign, though.”

“How?” Matt’s father had no reason to be this far out of town and he hated the cold and snow. He’d race to Florida once the weather turned just like he had years ago, leaving Matt with his drama-queen mother.

Face front, eyes forward. No flashbacks, got it?

“Don comes by for coffee and soup with the other boys from time to time.”

Which meant he’d see them working on Matt’s new project, and the inevitable face-to-face meeting. “I can’t have him over here, especially right now. I’ve got to get my bearings for this job. Find my comfort zone.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you, Hank.”

“See you in the morning.”

Matt disconnected the call and walked outside the house, eyeing the gloaming shadows beneath a waning gibbous moon.

A noise drew his attention to the Marek place. In the almost dark he saw Callie’s silhouette, captured by the porch light. She clambered down the ladder, a bucket in hand, its weight making the descent awkward. At the bottom she splashed water onto the street, then headed for the side porch, humming.

Pride and strength embraced her maverick beauty. The idea of working for him obviously bothered her, but if she was as experienced as Hank made out, he was glad for the help.

Lights blinked on in the front of their house and he caught a glimpse of Callie and the boy, heads bent, eyeing something, a family moment that resurrected all he’d missed as a child. A father’s love. A mother’s touch.

He headed into the nearly complete model home, studied the mattress and box spring on the floor, the small generator outside giving him power for minimal light and heat. He’d surrendered his apartment in Nunda because the commute would eat up too much time. And saving nearly seven hundred dollars a month was nothing to take lightly. Wear and tear on the truck, his equipment? That took their toll over time.

No, better to headquarter himself here, on the job site, guarding his investment.

The house wasn’t certified for dwelling, so Matt would have to sequester his sleeping arrangements when the inspector came by, at least until he could get a certificate of occupancy on the model. He’d complete that once the roofs were in place on the other houses, his first-things-first mentality key to this situation. Then he’d set up properly upstairs, but for the moment, this would do. He set his alarm clock early to take a shot at bookkeeping, not one of his strongholds, and burrowed under the covers, burying dreams of heat. And a woman with gold-green eyes.



“He’s staying over there.” Callie jerked her head west, her hands plunged into soapy dishwater the next morning.

“Makes sense,” Hank replied as he gathered their tool belts and supplies. “Why pay rent when you’ve got a nearly finished house?”

“Because Finch McGee will be all over that if he finds out,” Callie replied. She wiped her hands, waved goodbye to Jake as the bus approached, then headed to the table.

“Finch is a little power-hungry,” Hank admitted.

“A little?”

Hank shrugged. “He’s got a job to do, Cal. You know that. He just does it with more zeal than most.”

“Maybe Matt will be lucky and Colby will be his inspector.” Colby Dennis had taken the job as Finch’s assistant two years before, and he was a decent guy on all levels. Finch?

Callie’d been privy to more than one run-in with the divorced building inspector, and she knew a jerk when she saw one. She’d kept him at arm’s length, but he’d taken to coming into the diner at lunchtime lately, when he’d always eaten at the Texas Hot before. And it wasn’t a fluke that put him in her section, day after day, any more than it was coincidence that she traded tables with the other servers, keeping him at bay.

“Finch won’t let the new kid on the block oversee this.” Hank shifted his gaze to Cobbled Creek as they headed down the stone drive. “And while his inspections are all right, he doesn’t have a lick of common sense when it comes to balancing economics.”

“Ready, guys?” Buck grinned at them, crumpled his coffee cup and set it inside his truck cab.

“I am,” declared Tommy, a knit hat drawn over his bald head, a thick flannel layered over a turtleneck.

“You expectin’ a blizzard, Tom?” Hank teased.

“I’m expecting it’s cold now and warmin’ up later,” shot back the older man, “and I’ve crewed with you often enough to know that cold and number of hours don’t mean all that much.”

“I knew I liked you.” Matt smiled as he approached the group. “Supplies are due to arrive in three hours and Jim Slaughter should be here anytime with his equipment. Hank, can you get these guys together on inspecting the roofs, marking any part that needs to be redone while I finish a few phone calls?”

“I’m on it.”

They spent the first hour setting up ladders and scaffolding, then split into two groups, checking for damage.

“We’ve got a problem here,” Callie called out mid-morning as Matt passed by below. He clambered up the ladder, saw what she’d uncovered, and grimaced. “We’ll have to take this section back down to the rafters.”

“I’m on it.”

