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Mom In The Middle
Mae Nunn
Juggling the care of her toddler son and elderly parents kept young widow Abby Cramer busy from sunup to sundown.Just when she thought she had it all under control, her mother broke her hip at a home-improvement store. Good thing store employee Guy Hardy rushed in to save the day with his quick thinking, big smile and his tender kindness extended toward her whole family - especially Abby.Though she suspected Guy had a secret to hide, Abby wanted to believe he was a man of honor and faith. A man she could trust with her heart.



“You’re incredible.”
Certain he was teasing, Abby searched Guy’s face for humor but saw only appreciation in his azure eyes.
“And I have to agree with what my daddy said. You’re a very kind man, Guy Hardy.”
“Your daddy actually said that?” Praise from her parents was more precious than diamonds and harder to come by.
“Yes.”
“About me?”
“Yes, about you.” She couldn’t help smiling at his disbelief.
“I admit hearing your daddy feels that way means a lot, but I didn’t compliment you out of kindness. Abby—”
Her face warmed with embarrassment. She waved away his words but he caught her hand, determined to finish what he’d started.
“Abby, while there’s no doubt you’re a beautiful woman, it’s your gift of spirit that makes you so attractive. You may be the most selfless and giving young lady I know.”

MAE NUNN
grew up in Houston and graduated from the University of Texas with a degree in communications. When she fell for a transplanted Englishman who lived in Atlanta, she hung up her Texas spurs to become a Georgia Southern belle. Mae has been with a major air express company for over 28 years, currently serving as a director of key accounts. When asked how she felt about being part of the Steeple Hill Books family, Mae summed up her response with one word, “Yeeeeeha!”

Mom in the Middle
Mae Nunn


I found the one my heart loves.
—Song of Solomon 3:4
This book is for Ron, my big brother, who chased me through the house, caught me and dragged me into the bathroom, put my foot in the toilet and flushed it. Many times! But he also took me to the drive-in with him and his girlfriends, made six-foot papier-mâché creatures for our homecoming parades, let me use his Corvette my senior year in high school and never ratted me out to our parents, even when he probably should have. I love you, Ron. Will you read my books now?
Mom in the Middle is also for Gail and Pam, my older sisters, who shared a bedroom and all of their dreams with me. For the times I was a brat, I apologize. For the times I wasn’t there for you, forgive me. For the times I borrowed your things and brought them back ruined, that was all your fault. You knew better than to loan me anything of value! I love you both more than you can possibly know.

Acknowledgments
My thanks to Brittany, a stunning Georgia cowgirl who answered all my questions about rodeo and barrel racing.
Let your beautiful light shine, honey!
Thanks also to Patrick, my friend and tour guide who reconnected me with the fabulous city of Austin and with Lake Travis. Hook ’em Horns!
Thanks to Kristy, Jennifer, Kristin and Candi, my priceless circle of friends who prayed me through a cloud of confusion and held my hand till I emerged on the other side. You ladies are my gift straight from God.
Thanks to my fabulous critique partner Dianna, who told me what was wrong and how to fix it.
Thanks always to my precious Maegan, who is my constant source of joy, encouragement and motivation.
Most importantly, thank you, Michael, for your boundless love and bottomless forgiveness. Without you to take care of me I’d never make it through the days. You are my rock, my anchor and you make it all worth while. I adore you.

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion

Chapter One
“Mama!” Abby Cramer screamed.
Her mother had suddenly collapsed, one leg folded awkwardly beneath her thin body. Abby kept a hand on the shopping cart that held her toddler and dropped to her knees on the concrete floor of the new home-improvement center.
“What happened?” The young cashier bolted around her checkout counter and knelt beside Abby.
Her mother clenched her teeth against the obvious pain. “My foot slipped out from under me.” She twisted at the waist in an effort to get up, then fell back with a gasp. The character lines in her pale face deepened with the grimace.
Abby knew her very private parent would die of pain before she’d suffer the embarrassment of tears in public.
“Don’t worry about your little boy. I’m right here beside him.” A woman’s voice penetrated Abby’s concern. She nodded thanks, let go of the cart and turned full attention to her mother, who once again strained to sit up.
“Please lay still. You might have broken something.” Abby began the assessment she’d learned during first-aid training. The skills had served her well in her three years as an elementary school-teacher. Her mother’s hands fluttered like the wings of an angry bird, shooing away Abby’s efforts to feel for injuries.
“Oh, I’ve just aggravated my old sciatic back. I’ll be okay in a few minutes.” She held her breath through a determined effort to ease her twisted leg from its abnormal position. Finally giving up, she rested her head on the floor.
The store employee untied her apron, rolled the cloth into a pillow and maneuvered it beneath short-clipped, salt-and-pepper hair.
“Don’t move. I’ll get Guy,” the cashier insisted as her sneakers squeaked a fast departure toward the back of the new store.
Concerned onlookers stopped to offer assistance. Abby reached for her mother’s hand, only to be brushed away.
Being the late-in-life only child of Sarah Reagan was both a blessing and a curse. Responsibility and kindness were civic requirements of the woman who was more like a finishing school headmistress than a doting parent. While Abby’s mother expected her daughter to help others, Sarah generally refused aid at all cost.
Abby’s gaze darted from the scene on the slick concrete floor to her precious toddler son who perched in the shopping cart above her. Dillon’s chubby legs dangled as he leaned forward and frowned over the excitement below. She smiled to reassure him, mouthed a silent Thank you to the thoughtful female who hovered nearby.
“Where’s my purse, Abigail?”
“It’s still on the counter.”
“Well, hand it to me before somebody steals my wallet.”
Abby reached for the pastel spring bag and offered the other shoppers an apologetic shrug before placing the straw purse within her mother’s reach.
“I don’t want to worry your father about this so let’s not mention it when we get to the house.”
“Mama, we’re going to have to go to the hospital to make sure you don’t have a serious injury.”
“Nonsense,” Sarah insisted. But the word was hardly out when she yelped involuntarily, arching her back from the stab of pain.
“I have to agree with your daughter.” A man squatted beside Abby, his orange apron announcing the grand opening of yet another new Hearth and Home Super Center. “We’ve put in a call to a private ambulance service. They’ll be here any minute to take you to Brackenridge.”
“No, thank you,” Sarah insisted. “A senior citizen on a fixed income can’t afford a luxury like that. Besides, a hospital will just run expensive tests, take my money, and tell me I’m fine.” Sarah’s hands felt for the buttons of her seersucker jacket, making sure she was properly covered. “As soon as I catch my breath, Abigail can take me home.”
Handsome blue eyes, glinting with unspoken conspiracy sought Abby’s permission to take charge of the situation. She nodded slightly, glad to have somebody else deal with her hardheaded parent if only for a few moments.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, ma’am. It’s Hearth and Home’s standard operating procedure for any injury, no matter how minor, to be treated as an emergency. You wouldn’t want me to lose my job for not following store policy, would you?” He turned his palms upward in a plea for cooperation.
Abby watched with fascination as her perpetually demanding mother became agreeable and compliant beneath the mesmerizing appeal of those blue eyes. The hard lines of her face softened as she sighed her acquiescence.
“And don’t worry about the cost. Hearth and Home will cover everything.”
“I don’t expect any charity,” she insisted.
“Well, maybe this time you’ll make an exception and let the store’s insurance take care of things.”
He patted her thin hand, and she didn’t jerk away.
Torn between relief and envy, Abby filed that moment away for consideration on another day.
A gust of warm wind whipped her curls as the glass doors slid apart. In the distance she heard the sounds of a gurney’s legs snapping into place and then the rush of rubber wheels and crepe soles that brought the paramedics to their side.
“Pardon us, folks. Please step aside, miss,” the efficient attendant instructed as he took charge. “We’ll take it from here.” He knelt to assess the situation.
“At least you had the good sense not to scare me half to death with your siren,” her mother half complimented, half grumbled to the EMT.
“You can thank Mr. Hardy for that.”
“Guy Hardy at your service, ma’am.” The man with eyes the color of Texas bluebonnets nodded. “I figured you were in enough discomfort without that racket ringing in your ears.”
Her mother seemed focused on Guy’s smiling face and charming words. She hardly noticed the work of the crew who deftly lifted her from the hard floor to the padded gurney for the short trip to the boxy red ambulance.
Abby noted the sudden flash of uncertainty in her mother’s eyes at the same moment Dillon began to whimper. Accustomed to adjusting on the fly to meet the needs of her classroom full of first graders, Abby considered her dilemma; her mother on the way to the hospital and her son on the way to panic. To make matters worse, her dad was home alone, sitting in front of the television in his wheelchair, waiting for his “womenfolk” to return with his list of plumbing supplies.
Though it was a mild spring day, Abby’s cheeks filled with unaccustomed heat. She hadn’t let the death of her husband send her into a downward spiral and she wouldn’t let this crisis put her into a tailspin either.
“We’ll take my vehicle.” Guy Hardy had whipped the orange apron from around his waist and handed it to the cashier. “I’ll drive you and…” He was glancing toward Abby’s blubbering son.
“Dillon. My son’s name is Dillon.”
“I’ll drive you and Dillon to Brackenridge and stay with you until they release your mother.”
“But what about our van?” she asked, though she’d already scooped up the baby and her shoulder bag and followed quickly behind this take-charge man.
“You’re too distracted to be driving right now anyway.”