She’d been amazing and quick, working hard and long beside the men without a break, and in her hooded sweatshirt and loose-fit blue jeans, no one would even know she was a girl.

So why couldn’t Matt get it off his mind? Focus, dude. “You really have to go to the restaurant tomorrow? No chance of getting someone to cover you?”

Callie looked up. Had he tempted her? Heaven knows he tried. She shook her head. “Sorry, can’t be helped. But I’ll see if one of the girls wants to pick up my shifts next week because working here pays better than waiting on the lunch crowd at the Olympus.”

“If you can do that, lunch is on me every day next week.”

“For all of us or just the pretty girl?” Tommy wondered out loud.

“Everyone.” Matt shot Tommy a quick grin of appreciation as he jerked a thumb in Callie’s direction. “Although she’s easier on the eyes than the rest of you lugs.” He headed back toward the ladder, the crew’s work ethic easing his concerns. “I’ve got a friend who works at the Tops deli in Wellsville. She can hook us up with some pretty good eats.”

Tommy exchanged a grin with Buck. “I had a few of those friends back in the day.”

Matt laughed and discovered it felt good to laugh with a crew like this, as unlikely as they appeared. A gray truck turned into Cobbled Creek Lane, the town emblem emblazoned on the cab doors. Matt swung onto the ladder, his features relaxed.

Callie stepped toward the roof’s edge, then squatted alongside him as though checking something. “It’s Finch, the building inspector.”

Matt paused his descent and nodded, wondering how the scent of fresh-sawn wood could smell so agreeably new and different to a longtime contractor like himself. Or was it her strawberry-scented shampoo?

“You’re not from around here, but he’s a little high on himself.”

Relief tweaked Matt. She obviously didn’t know he’d grown up here a long time ago. He chalked it up to their four or five year age difference. The old Matt Cavanaugh was best left forgotten, although that wouldn’t be completely possible. He’d messed up big time back then. Now?

Now it was his turn to make things right. Make Grandpa proud. His newfound peace with his half brother and half sister, Jeff and Meredith Brennan, was a good start. Glancing down, he swept the gray truck a quick look. “Overzealous?”

“Bingo. And you can’t let him see you have stuff in the model, that you’re staying here.”

“How did you…? Never mind,” Matt continued.

Of course she’d notice, she lived across the street. His truck had been there all night and his lights were on before 5:00 a.m. “I’ll steer him clear.”

“Five-hundred-dollar fine,” she muttered under her breath. “No contractor wants to waste a cool five hundred.”

She was right. He’d traded off the apartment to save money, not throw it away. He climbed down the ladder, nodded his approval at the scaffolding Matt rigged in front of house number seventeen and stuck out a hand to the inspector. “Matt Cavanaugh. Nice to meet you.”

“Finch McGee.” The guy looked around amiably enough, but Matt hadn’t tap-danced his way through the marines. Friendly snakes were still snakes, and Hank’s daughter had this one nailed. That only made him wonder why, but he’d ferret that out later.

“I examined the initial plan when it came before the zoning commission.” Finch surveyed the half-done houses with a thin-eyed gaze, then rocked back on his heels. “I wanted to give myself an up-to-date visual. You’ve got the copy of town code my assistant gave you?”

The demeaning way he said “assistant” tightened Matt’s skin, but he tamped that down and sent McGee a comfortable look of assent. “Yes. How much leeway do I need with your office to set up inspections?”

“Forty-eight hours should do it. We’re not slammed right now.”

Not slammed? Talk about an understatement. The town had been literally asleep for the past eighteen months. But Matt heeded Callie’s warning and gave in easily. “Forty-eight hours it is.”

“You’ve got Hank Marek helping you?” Finch turned Matt’s way. His approving expression insinuated that having Hank working on this project was some kind of power-hungry badge of glory. “Gutsy.”

“Necessary.” Matt clipped the word, needing to get back to work. “Hank knows this project inside and out. Who better to have on board?”

Finch shrugged. “Just seems funny, but no worse than hanging out in that farmhouse watching this place get ruined.”

“Well, it’s in good hands now,” Matt told him, ready to cut this conversation short. “Mine and Hank’s.” He wasn’t sure why he included the older man in the statement, but realized its truth right off. Despite hard times, Hank Marek was unafraid to put his hand to the task, a guy like Grandpa, tried and true. That kind of integrity meant a great deal to Matt.

“Nice outfit, Callie.”

Matt turned in time to see the wince she hid from McGee as Callie came down the ladder.

McGee’s words pained her, but why would a pretty girl like Callie Marek be hurt by a little teasing? Two thoughts came to mind. Either Callie’d been hurt before or McGee’s words came with a personal tang.

“She’s working for you?”

Matt turned, not liking the heightened interest in McGee’s tone but not willing to make an enemy out of the building inspector who would be signing his certificate of occupancy documents. “Yes, they’re a talented family.”

McGee acknowledged that with a nod as he headed out. “They are. I’ll stop around now and again, see how things are coming along.”

Translation: I’ll stop around now and again to see Callie and maybe find you cutting code.

The latter insinuation didn’t bother Matt. He refused to shirk and never used slip-shod methods in building. That had kept his reputation and business growing heartily in the northern part of the county. Now back home in the southern edge of Allegany County, where teenage bad choices dogged him, he’d be choirboy good to erase those dark stains on his character.

But realizing McGee would be stopping by to check Callie out?

That scorched.

And while Matt knew Callie was off limits, the way his neck hairs rose in protest when Finch McGee eyed her said his heart was playing games with his head. The way she’d faced the decision of crewing with him, upfront and honest, the way her hair touched her cheek, the brown waves having just the right sheen, like newly applied satin-finish paint…

Words weren’t his forte, but feelings…those he got, and since he was fresh out of a relationship with a woman who’d wanted to change every single thing about him, he wasn’t ready to charge head-first into another one, especially in a place where everyone knew his name and all the baggage that went along with it. With an employee. Nope. Wasn’t going to happen for a host of good reasons.

“If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, but make allowance for their doubting, too…”

Kipling’s famous poem soothed the angst McGee stirred up, the poem a gift from Grandpa back in the day. Matt had to trust himself. He couldn’t afford mistakes or missteps. He’d already made his share.

“Matt, you wanna cut those sections we removed or have me do it?”

Matt turned, grateful for Buck’s interruption. “Have at it, Buck.”

Buck nodded and swung down the ladder. “Be right back.”

Matt climbed back up, inspecting each seam before they added the underlayment and the shingles. A mistake now would cost time and money later, every builder’s nightmare.

Do it once, do it right.

By the time Matt glanced at his watch again, it was nearly one o’clock. “Hey, guys, lunch.”

Hank waved a sandwich from the roof across the street. “Got mine right here, boss.”

Tom did the same thing.

Buck straightened and rolled his shoulders to ease muscle strain. “I’ll bring mine up so we can keep going here. You want something, Matt?”

Their dedication touched Matt’s heart. He’d worked with a lot of crews over the years, good and bad, and from both ends of the spectrum as low man on the totem pole and supervisor, but this…

He cleared his throat and nodded to Buck. “I’ve got a sandwich inside the truck. And some of those snowball cupcakes.”

“I love them,” Buck declared.

“Bring the box, we’ll share. And see if the other guys want some.”

“Hank won’t. Coconut bothers him since he got the Crohn’s, but Tom will dig in. So will Callie. She loves chocolate. Thanks, Matt.”

“You’re welcome.”

Callie headed across the roof just then, a soldier’s satisfaction marking her gaze, her walk.

A really good-looking soldier.

With great hair and pearl-soft skin.

Stop. Now.

He couldn’t afford to mess up this job. He’d seen the careful way Hank handled his daughter, although this woman didn’t seem to need protecting.

The image of her quick wince revisited him, the way she’d cringed at McGee’s teasing, and that brought back another Grandpa Gus-ism. “If you respect women, you’ll respect life.”

Maybe Callie Marek did need protecting and was good at hiding it, but either way, she was off limits. Her warm voice reenforced that notion a short while later. “Jake’s home.”

A yellow bus rolled toward them, lights flashing. Jake climbed down the steps, let the dog off the porch, then hurried their way with The General racing alongside. “You guys got a lot done today!”

Matt grinned as the pair drew closer, their enthusiasm contagious. “We did, but it’s easy with a great crew.”

“I can help.” The boy’s excitement made it tough for Matt to say no, but—

“We’d love your help,” Callie told him, staving Matt’s refusal with a sidelong glance. “First, get changed. Put on proper gear including your boots and hard hat, then head over here. There won’t be much time, but you can work on cleanup.”

“Okay.”

The kid dashed across the open lot at a run, the dog streaming alongside, his pace pretty solid for an eight-year-old. Matt turned Callie’s way, disapproving. “I—”

She held up a hand to thwart his argument. “I know what you’re going to say, but trust me on this. Jake understands construction sites. He’s been working side-by-side with us for years with no harm, no foul. He’s great on cleanup duty and this is a much better choice than television or computer games, right?”