Guy guided the lovely young woman and her son to a white H&H courtesy SUV parked outside.
“I need to get Dillon’s car seat.”
“No problem. Climb in and tell me where you’re parked.”
Focused as he was on the task at hand, he couldn’t help admiring the shiny cap of blond curls that bobbed across his field of vision as she stepped up into his vehicle, clutching the baby boy who bawled over his unfamiliar surroundings. Her confident handling of the toddler reminded Guy of his sisters and the same second-nature manner they showed with their kids.
He followed her directions and pulled alongside a minivan coated with a layer of yellow pollen, a common sign of springtime in Austin, Texas. She dropped the keys into his outstretched hand, allowed him to retrieve the car seat and help her carefully secure it and the boy together with her in the backseat.
“I’ll have you there in no time.”
“Thanks,” was all she said. She dug into the oversize bag probably filled with all the traditional goodies mommies kept handy to appease grumpy babies. She hardly spoke a word during the fifteen-minute trip, but cooed softly to her son while he gnawed what looked like a hunk of graham cracker.
Guy allowed her the privacy she needed to comfort her child and steel herself for whatever waited at the hospital. He drove carefully, checking his passengers often in his rearview mirror. During one glance he noticed her eyes were closed, her lips moving, possibly in silent prayer.
Another time her face was turned to the side offering a clear view of her profile. Thick lashes framed eyes crinkled with worry. The perfectly straight bridge of her nose suited her firm jaw. Both probably genetic signs of stubbornness, from her mother’s side of the family.
She shoved a hand through her hair tucking curls behind one ear. Her head was covered with the same kind of ringlets that he’d teased Casey about for years. He still remembered the wallop his youngest sister had delivered to his gut the day he’d called her Corkscrew one too many times. At the memory he felt an uncontrollable grin of brotherly love.
“Wanna share the joke? I could use some humor right now.”
He glanced over his right shoulder briefly, training his smile her way. What she returned was a watered-down imitation. The effort stirred sympathy in his heart.
“Your hair reminds me of my kid sister, and I was just remembering how I used to make fun of it.”
Her eyes widened, brows rose in an exaggerated manner as she attempted to look offended. “So you think I have funny-looking hair, huh?” She shook her curls at her son, who burst into high-pitched giggles. “Well, you’re not the only one.”
“My sister’s curls are wild and corky, she’s always trying to squash them into submission. But yours are…” Their eyes met in the mirror. Hers filled with anticipation of what he might say. “Nice.”
She stared for a couple of seconds then smiled and ducked her head as if no one had complimented her for a long time.
Unbidden, protective warmth surged in his chest for this young woman. Her quiet modesty reminded him of Kate, one of his older sisters, the busy mother of four boys and an incredible wife in the mold of their beloved mother.
With so many great examples of married couples in his family, it was odd—even to him—that he truly had no need whatsoever to experience that for himself. Not that there was any chance of it with his work schedule. As vice president of corporate expansion, he was on a tight schedule to open an H&H Super Center in a new city every twelve months. He’d be buried with projects through the end of the decade.
“Thank you. A girl will take nice over wild and corky, any day.”
“Actually, Casey’s hair is part of the reason she’s the prettiest of my sisters, though I’d never admit that to her,” he said as he took the final turn that would lead them to downtown Austin’s premier emergency-care facility.
“How many sisters do you have?”
“Five,” he said into the rearview mirror.
“What are their names?” Abby’s wide eyes were back.
“I won’t bore you with the long versions. But they go by Meg, Kate, Andrea, Tess and Casey. I came along between Andrea and Tess.
“What was it like growing up in a house with that many women?” She seemed amused at the thought. The tiny glimmer of humor in her eyes was charming.
“Brutal.” He chuckled. “They spoiled me rotten. Between Mom and the girls, every need was met before I could ask a second time. By grade school I’d figured out that the kid-glove approach with my sisters would always get me what I wanted.”
“Well, I hope Dillon has a sister to be soft on some day. But not five,” she teased and again his heart surged with compassion. This young woman had so much on her mind yet she was putting him at ease.
“Here we are,” he warned as he pulled into the hospital’s emergency entrance.
The ambulance attendants had already wheeled their patient through the automatic doors and disappeared into the triage unit. Guy hurried around to help his passenger step down.
“I’ll be right in as soon as I park.”
With an efficiency that amazed him, Abby slung the heavy-looking bag over her shoulder and propped the boy on her hip. She offered a grateful smile and hurried into the building.
Forty-five minutes later there was still no news. Guy checked the time on his watch against the display on his cell phone. Two o’clock. He returned it to the clip-on holster and shifted in the waiting-room chair that was far too low and narrow for the comfort of a man of his stature. Once again he reminded himself that he had to do something about the extra ten pounds that years of eating on the run had added to his six-foot-one frame. But his mother was constantly telling him he looked better with a little more meat on his bones. He stretched his long legs and crossed one ankle over the other to admire his newest pair of custom-made cowboy boots, constantly impressed with the craftsmanship of Texas boot-makers. The kangaroo leather of the handmade Luccheses had molded nicely to his size-twelve feet during the four months he’d worn them. Soon they’d be stretched by cedar shoe trees and lined up with a dozen other pairs made of everything from ostrich to boa constrictor. It would be a pity to retire these boots but that was his way of marking the end of a project, acknowledging it was successful.
Though he’d consumed his weight in antacids, a new H&H was open and running relatively smoothly.
Until today.
Well, he’d remain prayerful and positive, put this minor crisis behind him and be moving on to the next site in no time. In a couple weeks Casey would arrive to take the handoff. He’d head home to Iowa where he’d jump knee-deep into new construction planning for the Galveston location. Austin had been nice but he was eagerly looking forward to fishing the waters of the bay during his tour of duty in Galveston.
A fussy-baby wail interrupted his personal musings. He glanced up and spotted Abby heading his way with little Dillon clinging to her for dear life. Guy jumped to his feet and took several steps in her direction.
“Any news?”
“Still waiting on a doctor to read the X-rays.” She jostled the boy and shushed him, having no apparent impact at all as his complaints grew louder. She pressed his face to her shoulder in a useless effort to muffle the sobs.
“I’m sorry, it’s way past his nap time and he’s had all the cookies he’s going to get until he eats some vegetables.”
“Can I give it a try?” Guy raised his arms, hands open, ready to take Dillon. With ten nieces and nephews, he was handy with a cranky toddler if he did say so himself.
“I don’t think so.” The skepticism on her face almost made Guy want to laugh. “He won’t let you hold him. My dad’s the only man Dillon’s used to.”
“Your husband’s not good with little ones, huh?”
“I’m a widow,” she said softly.
His jaw clenched along with his insides as he realized his verbal gaffe and the complicated facts that accompanied her simple response. She was a young woman alone, so much weight on her slender shoulders and without the love and support of a husband, that treasure the married women in his family prized above all else.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make things worse for you.”
“Don’t feel badly. It’s been nearly two years and it’s a common assumption when you have a toddler, so I’m almost used to it.”
The boy whined louder.
“I really am pretty good with a grumpy baby,” he assured her, remembering his sister Tess’s wedding day when he’d been officially appointed to make sure none of the little ones got out of sorts during the reception. Good thing it was his policy never to take a date to a family function, because these days the girls expected Uncle Guy to be their babysitter.
Dillon strained against his mother’s efforts to rest his head on her shoulder and his blubbering continued with gusto. His face was contorted in aggravation when he turned his head toward Guy.
“Hey, little pal,” Guy used his best cajoling tone and nodded toward the nearby glass wall that over-looked the hospital’s courtyard. “Wanna go look out the window?” He held his palms out, but not too close.
Briefly distracted from his misery, Dillon’s crying stopped. He snuffled and hiccupped while his mother smoothed the face that was remarkably free of tears. He peered at Guy, who used the positive sign to take a small step closer and smile. The boy looked to his mother for guidance.
“Go see birdies?” she encouraged. “Tweet, tweet, tweet.”
His head bobbed and he leaned away from his mama, reaching chubby arms outward. Guy scooped up the boy, amazed by how heavy the little tyke felt.
“Whoa, this fella is solid.”
“Tell me about it.” Her eyes were round. She was clearly surprised that Dillon had left the security of her arms. She shrugged, then dropped her large purse on a nearby chair and rotated her shoulders. The latest revelation as well as the creases across her forehead told Guy the contents of the bag were nothing compared to the weight on this woman who was not much more than a girl herself.
“Mrs. Cramer? Dr. Cabot is ready to speak with you now,” a nurse called.
Abby turned toward the voice, then back to Guy and her son. Worry deepened the lines in her pretty face. She leaned to retrieve the bag and Guy knew Dillon would naturally be next.
“Go ahead. Leave him with me. We’ll be fine and you can give the doctor your undivided attention.”
She squinted, seemed unsure what to do.
“Weet, weet!” Dillon squealed and pointed toward the window.
“You betcha.” Guy smiled and repositioned the boy to face the wide pane of glass and the oversize birdbath outside that held his attention. “He’s happy, so we’ll wait right here.” He tipped his head toward the waiting nurse. “Go.”
Abby let the bag fall back on the floor and turned away. Her low heels tapped a rapid beat against the linoleum floor as she hurried to learn the condition of her mother. After she disappeared through the gray swinging doors, Guy carried Dillon for a closer look at the pair of daredevil mockingbirds at play.
Twenty minutes later she was back. Her fair skin had lost its appealing color. She pinched her bottom lip between her teeth and wrapped her arms across her torso, as if holding in what strength she had left. Dillon’s head had slumped to Guy’s shoulder, heavy with the need for a nap. Guy folded himself into a nearby chair and motioned for Abby to join him. She collapsed on the next seat and accepted her sleeping boy.
“Her hip’s broken,” her voice quavered. “It’s called a spontaneous fracture.” She dipped her face to kiss Dillon’s head, blocking Guy’s view of her private emotions.
“Oh, no.” He spoke softly, understanding the implications, sending up a silent prayer for God’s healing mercy. He knew from the experience with his paternal grandfather that the injury could be a long painful recovery, a permanent disability or even worse if complications set in. The outcome for her family could be dire.
“And they’d moved her around so much it was obvious she was suffering. That was hard to watch.” Her voice was a whisper.
If she’d been one of his sisters, Guy would have wrapped Abby in his arms and rocked her along with the sleeping toddler. But she was a customer whose mother had just suffered a major injury on his family’s property. He didn’t dare touch her for fear of further complicating an already difficult situation that could potentially impact the lives of his family, the H&H shareholders and their employees.
He sat straighter in his chair, pushed aside his own concerns. His worries were insignificant compared to Abby’s.
“Did they give her pain meds?”
She glanced up, nodded. “Something really strong so she’d rest. But she was rattling off instructions for me and the nurses when she fell asleep.” A sad smile flickered across her face and Guy mirrored her expression, imagining his mother doing the same, ordering the hospital staff about if the situation were reversed.
“Will she need surgery?”
“Dr. Cabot doesn’t think so. He says she’ll be in the hospital for a few days and if everything goes well she’ll be released to a rehab facility for extended physical therapy. As usual, she’s more worried about Daddy than she is about herself.” Abby sighed and rested her head against the back of the chair. “In forty-eight years of marriage my parents have never spent more than a few days apart. I don’t know how I’m going to keep them both occupied for six weeks with everything else I’ve got to do, but I’ll manage somehow.”
“Abigail?” A heavyset woman in a floral-print housedress hurried toward them.
“Oh, thank you for coming, Mrs. Eller.” Abby rocked forward and used momentum to swing Dillon onto her shoulder as she stood. Guy hopped to his feet as he was introduced to Abby’s neighbor. The two women exchanged a quick hug over the sleeping boy.
“What room is your mama in? I’ll sit with her so you can go tell your daddy.”
“You didn’t say anything to him, did you?” Abby sounded worried.
“Goodness, no. Now you hurry on home before he gets suspicious about what’s taking so long.”
Guy lifted Abby’s blue fabric bag sprinkled with dozens of fuzzy yellow chicks and slung it across his shoulder then followed her through the hospital’s emergency exit.
“Would you like me to take you straight home?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll need my van to bring Daddy back to the hospital.”
“I can give you both a ride,” Guy offered as he held open the door of the Hearth and Home SUV.
She shook her head, blond curls bobbing. “Dad’s in a wheelchair and the side door of the van is outfitted with a lift.”
Guy grimaced at the new information. Another hardship for this small family. How would Abby cope with the situation? You never knew the true measure of someone until their back was against the wall and their only choices were to crumble or come out fighting.
No matter the circumstances of the injury, the corporation bore certain liability for accidents on their property. In this case it would be Guy’s responsibility to do everything possible to avoid litigation. The fact that the potential threat came in such a charming form would have nothing to do with his desire to help a woman out of a crisis.
Or would it?
He glanced at Abby Cramer. The sheen in her brown eyes said she needed more than assurances that medical expenses would be covered. Staying close to this situation would allow him to do two things—watch out for his family’s business interests and give Abby someone to lean on.
She squared her shoulders in a proud profile that suggested she’d carried her burden alone for a long time.
Would she be as stubborn as her mother or would Abby Cramer let him help her?