“Yes, but…” Matt met her gaze, decided that was dangerous because her eyes made him remember how lovely she was, even in roofing gear, and he didn’t want to go there. No woman in her right mind would find his teenage police record a good thing to have around an impressionable kid like Jake. A good kid, Matt reminded himself. “Doesn’t he have homework?”

“Yes.” Callie nodded, chin down, focusing on her work, talking easily. “But he’s got some processing problems so school doesn’t come easily. We’ll do it together, step by step, after supper.”

That’s what they’d been doing last night, Matt realized. “After working here all day, you’ll do homework duty at night?”

She gave a brisk nod. “Of course.”

He’d have given anything to have a mother like that. He’d tackled educational difficulties on his own and failed miserably. “That’s amazing, Callie.”

She turned, surprised. Their eyes met.

She went still, her eyes on his, her mouth slightly open, the parted lips looking very approachable.

And she read his gaze, his thoughts. It was there in her slight intake of breath, the way she blinked, the quick flex of fingers as realization struck.

Amanda Slaughter created a welcome diversion by pulling into the tract with promised coffee.

Matt was pretty sure he didn’t want to be diverted.

Callie turned toward the ladder, breaking the connection. That was good, right? Neither of them had the time or energy to put into that quick flash of recognition. Obviously they’d be smart to ignore it.

But he caught her shifting a surreptitious glance his way moments later, and that confirmed what he’d been struggling with all day.

Working side by side with Callie Marek meant he couldn’t ignore her. And the over-the-shoulder look said she wasn’t oblivious to the spark of attraction.

But a kid like Jake deserved to be surrounded by the best examples possible. Matt had been anything but a good example for a long time. Sooner or later Callie would discover his past. No self-respecting woman wanted a guy with a record setting an example for her kid, and Matt understood that. Respected it, even. He needed to remember he was in the southern sector of the county for two things only: to make amends to those he’d hurt and help Cobbled Creek become what Hank Marek meant it to be.

And although he was thrilled by the skill level and dedication shown by Hank and his crew, no way, no how was he looking for anything else. Especially where Callie Marek was concerned.


Chapter Four

McGee’s truck reappeared while the crew grabbed coffee from Jim’s wife. He braked quick, scattering stone, then climbed out, strode their way and met Matt’s gaze head-on, his expression taut. “You living here, Cavanaugh?”

Matt’s face showed surprise, not a good thing, but Hank’s quick reaction spared a clash. “Of course he is, Finch. Wouldn’t make sense to travel back and forth to Nunda while daylight hours are scarce, winter’s closing in and every penny he’s got is invested in Cobbled Creek.”

“You don’t have a C of O,” Finch barked, his typical attitude more evident this afternoon. “There’s reasons we’ve got regulations, Cavanaugh, although you were never real good at following rules, were you?”

Matt’s flinch surprised Callie, but then Hank sighed and frowned as if wondering what the clamor was about. “Finch, I don’t know any rule that says Matt can’t live with us while he gets the model done and inspected. It makes good sense, all in all.” Hank kept his voice easy and his surprise genuine, as if taken aback by Finch’s intrusion.

Callie swallowed a lump in her throat the size of a small two-by-four. Live with them? Was her father kidding?

“He’s staying at your place?” Finch swept Callie a look, then drew his gaze back to the two men.

Hank shrugged, sidestepping the truth. “We have extra room. Matt needs to be on site. It works out for everyone.”

Everyone but me, Callie wanted to shout. She was having a hard enough time keeping her distance from Matt in the short time they’d been working together, but to have him staying at their place?

“A perfect solution,” Matt added, as if everything was suddenly hunky-dory. “And just so you know, I’m ordering us a fresh turkey for Thanksgiving.”

Finch scowled.

Hank grinned.

Tom covered a laugh with a cough.

Callie decided more coffee would only tax her already-twining gut and headed back to the roof, trying to untwist the coiled emotions inside.

Yes, she was attracted.

No, she shouldn’t be.

And having him under their roof, sharing their home, their food?

Way too much proximity and she had too much to lose, but Hank had extended the invitation and Hank Marek carved his word in stone. He kept a General Patton quote framed on his dresser: “No good decision was ever made from a swivel chair.”

Great. Just great.