Chapter Two
On Monday afternoon, Guy stood on the porch steps of the Reagans’ modest brick home.
“I’m coming! Hold your horses,” a male voice called from behind the front door.
Guy shifted the box of bulky plumbing supplies to his left arm and stuffed his right hand into the front pocket of his store apron to deposit his keys. He glanced toward the driveway where he’d parked the Hearth and Home truck. He’d planned to bring the purchase by after church the previous day but his phone calls had gone unanswered. Since he’d concluded Abby and her father must be spending all their time at the hospital, he was surprised to get a response when he’d punched the doorbell three times in quick succession.
The door creaked open an inch but no face appeared. Guy squinted to see inside the dark house.
“Down here, drugstore cowboy,” the aggravated voice grumbled an obvious reference to the fancy boots.
Guy glanced down, his gaze locking with dark eyes beneath an overhang of bushy gray brows.
Abby’s father.
Guy estimated the man to be in his late seventies, but the long, thin body sunken into the inexpensive low-slung wheelchair could have made him look older than his years. Guy extended his hand.
“Guy Hardy, sir. Hearth and Home Super Center.”
“Pete Reagan. Friends call me Shorty, mostly because I’m not.” His eyes raked Guy up and down. “Guess you can, too.”
The old fellow kept the handshake brief.
Needing an excuse to be standing on the man’s porch, Guy nodded toward the box he carried. “I brought the supplies your wife and daughter left at the store on Saturday. Thought you might need them.”
“Women.” Shorty shook his head. “You can’t live with ’em, can’t trade ’em for catfish bait.” A rusty hinge complained as he pushed the door wider and maneuvered his chair to the left. After moving a few feet he stopped, leaned to one side and pulled a thin wallet from his hip pocket.
“How much?”
Guy watched as bony hands counted out several bills.
“That’s covered, sir. I’m just making the delivery.”
The bushy brows drew together. “Then how much for the delivery?”
“There’s no charge, Mr. Reagan.”
Shorty folded together a couple of one-dollar bills and thrust out the offering. “Then take this for your trouble. I insist.”
Guy suppressed a smile as he accepted the modest tip. “Why, thank you, sir. May I carry this inside for you? The parts shift pretty easily so this box might be hard to manage.”
“Well, since you’ve decided I’m an invalid, and you’ve already got my money, you might as well haul them all the way back to the laundry room yourself.”
Guy winced. He hadn’t meant for the comment to come across as an insult, especially since he was normally so conscientious. Life with a houseful of women had taught him to choose his words carefully. That was even more important with customers.
“Lord, keep me mindful of my words,” he muttered.
“Say what?” Shorty snapped.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Well, stop talkin’ to yourself and come on.” He spun the chair, offering a good look at the back of his mostly bald head fringed with wisps of silver.
“And for pity’s sake try to keep up, Roy Rogers,” he grumbled over his shoulder as he set his chair in motion.
Thinking Abby’s sweet disposition deserved high marks after growing up with a stern mother and grouchy dad, Guy hefted the carton and stepped across the threshold. He hurried to follow the man who was quickly disappearing down the long hallway. When Shorty stopped abruptly at the door of what appeared to be a utility room, Guy slipped inside the small, musty-smelling space. A washer-and-dryer pair were positioned to the left, and to his right a deep utility sink was installed in the countertop. Open cabinet doors beneath the sink exposed a bucket that caught the puddle created by a dripping faucet.
“Just sit it down there,” Shorty gestured toward the floor. “Maybe Abby and I can get around to it tomorrow after we visit Sarah.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, how is Mrs. Reagan?”
“Doc put a pin in her hip yesterday morning.”
“Oh, I thought that wasn’t going to be necessary.”
“It was a last-minute decision,” he explained. “Surgeon says it’ll get her back on her feet sooner.”
“Is she in much pain?”
“She’s holding up. Won’t complain. Never does. But it’s driving her crazy that she’s not here to tell me what to do.” A trace of a smile glimmered for the first time. His gray eyes lit with mischief and Guy caught the resemblance between Dillon and his grandpa. Hadn’t Abby said her parents had rarely been separated in forty-some-odd years of marriage? The old guy was probably missing his wife like crazy. No wonder he was out of sorts.
Guy deposited the box filled with brass pipes and silicon gaskets for replacing the trap and waste elbow of a sink, and then glanced toward the plumbing repair efforts.
“Okay if I take a look?” Guy asked permission.
“Knock yourself out.”
He squatted to get a better view of the work in progress. Actually, not much work had been done at all. Beyond dismantling the old pipes and stuffing a bucket under the open drain, nothing more had been accomplished.
“You do much plumbing, sir?”
“Back in the day. My legs are mostly useless now so it’s impossible to get up and down like I once did. My baby girl helps me.”
“Abby?” Guy couldn’t quite envision the head covered with soft golden curls studying the workings of a rusted drain.
“Don’t sound so surprised. She’s pretty handy with a wrench as long as her old man is giving the instructions.”
As intriguing as the image of Abby Cramer wielding a tool was, Guy realized home repairs were just one more area where she probably had to take charge for her parents.
“I have a little experience with plumbing. How about if I finish this up for you?”
Shorty opened his mouth to speak, most likely to object. But then he snapped it shut and glanced at the clock on the laundry-room wall.
“Won’t your boss be expecting you back at the store?”
“No, sir. The company encourages employees to assist customers anytime we can, and I happen to be free for the rest of the afternoon.”
Shorty squinted, seemed reluctant to accept the offer.
“You gonna charge me by the hour?”
“There wouldn’t be any cost involved, sir, as long as you don’t mind helping me out with some pointers,” Guy added. “It’s been a while since I tackled anything this complicated.”
“Complicated? Ha!” The old man snorted. “This is so easy a Girl Scout could handle it.” He scooted his chair close to the carton of parts, leaned forward and began poking through the hardware.
Guy felt a smile curve his lips as he enjoyed the sight of Shorty Reagan checking the inventory of the box against the list scrawled on a white index card.
“Well, don’t just stand there grinnin’ like some cowpoke on payday while those fancy boots of yours gouge Sarah’s linoleum,” Shorty snapped. “Grab that adjustable pipe wrench and let’s get to work.”