Finch would be annoyed, which meant he’d annoy others. She’d have Matt underfoot which would entail having her guard up 24/7. And the guys were clearly delighted with the prospect of having Matt around, his friendly grin and storytelling a welcome addition to their circle, a perfect match.

But she’d found out the hard way there were no perfect matches. Not for women who strike a different path, a career that includes tool belts weighted with claw hammers and tape measures. Nails and utility knives. Unfeminine suspenders to distribute the tool weight appropriately.

Some lessons a girl never forgot.

Matt’s footsteps followed her. He crouched by her side, pretending to work, his gaze down. “Hey, if it bothers you that much, I’ll just get a place in town. Or stay at my brother’s house in Wellsville. That way I’m not breaking the rules and McGee won’t have anything to complain about.”

Finch would dog Matt’s steps, Callie knew. He wasn’t above pestering contractors he didn’t like, and he’d had his eye on Callie for the last several months. She’d kept it cool and friendly at the diner, but Finch added another component in an already-complex puzzle. She didn’t want Matt targeted by the zealous building inspector, but she didn’t want him living with them either.

Nevertheless, the invitation had been extended, and Hank wasn’t a man to go back on his word, a quality she shared.

She bit her lip and swallowed a sigh. “It’s fine. It just came as a surprise.”

“I’ll do my own laundry.”

His earnest words almost made her smile. “You bet you will.”

“And I can cook.”

“Excellent.”

“How big a turkey shall I get?”

“You weren’t kidding about that?” She turned to face him and felt the draw of those deep, brown eyes, tiny hints of gold sparking warmth and laughter. “I got a couple of frozen turkeys at Tops while they were on sale. That’s a lot of good eating at a bargain price. Fresh birds are expensive.”

“Have you ever tasted one?”

She brushed that off and turned back to the task at hand. “Turkey’s turkey.”

He grinned and moved a step away. “It’s not, but I’ll let you discover that next week. And now—” he shifted his attention back to the nail gun “—we need to get back to work. Can you help your dad and Buck get started on number twenty-three?”

Across the street and two houses up. Just enough distance to calm things down. Smooth them over.

“Sure.”

“And Callie?”

She turned at the ladder and arched a brow, waiting for him to say more.

He eyed her a moment and shifted his jaw. “You do good work.”

His awkwardness told her he meant to add something else but thought better of it. Just as well. Too much fun and teasing could be misconstrued. She headed down to ground level, crossed the street, moved up the block and joined her father on the elongated roof covering the well-designed ranch house. Hank noted her presence with a welcome smile and nod.

“Ready?”

Ready for roofing?

Yes.

For having Matt’s teasing smile, his easy manner, his firm jaw around every day?

No way.

But Callie had withstood basic training and a deployment in Iraq. She could handle this.

She adopted a noncommittal look and started handing her father shingles, pushing thoughts of Matt aside, but with the steady pop of his nail gun keeping time with his whistling, she was mostly unsuccessful. Luckily no one knew that but her.



He’d be moving in tomorrow.

Ignoring Matt’s light proved impossible as Callie helped Jake recognize consonant–vowel patterns for his language arts class. Her chair faced the front window, overlooking Cobbled Creek and the unshaded reminder of Matt’s existence.

Change chairs, her conscience scolded.

She could, she supposed, warm yellow light pouring from the uncurtained windows of the model home. But…

“Mom, can I help Matt this weekend?” Jake asked, pulling her attention away from cute guys and broken dreams, definitely in everyone’s best interest.

“We’ll all be working this weekend, as long as the weather holds,” Hank told him. “Your mom has a couple of shifts at the diner—”

“I switched them up with Gina,” Callie cut in.

Hank eyed her, speculative.

“I make more crewing and we have no guarantee on the weather this late in the game,” she explained to Hank, then turned her attention back to Jake’s word list. “Yup, short I words here, long I there. Perfect.”

Jake beamed. “Mrs. Carmichael told me to picture them like puzzle pieces, looking for clues.”

God bless Mrs. Carmichael, Callie breathed silently. Between Hannah Moore’s tutoring and Jake’s teachers, he’d come a long way academically, and since his ADD prognosis, his continued progress thrilled Callie. She knew strong middle school academics required a solid foundation now, and she’d worked extra hours to pay for his tutoring, his book club, his interactive educational games, anything it took to surround him with learning opportunities.

So far, so good.

She smiled, ruffled his hair, tried not to glance out the window and failed, then said, “Yes, you can help, but The General can’t be over there all the time, okay? We can’t have someone’s attention diverted when they’re on a rooftop.”