As Abby pulled to a stop against the curb in front of her family home, she glanced toward the Hearth and Home truck that blocked her driveway. She wrestled Dillon from his car seat, both of their stomachs grumbling the loud need for dinner. She’d make grilled-cheese sandwiches for herself and her dad while Dillon mauled a bowl of beanie weenie, and then they’d all load back up and head for another evening at the hospital. It had only been a couple of days and already she was drained from the long hours of work and worry. Her parents’ life together had been a continuous string of crises and they were taking this latest one in stride.
But Abby knew how hard it was on them to be apart. Their love for one another and their faith in God had gotten them through three miscarriages, her father’s battle with multiple sclerosis, financial disaster, the tragic loss of their son-in-law, and now this. Six weeks of in-patient rehab stretched in front of them, then only God knew how long before they could return to a normal life.
Not that life would ever be normal again without Phillip, the best friend of her childhood, her husband for less than a year and the father of a son he would never know.
With Dillon on her hip, Abby trudged up the porch steps and jostled her key against the dead bolt. The door opened easily, not locked, not even closed securely. She frowned, knowing her mother would not approve of such carelessness.
“Dad?” she called.
Instead of the usual squeaking of rubber wheels on the oak planks, she was greeted by the rumble of masculine voices from the end of the hall. Actually, it wasn’t a greeting at all. Her father hadn’t even acknowledged her. If not for the conversational sound of the men, she’d fear something was terribly wrong.
“Daddy?” she called for him again as she walked the dark hallway.
His wheelchair sat in the laundry room doorway.
Empty.
She gasped and tightened her arm around Dillon, who yelped his discontent.
“In here, baby girl.”
Then she spotted him. Seated cross-legged on the floor was her seventy-six-year-old father. Beside him stretched a pair of legs in blue jeans, with an orange H&H apron draped over the waistband. The man wore a white polo shirt stretched tight across his abdomen. She could see very little of his arms and nothing of his head since the top quarter of his body was crammed beneath her mother’s utility sink.
But there was no mistaking the identity of the Hearth and Home employee. The fancy cowboy boots gave Guy Hardy away.
“Daddy, what are you doing on the floor?”
“Giving this man a badly needed lesson in drain replacement.”
“Hi, Abby,” Guy’s muffled voice greeted her from inside the cabinet. “Was that Dillon I heard?”
“Weet, weet!” Dillon responded to his name and kicked his feet to be released.
“Hey, Guy,” she returned the greeting. The first relief she’d felt for days surged through her heart at the sight of her father enjoying himself over a simple plumbing repair. God had sent the perfect distraction. “I see you’ve met the other man in my life.”
“And this one is every bit as charming as Dillon,”
Guy answered.
Her dad grunted and glowered up at her from his spot on the floor.
“Weet, weet!” Dillon squirmed, wanting to join the men.
“Hey, little buddy,” Guy acknowledged her son, who obviously recognized the voice.
“We’re just about finished here,” her father said. Despite the deep creases around his eyes, she sensed his skeptical approval for their company. “Give us fifteen minutes and then I’ll get cleaned up to go see your mother.”
“You go ahead, sir. A couple more turns of this wrench and we’re done.”
Her dad nodded and began the difficult task of climbing back into his chair. Abby choked down the desire to offer help as he struggled to hoist himself up into the seat. He was determined to be independent despite the primary progressive stage of the disease that he’d lived with for as long as she could recall. The inflammation in his spinal cord had made walking impossible for several years but he insisted on being self-sufficient in every other way.
Respect for her father’s wishes and worry for his weakened upper body churned her emotions. Fearing the chair would topple from his efforts, she decided to help whether he wanted it or not. She squatted and released Dillon. He chuckled with delight, no doubt over escaping his mama’s grasp, and toddled toward his papa.
“Here, let me give you a hand with that, sir.”
She looked up to see Guy, already on his feet, offering the assistance she was positive her father would reject. Guy had braced the wheels against the cabinet and was gently supporting her father so he could settle comfortably into the leather seat of his chair.
“Thanks.” Her dad huffed out a breath, sounding relieved. “Getting down is always a sight easier than the climb back up. I coulda made it by myself, though. Always do.” Abby heard the gruffness and wondered if Guy had any idea it was there to mask the gratitude so hard for her father to show.
The two men exchanged respectful nods. Dillon stood at their side, watching, holding his arms outward, literally drooling to be in the middle of the awkward maleness.
“Papa! Weet, weet!”
The moment pulsed with something that distinctly excluded her.
A sort of male bonding. Her insides twisted into a tight knot.
That was exactly what seemed to be going on, and something about this emotional picture was all wrong. Phillip should have been the man helping her father, ruffling the hair on Dillon’s head, hoisting him up into his papa’s lap for a ride into the kitchen.
But Phillip had left her. Voluntarily. Now he was gone. Permanently.
How could the loving God she’d heard so much about also be so cruel?
“I know your family has things to do and I apologize that I’m still underfoot.” Guy watched her dad and Dillon cruise the hallway and then turned to her. “I’ll just clean up here and be on my way.”
“Thank you,” she softly spoke the words, knowing he deserved them, determined to deny the constant stabs of resentment that had taken hold of her heart at the news of Phillip’s death.
“It’s kind of you to spend time with my dad. He’s a tad irascible with Mama in the hospital, and your visit seems to have distracted him for a bit. Once again, you’re a lifesaver.”
He held up his palms deflecting the praise. “Hey, I’m just a regular guy trying to walk the walk the company teaches. When I saw he needed help, I offered to stick around. Any H&H employee would do the same.” He downplayed his kindness.
She let her shoulders slump, relaxing for the first time all day. It was nice to meet a simple man who believed in acts of kindness.
“I’ll mop up back here later,” she gestured to the spatters of grimy water on the utility-room floor. “But right now we have to grab a sandwich and get to the hospital before visiting hours are over.”
“Hey, no problem. I’ll just pick up this mess, put away the tools and show myself to the door.” He squatted and began loading rusted pipes into the cardboard box. “By the way, your dad’s really something.”
“Yeah, I agree.” She nodded and turned to leave the utility room.
“And quite the talker,” he added with a note of amusement in his voice.
Afraid to ask what that meant, she kept moving.
True to his word, Guy Hardy finished up the work, and ten minutes later poked his head into the kitchen to say goodbye. He declined the offer of a sandwich and even insisted on letting himself out as if he’d done it a hundred times.
Abby rose to put her plate in the sink and glanced toward the family room. Through the large picture window she could see the driveway was once again empty. He was probably halfway back to the store that would be open for several more hours.
“Dad, if you’ll wash Dillon’s face, I’ll go freshen up and we’ll still have time to stop at the market for that bunch of flowers you wanted to get Mama.”
As Abby passed the laundry-room door, she glanced inside, expecting to find wet traces of their sink repair. Instead, the white linoleum floor was much cleaner than usual. The mop was thoughtfully replaced, damp end upward, in the hanging utility rack. This regular guy, as he called himself, was nice and a clean freak.
She sighed, knowing there was only one way to handle this. With the bedroom door closed, she asked directory assistance for the new Hearth and Home Super Center. After the cheery greeting, Abby requested the store manager. Following a brief hold, a woman’s voice answered.
“I’m Leah Miller, and it’s my pleasure to serve you.”
“This is Abby Cramer and I left some things there on Saturday after my mother’s accident.”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Cramer,” the voice was filled with concern. “If there’s any way we can be of help to your family, you just let us know.”
“Well, thank you for the kind offer, but I was really calling for another reason. I’d like to compliment one of your employees. He delivered everything today and then stuck around to help my father with a plumbing repair.”
“That’s the kind of story we like to hear about our personnel. Can you give me the employee’s name, please?”
“He’s the same person who took us to the hospital. His name is Guy. Guy Hardy. Do you think you could put a note in his file so it will look good on his work record?”
“Ma’am, I don’t think I’ll be able to do that,” the woman sounded amused. “Guy doesn’t have an employee file. Not in Austin, anyway.”
“I don’t understand.” Abby squinted at herself in the mirror above her dresser.
“Guy’s the boss,” Leah said simply.
“But I thought you were the manager.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s true. I’m the manager, but Guy Hardy is the owner.”
Abby watched her own reaction in the mirror as her jaw sagged with the realization.
There was nothing at all regular about this Guy.