“Okay.”

“And I want to get those Christmas lights strung this weekend. Thanksgiving’s next week and I’d rather do it before we get big snows than after.”

“That’s a good idea,” Hank agreed. “If we use both ladders we can do it together and get it done in half the time.”

“True.” The ladders were about the only thing not seized when Hank’s business bellied up. The bank had considered them household use instead of business inventory. “I want to finish scrubbing that side, too. Get rid of the mold.”

“Not much sense if we don’t have time or the right temperature to paint,” Hank told her.

“It looks better when it’s clean.” Callie didn’t elaborate, but something about coming home to that worn facade weighed on her. Painting could wait until spring, but decorating for the holidays with the front of the house looking tired and worn…

That didn’t sit right.

“When can we get our Christmas tree?” Jake’s eagerness refused to be contained.

Callie laughed and stood. She stretched and fought a yawn. “Let’s tackle Thanksgiving first, okay? And decorating the front of the house.”

“Can we put up Shadow Jesus?”

Hank exchanged a grin with Callie. He’d created a plywood Holy Family years ago, the images of Jesus, Mary and Joseph done in silhouette, then painted black. Two spotlights tucked into the grass bathed the cutouts in light at night, making their shadowed presence appear on the white house. The simple, stark visual was an eye-catcher for sure.

Jake had referred to the infant in the manger as “Shadow Jesus” from the time he could talk, a sweet memory and a good focus on the true meaning of the upcoming holy season. “Next weekend,” Hank promised. “It doesn’t take long, but let’s get the outside lights up first.”

Jake nodded, satisfied. “Okay. Good night, Grandpa.”

“Night, Jake.”

He was such a good boy, Callie thought as Jake headed upstairs to bed. She would never understand Dustin’s cool disregard for his beautiful son, but then she hadn’t understood Dustin for a very long time.

Maybe ever.

“He’s doing fine, Callie.” Hank drew her attention with a nod toward the stairs. “Don’t borrow trouble.”

“I know. It’s just rough at holiday time, when most kids get presents from their dads. Visits. Cards.”

“He’s happy enough.”

“But he wonders, Dad.” When Hank went to speak, she held up a hand to pause him. “I know he’s content, but it weighs on his mind from time to time. His birthday. Christmas. When they do father-son events at school and church. And those are the times when I could wring Dustin’s neck for brushing him off.”

“And brushing you off.”

She shrugged. “Not so much. We married young, we were both in the service, we thought we could conquer the world and when that didn’t work, we grew apart.”

Hank’s snort said more than words ever could. “In my day skirt-chasing was called just that, and it didn’t involve growing apart. It involved breaking vows, going back on your word. A good soldier never goes back on his or her word.”

His righteous indignation struck a chord with Callie. “You’re right, Dad, but it’s in the past and I’ve moved on. We all have.”

“And the future is ripe with possibilities,” Hank reminded her. “Seek and ye shall find. Knock and the door will be opened unto you.”

Callie leaned forward and planted a kiss on Hank’s bushy cheek. “Are you letting your beard grow to keep your face warm on those rooftops?”

“Yes I am.” Hank scrubbed a hand across the three-day stubble and grinned again. “One of the advantages of age and gender. I can grow my own ski mask.”

Callie shook her head, laughing. “And I’m just as thankful I can’t.” She headed for the stairs. “I’m turning in early so I can work on the front of the house before first light. I’ll turn on the small spotlights to help me see. Another few hours of washing should do it.”

“If we had a power washer…”

Hank’s quiet aside made her shrug. “We don’t want to disturb the paint too much anyway. It’s pretty loose in spots and a power washer might peel it off. Hand washing is fine for this year.”

Hank hugged her shoulders and planted a kiss on her cheek. “You make me proud. You know that, don’t you?”

She did. And she appreciated Hank’s commonsense take on Dustin’s behavior, but the image in the mirror once she climbed the stairs showed a strong, rugged woman, a laborer. And while her father’s approval was a lovely thing, and Callie took pride in her work, her dexterity, her intrinsic knowledge of building, some days it would be nice to look in the mirror and have downright beautiful looking back at her, the gracious swan that evolved from the misunderstood fictional duckling.

But that wasn’t about to happen.



Startled awake, Callie stared at the clock, rubbed her eyes and peered again.

She’d overslept the alarm. Not only would she not be scrubbing clapboard that morning, but she’d be lucky if she got lunches made before the bus pulled up for Jake. And what on earth was that noise?