Chapter Three
Abby fastened her seat belt and slammed the door of the van.
Well, that explains it, Lord. The nice-guy act had nothing to do with genuine kindness and everything to do with protecting his interests. When will I learn not to be such a Pollyanna?
She shifted into reverse, turned to glance behind her and looked at her precious boy. He’d dozed off the moment he’d settled into his car seat. Her father was silent for once, busy with his own thoughts. The quiet was a welcome relief from all the chatter of her first graders. The school year was winding down. Coming to a screeching halt, actually. She was preparing her kids for the testing that would assess not only their skills but her ability as a teacher. With the burgeoning Hispanic population in Texas, many children required special attention because English was their second language. She could teach twelve hours a day and not meet everybody’s needs. The playground project at church was behind schedule, underfunded and she still hadn’t found a weekend sitter so she could devote more time to its completion. School would be out just after Mother’s Day, the day of the playground unveiling, and there was more on her to-do list than she could possibly accomplish in what little free time she had.
And now it looked like she might have a battle with an insurance company on her hands. The true identity of Guy “Good Samaritan” Hardy was just one more brick in the wall that was weighing heavily on Abby’s heart. On Saturday he’d insisted the store would cover her mother’s medical expenses, but that was when he’d thought Hearth and Home might somehow be responsible. Now that they had the diagnosis of a spontaneous fracture, would the store try to weasel out? Would their insurance provider be like the others, washing their hands of the case and leaving her folks to fill in the gap that would surely be left once Medicare benefits were paid? They’d had enough setbacks during her father’s battle with MS to know how quickly the bills could pile up. Abby prayed they wouldn’t have to rely on their church for assistance. Again.
The hospital parking lot was full and once more she was grateful for the handicapped spaces up front.
“Daddy, you go on in and stay as long as you’d like,” she offered as they entered the building. “I’ll sit out here with Dillon.”
“You sure were quiet on the way here, baby girl. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, but you don’t need to worry about me and your mama. Just pray that God will continue to bless us like He always has and we’ll be fine.”
Her daddy wheeled the manual chair that should have been replaced ages ago out of sight and Abby sank down onto a waiting-room sofa.
“If God continues to bless us like He always has,” she muttered to herself, “we’re in a heap of trouble.”