Her father sent her an amused smirk as she ran down the stairs in her robe. “Tired?”

Grr.

Hank held up Jake’s lunch bag. “We’re good to go.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a half hug as she kissed his cheek on her way to the coffeepot. “I have no memory of turning the radio off or hitting the snooze bar. I must have zonked. And what is going on out there?” She jerked a thumb toward the subdivision.

Hank shook his head. “Not there.” He pointed toward the street side of the house. “Here.”

Here?

Callie followed the direction of his finger, pulled back the curtain and stared.

Matt Cavanaugh had brought over a small power washer. Using care, he splayed the jet of water against the siding in a slow and steady back-and-forth sweep, his attention locked on the task at hand.

“Pretty nice of him.” Hank’s words drew her gaze around.

“Very.”

“Must have seen you working out there.”

Callie was pretty sure the flush started somewhere around her toes and worked its way up. “Probably just wants to make sure we can use daylight hours on the subdivision.”

“Most likely.”

“Dad, I—”

She stopped as Jake clamored down the stairs, his expression a mix of surprise and delight. “Matt’s washing the front of the house!”

“He is, yes.”

“Then we can put up the Christmas lights this weekend!” He raced for the door and barreled across the porch, then down the steps and around the front. Callie watched from inside, pretty sure Matt couldn’t hear a word Jake was saying.

It didn’t matter. Matt’s grin said he understood a little boy’s excitement. He nodded and sent Jake a quick thumbs-up as he guided the spray around the windows. He spotted Callie watching and for a quick beat he forgot to move the water wand.

Oops. His look of chagrin said he’d peeled a bit of paint.

He swept her one more quick look, barely noticeable except for the wink. And the smile, just crooked enough to be endearing.

Callie rolled her eyes, shook a finger at him and tried not to smile. She couldn’t feed this flirtation and she had plenty on her plate dealing with Jake and Dad, but…

She let the curtain fall into place as Jake raced back in to grab a bagel and his lunch. “It looks great out there, Mom.” He switched his look to Hank and raised both brows. “So we can decorate this weekend? Right?”

“When we’re not working,” Hank promised.

“Perfect.” Jake gave Callie a quick hug and pointed toward the clock. “Matt says you’ve got fifteen minutes before you have to be at work and that you might want to get your coffee to go.”

“Oh, he did, did he?”

Jake grinned and headed outside. “He’s funny.”

Funny. Right. She shooed Jake on. “Have a good day.”

“I will.” She heard him hail Matt as he headed for the road, The General at his heels, his voice upbeat. “See you later, Matt!”

She refused to check out Matt’s reply, to see if he heard the boy’s call.

She never overslept. Ever.

Her father poured a fresh cup of coffee into a thermal cup and swept her and the clock a look. “Twelve minutes and counting.”

Laughter bubbled up from somewhere far away, a different kind of laughter. Sweet. Girlish. Kind of silly, actually.

But nice.

She hustled up the stairs, donned her layers and refused to think about the nice thing Matt was doing, saving her work, saving her time, precious commodities these days. And the joy in Jake’s step…

That thought nipped the gladness. She didn’t want Jake hurt. He’d taken a shine to Matt, but Matt was only temporary. If Jake grew too close…

Are you worried about Jake or you?

Both. Callie tugged her hoodie into place, grabbed a pair of fingerless gloves and headed back downstairs.

Matt’s grin was the first thing she saw as she rounded the bottom step, his shirt cuffs damp from the sprayer, his hands wound tight around a mug of coffee. He flicked a gaze toward the clock, then back to her. “Right on time.”

She faced him, tongue-tied. Despite her efforts, she couldn’t get beyond that smile to create a quick comeback. And he saw that. Recognized the reaction. Probably because girls fell at his feet on a regular basis. His grin widened, lighting his eyes.

Not me, not now.

Callie grabbed her insulated coffee mug, not ready to play this game. Maybe she’d never be ready, and that might be okay. She headed out the door with Matt following, but as she passed the front corner of the house, she couldn’t ignore what he’d done. She turned back and caught him studying her, his gaze curious. Maybe a little concerned. “Thank you.” She waved toward the front and a hint of his smile returned.

“You’re welcome.”

“It looks much better.”

He nodded, quiet, still watching her, one eye narrowed as if wondering something.

She pointed over his shoulder and slightly left. “Except where you peeled the paint above the window.”

His smile deepened. Softened. He shrugged. “Distracted.”