The next afternoon, Guy climbed down Shorty’s stepladder and flipped the switch by the kitchen door. The ceiling fan overhead whirred to life, sending a gentle rustle of cool air through the room. Guy folded the aluminum ladder, leaned it carefully against the wall, and gave the shiny silver chain that dangled from the new light fixture a tug. The bulbs glowed inside their tulip-cup houses, spreading much-needed illumination across the kitchen countertops.
One last touch and the job would be finished. He fished in the pocket of his Hearth and Home apron, drew out a small, faceted glass prism, and clipped it to the end of the pull chain. He stepped back to admire his work. Perfect.
“Thanks.” It was a grumbled gratitude, but sincere nonetheless. “Sarah’s been after me and Abby for a year to hang that thing. Now she can enjoy this nice breeze in the kitchen all summer.” The grouchy old man who’d met Guy at the door yesterday was still front and center but he’d softened a bit. It was clear it would take a lot of effort to win his approval.
But from Shorty’s observations, it would take even more to earn Abby’s. To quote Shorty, his daughter was “madder than a wet hen.” Twenty-four hours earlier she’d learned Guy’s identity from the store manager instead of from him directly. When he’d mentioned the situation to his sister on their nightly call, she’d burst into snorts of laughter.
He could just imagine Casey wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes as she administered a dose of sibling wisdom.
“I adore you, big bro, but in some areas you’re pretty dense, which is why Dad’s going to give me your job one day.” Her chuckle carried over the phone line. “Just because your five sisters think you hung the moon, it doesn’t naturally follow that every woman will love you like we do.”
He shook off the memory of the wisecrack. He didn’t expect every woman to love him, but something about Abby Cramer made him want to be liked, at least a little bit.
The front door creaked open, a signal that she was home much earlier than the day before. Guy made a mental note to oil the hinge, and then quickly changed his mind. Until she’d forgiven his failure to disclose, he probably needed a warning sign that she was in the house.
“Hey, Daddy,” she called.
“In the kitchen, baby girl.”
Guy lifted the stepladder, carried it through the entry leading to the darkened garage and pulled the door closed behind him. He’d noted earlier that the fluorescent ceiling bulbs were burned out, the overhead door opener was broken and the ventilation was insufficient for the cans of paint stacked on the ancient cinder-block shelves.
“What’s he doing here again today, Dad?”
Abby’s voice carried through the hollow-core door. Guy grimaced at the question that sounded more like an accusation.
“He came back to help me hang the ceiling fan.” Guy smiled as Shorty defended his presence.
“Looks to me like he did more than help. You let him take over another one of our projects.”
“That’s not quite true. I gave all the instructions and handed him the parts and he managed the rest without too much difficulty. He has apprentice potential, but not much.”
“Well, nothing’s wrong with the apprentice you already have, Daddy. Me.”
Guy heard the possessiveness in Abby’s voice, recognized it as the same tone Casey took with their father when she was vying with her older siblings for a share of his attention. Guy’s natural reaction when Casey got that way was to tell her to suck it up and wait her turn. Somehow he didn’t think that was the correct approach with Abby, an only child who’d probably never had to compete for her father’s time.
He heard the rumbling of Shorty’s lowered voice and stepped closer to the door. Eavesdropping. Casey would call him a jerk and pinch him till he yelped.
“Honey, you have zero time for all the repairs and improvements this house needs and I thought it would be nice if your mama came home to find some of those things finished. I wouldn’t admit it to him just yet, but he seems like a nice enough Christian fella. If he wants to help an old man out, what’s wrong with that?”
“Don’t you see what he’s up to, Daddy? That horse’s behind is just doing all this to stay on our good side so we won’t sue his store over Mama’s accident.”
“So what if he is. He’ll find out soon enough that we’re not that kind of people. Besides, as much as I love Dillon, it’s nice to have some conversation with a guy who’s not wearing a drool bib. Now, come hug your old man and tell me what you’re doing home so early.”
Guy stamped hard on the wooden step and rattled the loose knob to announce his approach. The brown eyes that greeted him were…different. Her mother’s eyes. Stern. Abby had actually called him a horse’s behind! Worse yet, she seemed determined to remain angry with him, something he’d rarely experienced, and couldn’t accept.
“How do you like the fan?” He used the cajoling tone that never failed to work with his sisters.
She turned her face toward the slowly rotating blades, giving him a moment to appreciate her clear skin, the natural blush of her cheeks that were round, like her son’s.
Abby studied the new fixture. Except for the twinkling piece of stained glass dangling from the end of the chain, it looked just like the picture on the box.
“Not bad,” she muttered. Not exactly praise for a job well done but it was the best she intended to give under the circumstances. Abby knew she’d never be able to speak her mind with her father sitting there like this interloper’s begrudging champion.
“Dad, would you mind getting me a change of clothes for Dillon?” She needed to get him out of the room. “That little pair of denim overalls and a clean T-shirt would be nice.”
“Where is he? Is anything wrong?”
“Everything’s fine,” she assured her father. “The day care called and he got fruit punch down the front of his shirt today. I thought I’d pick you up first then we’d change Dillon at the day care and go to the hospital before dinner.”
“Sure. That’ll be a nice surprise for Sarah.”
“Speaking of nice surprises,” she turned to Guy. “That certainly was a breathtaking arrangement the store sent yesterday, and I noticed you personally signed the card. Of course, you hardly know our family, or you’d understand we’re simple folks. The five-dollar bouquet we took her made my mother just as happy.”
“Abby’s right. My bride has always appreciated small pleasures. A good thing since that’s about all we’ve been able to afford most of our lives. So she was tickled pink by that big crystal vase of flowers.” Her father held out his hand. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
Guy accepted the grip. “Absolutely. We need to get started on that list if you want everything shipshape before Mrs. Reagan comes home.”
“I’ll just get Dillon’s things together, then.”
When her daddy was out of earshot, Abby turned to Guy, no longer putting on a happy face.
“You can drop the helpful hardware man act. I’m on to you.”
“Meaning?” He leveled wide, innocent eyes on her that she bet worked like a charm with the adoring females in his life.
“Meaning, I know you’re not just an H&H employee, you’re the owner. And you’re not just worried about my family, you’re covering for your own.”
“Guilty as charged on all counts.” He nodded.
The speech she’d practiced on the drive home flew out the window on the breeze from the new fan.
“That’s right. My family owns the stores and it’s my job to protect our investment.”
“So you admit all this help you’ve been offering is just an act.”
“No way.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me who you were when we first met?”
“I didn’t really think it was important to give you my résumé when your mother was lying on the floor of my store.”
Ouch, he had her there.
“Besides my parents have raised us to keep our personal business private, so it’s not like I have OWNER on the license plate of my company car. The employees know who I am, it’s not necessary for every customer to know, too.”
She still had reason for her righteous indignation. Didn’t she?
“But your customers should know your promise to take care of my mother’s medical needs was just PR. She believed you when you said everything would be covered by Hearth and Home or she’d never have agreed to that expensive private ambulance service.”
“Abby.” He lowered his chin; his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry I’ve given you the impression that I’m a dishonest person, but I assure you I didn’t lie about the medical coverage. You don’t need to worry about the bills. I give you my word on that.” He held his hand out as he’d done with her father a couple of minutes earlier.
She felt like a day-old balloon with a pinprick, as all the air seeped out of her argument that he was up to no good. She accepted his hand. A man’s grip, warm and solid and strong. A very different touch than she’d ever felt holding hands with Phillip.
“I apologize,” she said simply, lost for the proper words after impugning his integrity.
“Apology accepted.” He let her off the hook but held on to her hand. “And please accept mine for not introducing myself properly. Dad’s taught us to keep a low profile with customers, but it was never my intention to hide my identity.”
“I see.” She nodded and eased her hand out of his warm grip. “Now what’s all this about a list?” She changed the subject.
He fished an index card covered in her father’s handwriting from his back pocket.
“Shorty and I wrote up a list of all the repairs you two have been planning to make. I really need to get out of the new store manager’s way and let her run things on her own, so I have some time on my hands before I have to turn over the quality phase of the project to my kid sister, Casey. Believe it or not I really enjoy your dad’s company. He reminds me a lot of one of my uncles and I’d like to help take care of these repairs, if you don’t disapprove.”
Abby glanced at the list, all things she had good intentions of doing one day. Her heart sank just a bit at the thought of missing out on spending this time with her father. The MS was so unpredictable. He could be able one day and bedridden the next. She’d already found out what it was to forever lose precious time with a man she’d loved. She didn’t want to waste a single day of the allotment she had left with her father.
God was unpredictable. She never knew when He would strike.
“These are all things my daddy and I wanted to do together.” She pouted, knowing she probably sounded like a brat.
“Even better. If you have any free time to join us, just grab a hammer and help out.”
Now that things were going his way again, his engaging blue eyes sparkled with mischief, and Abby began to understand why the women in his family had spoiled this guy rotten.

Chapter Four
“So, I can have everything wrapped up and be in Austin next week. It’s almost time to start the handoff, you know.” Casey’s voice buzzed across the phone line reminding Guy of their time line.
Not that he needed reminding.
He looked at the calendar above his desk. As usual, the Warden, as the Hardy clan called Casey, was in control and ahead of schedule. She couldn’t let a deadline slip. Ooooh noooo. How was it possible that the baby sister he loved more than life could leave him warmhearted and clenched-fisted at the same time? She’d been breathing down his neck since they were kids, competing with him at every turn, determined to best him at his own game.
His parents had never had to challenge their only son. That was Casey’s personal mission.
He’d joined the swim team and she’d taken up high diving. He’d gotten voted most likely to succeed; she’d been elected class president. He’d gotten some assistance at the local community college; she’d earned a full scholarship to the University of Iowa. The board had offered him an executive position after seven years; she’d won her title after five.
But he had the plum, the job she’d wanted. When the board had voted on expansion, Guy’s business degrees and years of experience had made him their first choice. Casey had taken it remarkably well, then had promptly set a course to study world-class quality processes. He knew it was just a matter of time before she proposed a new security structure that would shake up the way they did business. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but it would be as much to nip at Guy’s heels and impress their father as it was to improve corporate work processes.
His youngest sister thrived on competition. Guy sympathized for any man who fell for her quick wit and easy smile. The combination masked the sharpshooter nature and workaholic tendency that would undoubtedly intimidate the poor guy who found himself in love with Rebecca Thelma Casey Hardy one day.
He picked up his cup of ice, rattled a cube into his mouth and chewed with gusto.
“Alexander Theodore Guy Hardy, stop crunching ice in my ear. Are you even listening to me?”
“You’ve given me this lecture so many times I can recite it in my sleep. Gimme a second here, I’m looking at my schedule.”
Scanning the calendar, he grabbed an orange marker off his desk and drew a dotted line through the next four weeks and circled Mother’s Day. At best Sarah Reagan would be out of rehab by that time. He and Shorty had crossed a small project off their list every few days. Now it was time to tackle the big stuff that would make the decades-old, drab little home more accessible for Shorty’s old wheelchair and the walker Sarah would undoubtedly need for a while.
“Thanks for being ready to move things up but I don’t need you that soon,” he muttered into the handset cradled between his ear and shoulder. “In fact, I’m thinking of pushing my departure date out a bit.”
Casey was silent. A bad sign. Guy hurried on.
“I’m enjoying the weather here. I might take a few days off and do some fishing.”
“Where?” She snorted, an unflattering sound that had always annoyed their mother. “Since when does any game fish besides a trout or a red appeal to a salt-water snob like you? Aren’t you all hot to get to Galveston to try out the new waders I gave you for your birthday?”
“Hey, there’s some decent-size largemouth in Lake Travis. Thought I’d spend a week checking out the local honey holes.”
“Then I should come on down early to keep an eye on things while you’re away.”
“Casey, give it a rest.” He knew she wouldn’t be placated easily. Well, he wasn’t prepared to give her all the details, just enough to make her back off. “I need to hang around until the woman who broke her hip in the store is out of the rehab hospital and back on her feet. It just wouldn’t be right for me to leave before this situation is settled.”
“It figures.” He could hear the disapproval in her voice. “You’ve found another cause. Dr. Guy has a new patient to save.” While his other sisters praised his willingness to give his time to help people in need, Casey saw it as a weakness. A veil over the voids in his own life. Sometimes he thought she might be onto something. But mostly he realized it was just one more of her tactics to goad him into a challenge.
“This cause is probably in her seventies and she found me, remember?” he reminded Casey, knowing she already had the details noted and memorized.
“Meanwhile I’m just supposed to cool my heels, I suppose?”
“Why don’t you call the gaggle and scare up a shopping trip?” He referred to the term their mother used for her five daughters. “I’m sure there must be yet another navy-blue Brooks Brothers suit out there reserved for you, Warden. But why don’t you try a departure from the Iowa Department of Corrections uniform for a change?”
“Very funny, but it so happens I’ve lost a few pounds and could use some new clothes. Maybe I will see what the girls are up to.”
“That’s the spirit. Part with some of that obscene salary the company is paying you.”
“Mind your own business.” It was the same answer she gave him every time he suggested that she enjoy life a bit and put some of the small fortune she was earning to good use. Heaven forbid she should do anything fun or philanthropic.
“It was just a suggestion, corkscrew,” he poked her sore spot.
“That’s it. This conversation has come to an end.”
He smiled, mission accomplished. “Talk to you tomorrow night. I love you, Thelma.”
“Love you too, Theodore.”
Guy dropped the phone in the cradle, folded his hands behind his head and propped his feet against the edge of an open desk drawer in the Heart and Home security office. He pushed the toes of his boots and rocked back in his leather chair to stare at the ceiling.
What he’d said was accurate. Mostly. He couldn’t leave town until Sarah and Shorty’s situation had improved. They were nice folks who needed a break and as a man learning to have a closer walk with the Lord, Guy had a responsibility to lend a helping hand.
But there was more. He wanted to do the same for their daughter, the real person in need from what he could tell. So far that had been next to impossible. He’d seen very little of Abby the past two weeks. Judging by what Shorty said, she put in a lot of hours between her teaching position and the volunteer work she did at their church. What little free time she had was devoted to her son and parents. Guy did what he could to help by staying out from under her feet and cleaning up after their repair efforts. This weekend that might be difficult since he and Shorty planned to get started on the new deck and wheelchair ramp.
Guy suspected Abby would likely be around the house. Surely she’d be taking a little downtime. He dropped his boots to the floor, rolled the chair back and pushed to his feet. Just in case, he’d make a few peace offerings to leave around the house.