Talk about smooth.

Again the flush rose from somewhere deep and low, the pleasure of having a man flirt with her awakening sweet memories.

Memories that crashed and burned, honey. This guy’s way cute, but he’s here today, gone tomorrow. Let’s not forget that.

She headed across the road, chin down, knowing he followed a pace behind, not hurrying to catch up. Was he waiting for her to come back? Match her pace to his?

Or just enjoying a walk with his coffee?

“House looks good, Matt.” Buck smiled and nodded appreciation toward the Marek place as they drew alongside. “And that means we can rig up Shadow Jesus soon, I expect.”

“And the lights,” Hank added. “Jake sure is excited.”

“I got that.” Matt grinned, took a sip of coffee and settled an easy look Callie’s way. “He’s a good kid.”

“Thanks. Same assignments as yesterday, boss?”

A muscle clench in his chin said he recognized the marker drawn. “Sure.” He headed right while she moved to join her father and Buck on the roof they’d begun the previous day, but his light whistle followed her, the tune young. Bright. Carefree. It called to her, but she’d put carefree aside a lot of years ago and it would take more than clean clapboards and perfect teeth to bring it back. Most days she was pretty sure it was gone for good.



So much for maintaining a distance, Matt thought as Callie headed across his roof on steady feet a few hours later. “Tom said you needed a hand over here.”

Matt nodded, brisk, pretending immunity. “I do, thanks. The pharmacy called to say his wife’s prescription was ready.”

“And he didn’t want her waiting.” Callie adjusted her gloves, flexed her fingers and squatted beside him, close enough to notice how her lashes curled up on their own with no help from mascara. “That’s Tom, all right. And since Dad and Buck are capping twenty-three, I was the logical choice. Looks good, Jim,” she noted, raising her voice so Jim could hear. “And it’s almost straight.”

Jim made a face at her. “Ha, ha. Do I have to remind you that I’ve put on more roofs than anyone else in Allegheny County?”

Callie laughed. “Since there’s no one here to argue the point, I’ll let you stake your claim. In the meantime,” she turned her gaze toward Matt.

“Do you want to feed or nail?” he asked.

“I’ll nail. Then we can switch so neither one of us ends up with a backache later.”

“And you didn’t leave for the diner today. How about tomorrow?”

Callie shook her head, eyes down, working the nail gun as they edged right. “Nope.”

Matt fought off the quick glimmer of appreciation her answer inspired. Focus on your work. Remember that you’re on a rooftop and concentration might be in everyone’s best interest. But he’d be lying to say that Callie wasn’t a pretty nice distraction, totally against the norm of women he’d known.

“I switched with Gina,” she continued, working as she talked. “She’s a single mom, too, and she can use the extra shifts. She’ll do doubles, which will help her out at this time of year.”

“Christmas.”

“Christmas and winter clothes,” she told him as she shifted her angle to give him more room. “With kids you go right from back-to-school clothes to winter clothes and then Christmas. There’s no such thing as saving a dime in the fall. Not with children.”

Tom’s truck pulled back in a few minutes later. He climbed out, surveyed their progress and whistled, appreciative. “Nice work.”

Matt grinned, showed a thumbs-up and jerked his head toward Hank and Buck. “Can you finish up with Hank and Buck?”

“And let you have the pretty girl all to yourself?” Tom drawled. He tipped his wool hat toward Callie, ever the gentleman. “Good thing I’m a happily married man. I might be giving you a run for your money.”

Matt shook his head, pretending indifference, but when he glanced Callie’s way, twin spots of color brightened her cheeks.

The wind, he decided.

“Ready here.”

He started feeding her shingles again, her speed and concentration commendable when it was all he could do not to notice how she moved, the way she handled the nail gun as though born to it, her manner decisive, her gaze intent, her lower lip drawn between her teeth as she squared up each section.

She didn’t talk, she worked, and Matt appreciated that. Talking slowed things down, and they were already racing the clock. Callie understood the time line and stayed focused on the job at hand while Matt had a hard time focusing on anything but her.

A car pulled up. Amanda climbed out, toting a drink tray of fresh coffees from the convenience store at the crossroads.

“She’s a lifesaver,” Callie muttered from behind Matt.

Matt met her gaze and smiled. “I’ll say. Now if she only thought to bring doughnuts…”

Amanda set the tray of large coffees down on the saw table tucked inside the garage of number seventeen, then headed back to the car and pulled out a big box of doughnuts.




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