There was no denying it. Abby wasn’t cutting the mustard in some area of life. She wasn’t just out of God’s favor. He was punishing her. What other reason could there be for all the troubles that had heaped upon her for the past two years?
Uncharacteristically grumpy on a sunny weekend morning, she stooped to pull a pair of jeans from the dryer. She smoothed and folded them atop the laundry-room counter, then placed them neatly on the stack.
“Oh, cut the pity party, Abigail,” Abby mimicked her mother’s stern voice as she reached into the warm appliance and drew out another item.
A nylon jersey had turned inside out during the wash. She flipped the maroon shirt so its right side was visible and hugged it to her body. She buried her face in the soft fading fabric, and swallowed down the sadness that threatened.
Phillip’s high-school football jersey. She wore it on nights when sleep was elusive. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply and recognized a stirring of the anger she would forever feel at his decision to sign up for active duty. It still stung all these months later. How could he put himself in harm’s way in the name of duty to his country when she’d needed him so? When she’d been carrying their first child?
She pressed her face into the jersey and inhaled again. Her shoulders sagged with disappointment. Just like Phillip, his scent on the shirt was gone forever.
She should put it in a trunk and save it for Dillon along with the team photos of Phillip, the big number 30 on his chest. Some day Dillon would want to hear all about his daddy and Abby would be ready to tell her son everything about the shy young man who’d been her best friend for as long as she could remember.
She brushed the silky cloth against her cheek and exhaled a sigh. It was still too soon to lock her reminders of Phillip away in a box. She couldn’t do it. Not yet.
The thwack of wood striking wood resounded through the laundry-room window that led to the backyard. Abby laid the shirt gently on the counter and swept the curtain back, revealing the scene outside. A white pickup with an H&H sign on the door was backed into the yard, tailgate down. A load of lumber jutted from the bed.
Guy slid the planks out two at a time and tossed them into a pile by the driveway. The orange T-shirt was tight across his broad shoulders as he worked. He turned, swiped the back of a leather-gloved hand across his forehead. He was attractive, she had to admit it. But not in the youthful way Phillip had been. This man was at least fifteen years older, a slim version of Garth Brooks with his almost-shaved haircut and close-clipped goatee.
He bent to grasp two more boards, tipping his head to expose his crown. Abby felt a smile twist the corners of her mouth. Listening to her father replay the work done around their house by Guy Hardy for almost two weeks was wearing thin. Just like his hair. The discovery coaxed a chuckle that got her over the emotional moment. She turned back to her laundry, tossed the folded load into a plastic hamper and carried it across the oak floor into her bedroom.
As she did every weekend, she tucked clean clothes into drawers and opened her closet to hang her few dresses. Today she indulged her nostalgic mood a bit longer, taking a moment to admire the trophies on her top shelf. She trailed fingertips over a shiny engraved surface.
Barrel Racing Champion, High School Women’s Division.
Those were better days, long gone. She pressed the door closed on her memories and turned back to the hallway and her list of chores.
As she passed Dillon’s room, a quick glance confirmed he was still enjoying his morning nap, snuggled with Cookie Monster for company. Envious of his carefree slumber, she crept past his crib decorated with Sesame Street characters, flipped on the radio monitor and hooked it to the waistband of her favorite cutoff jeans. She pulled the door closed and headed for the dishes that perpetually waited in the kitchen. Through the sheer curtains above the sink, the men outside were visible.
Her daddy actually smiled, tilted his head back, clearly enjoying a private joke with his newfound helper. Abby tried to make out the words they exchanged. Even as she identified the feeling in the pit of her stomach, she knew it was unfair. Resentment. She resented the common ground the two had found. If her daddy regaled her with one more tale of their shared accomplishments, she’d cut loose with a scream that would send the neighbor’s dog running for cover.
She squashed the thought, knowing she should be grateful. Each time her dad most needed a distraction, Guy seemed to show up. But somehow that didn’t set well with her.
She turned both taps on full force and slipped her hands into bright yellow latex gloves. A squirt of lemon-scented soap produced a mound of bubbles. Some sprung free, floated above the water and danced on the gentle breeze from the fan overhead. The one Guy had hung.
A loud sigh escaped as Abby dragged the back of her forearm across her face to move sweat-dampened curls out of her eyes. Several heavy thumps on the steps outside preceded the creak of the garage door as it opened into the kitchen. She didn’t look up from her sudsy work.
“Good morning, Abby.” His friendly greeting seemed hesitant, as if he worried about intruding.
Good, he needed to respect her space. It was Saturday, the only day she had to be home alone with her men. She was busy, and she acknowledged again, bummed. Not at all in the mood for an interruption.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he apologized. “I see you’re busy.”
Her head snapped up, eyes wide. Had she actually muttered that last thought out loud or was mind reading another one of his talents? Either way, it was creepy, which only seemed to agitate already sensitive nerves.
“Shorty would like a refill and I offered to get it for him.”
She turned to see Guy holding out her dad’s favorite mug.
“Mom would have cut his caffeine off hours ago, but I don’t see what it can hurt.” She angled her head toward the percolator where a red light blinked indicating the pot was still hot.
Guy leaned in the door, and set the mug on a nearby countertop. He tugged off his boots before stepping foot inside the kitchen, white crew socks peeking beneath his snug jeans.
“Backyard’s a little muddy after yesterday’s rain,” he explained.
She should appreciate his courtesy, but she clung to her martyrdom like a security blanket, turned her eyes back to the suds.
“Where’s Junior?”
“Napping. And it’s Dillon. He’s not named after his father,” she corrected, more sharply than necessary, sounding for all the world like her mother.
“Sorry,” Guy apologized. “It’s just the tag we use for the firstborn. Some days my oldest sister actually prefers Junior to her given name. It’s quite a mouthful.”
“And her name would be…?” She took the bait.
“Martha Elizabeth Meg Hardy-Waverly.”
“I agree. That is a mouthful.”
“My folks come from big families where it’s customary to pay tribute by recycling names. So all of us got saddled with a heavy load. The good news is we only tend to hear them back home.”
“And back home is…?” Abby waited, wondering why in the world she was encouraging a conversation she didn’t want.
“Keokuk, Iowa. The geode capital of the world.”
“Excuse me?” She rested her wrists against the edge of the sink and turned to him, an eyebrow cocked in question.
“You know, those lumpy round rocks with quartz crystals inside.” He expanded his chest with exaggerated pride. “It’s our state rock.”
She had to give in to a small smile. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, way.” He shook his head. “We even have a special celebration called…and I’m serious about this…Rocktober Fest. To join the hunt, you have to register and get a permit.”
“To find rocks?”
“Hey, these are cool, thousands of years old. I’ll get some for Dillon.” Guy poured coffee into the mug marked #1 Grandpa and padded in his socks across the kitchen floor to the refrigerator.
Then he poured just the right amount of milk and added a half teaspoon of sugar from the bowl on the table. He’d obviously done it before when she wasn’t around, knew exactly how her daddy took his coffee. She looked away, the brief smile fading as she attacked a well-worn cast-iron skillet with a scouring pad. Something about the simple but familiar act of fixing that cup of coffee was a little stab to her heart. She should be doing that. But the truth was she couldn’t be everywhere at once no matter how hard she tried and she really could use some time off.
“Abby, how would you feel about me taking Shorty to visit your mom this evening? Just to give you a little break.”
Was he reading her mind, again? Doubtful.
“My daddy’s been talking, hasn’t he?”
“Nonstop.” She heard the chuckle in Guy’s voice. “But I enjoy his company so I don’t mind. He misses your mother something fierce and I think it helps him to talk about her, about you.”
She scrubbed harder.
“You’re going to wear the bottom off that thing,” he observed.
“Yeah, well, it won’t get clean just sitting in the sink.”
“So, what do you say about tonight?”
“No, thanks. Mama’s expecting me and I don’t dare disappoint her.”
Dillon’s wakeup wail echoed from the monitor on her waistband. He’d never been one to rouse quietly or be content to lie in his crib and amuse himself. Not her son. The instant he was fully awake, he demanded attention.
“Let me get him,” Guy offered, sitting the mug on the table, turning toward the door.
“No,” Abby insisted. Even though the man meant well, he was making himself entirely too handy. The kind of handy her folks could get attached to. The kind of attachment that would lead to heartbreak once he was gone. And Abby knew that kind of heartbreak all too well.
“Take my daddy his coffee. I’ll get Dillon.” She peeled off the rubber gloves, tossed them in the dish rack and brushed past Guy.
Dillon stopped his blubbering the instant she appeared. A wobbly smile creased the small face that was perpetually absent of tears.
“You little stinker,” she muttered against his soft head as she stepped into his waiting arms and lifted him from the crib. “You’re so sure I’ll come running that you haven’t bothered with real tears since you were a newborn.”
She’d read somewhere that a person teaches others how to treat them. It was true. She’d taught everyone in her life to depend upon her to the point of taking her for granted. They’d also learned she’d toe the line no matter the circumstances out of fear of disapproval. How perplexing that when somebody like Guy stepped in to help, she resented it. It was crazy. A self-inflicted, double-edged sword.
Something had to give.

“Guy?”
Above the whir of the circular saw, he heard her call his name. He cut the power and slid the protective goggles up to his forehead. Tipping his head back, he took in the vision of Abby Cramer in a quick sweep that he hoped didn’t make him seem like a frat boy. Worn sneakers, bare legs, frayed and faded jean shorts, and a loose Texas Longhorns T-shirt. A riot of wild blond curls surrounded a face enchantingly pink from her work in the warm kitchen.

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