The Drifter's Gift. Lauryn Chandler

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СКАЧАТЬ a bite of cookie. “But we’re running a special on iced molasses bars—one dozen for a dollar ninety-nine in the bakery. Now that’s a good deal, my friend.”

      Sam frowned. “These are homemade,” he said, incomprehensibly annoyed that Joe would compare store-bought to the cookies the redhead had made.

      Joe shrugged. “You want homemade? My sister Carol is a whiz in the kitchen. She bakes all the time.”

      “Hmm.”

      “Carol’s smart, too, and funny. You’d like her. Did I ever show you her picture?”

      Sam quirked a brow at the man who had been his first friend way back in boot camp. “Are you trying to set me up with your sister?”

      “Sure.” Joe grinned. “That’s what big brothers are for. Are you interested?”

      Sam grew hot and prickly with the sudden urge to escape. He opened his mouth to decline, then closed it without speaking. He met Carol Lawson years ago and liked her. But she had Family written all over her even then, and Sam had the ethics not to start something he had no intention of finishing.

      He shifted on the hard chair, both his leg and his conscience making him uncomfortable. If he was being honest with himself, he would have to admit that he’d come here looking for more than a job. He remembered the Lawson family, their boisterous meals, their easy way with one another, Joe’s comfortable home.

      Family.

      He wanted to be around it. For awhile. But as a spectator, not a participant. He could close his eyes and imagine what it would be like to sit at a table that wasn’t part of a mess hall. A small table, maybe, small enough to reach across and pour a drink for somebody else. Working together to set the places, smiling and laughing as you handed around the plates. There would be evidence of caring in the simplest ways. Did you get enough potatoes? Yeah. Do you want more gravy? Sure.

      Looking out for each other. Appreciating that someone had bothered to make potatoes just because you liked them. Appreciating that someone knew you liked them.

      Suddenly he wanted it so badly, he felt almost embarrassed, as if he’d been caught with his fly down. The muscles in his jaw tightened with resentment. He was like an ex-smoker who had to breathe the aroma from someone else’s cigarette to get through the night. When he’d decided to come to Idaho, in the back of his mind had been the notion that he could be around Joe’s family for a brief time and take the experience with him, like a secret, when he left—one final deep inhalation of someone else’s smoke to store up for the years of deprivation that lay ahead.

      Sam gave a sharp, reproachful shake of his head. The fact was, no matter how much he craved a glimpse of that life, he wasn’t about to mislead anyone to get it.

      To Joe he said, “I’m a bachelor. You know what they say about old dogs.”

      Joe grimaced. “Yeah, I know. I’m an old dog myself.” Finishing the cookie, the big man brushed his hands. “Where are you staying tonight, Fido?”

      “The Park Motel, outside of town.”

      “That dive? I wouldn’t let my pet spider stay there.”

      With a brief smile, Sam said, “It’s fine.”

      Joe pointed a finger. “You’ve been living with men too long. So listen, you’ll come to dinner tonight Tomorrow you can move your gear to the house. We have plenty of room.”

      Sam held up a hand. “Thanks, but I—”

      “No, don’t give me any crap.” Pulling a piece of paper from the mess he called his in box, Joe muttered, “Besides, you’ll be doing me a favor. My mother’s all over me to get married. Give her someone new to torture.” He grabbed a pen. “Here, I’ll give you directions.”

      “Thanks, you’ve convinced me. I’ll stay at the motel.”

      “What? Naw, seriously—”

      “Seriously, Joe, I’ve got plans tonight. But soon.” Sam reached for the bag of cookies, rolled the top of the paper sack and stood, relying on the cane more than he wanted to after a long day of sitting. And he did have plans. He just hadn’t realized it until this moment.

      Wanted, man to work on small organic farm…room, board… Plus, he amended silently, the kind of cookies Santa likes. And no strings.

      All they wanted was a worker. Testing his bum leg, he decided that as a worker, he could come through just fine.

      Rising, Joe held up a sheet of computer paper. “I had personnel print up a list of the jobs available in the store.”

      Leaning on his cane, Sam raised a brow. “What are they?”

      Joe snapped the paper with a flourish, then cautioned, “Remember, this is only a preliminary list.”

      “Uh-huh. Is there anything on that page that involves wearing a giant crow costume and waving people into your parking lot?”

      Eyes widening, Joe lowered the list. “That’s not a bad idea. Not a crow, though. What’s that Froot Loops bird?” He fished around for a pad of paper. “We could do a tie-in with breakfast cereals. Sugar-sweet savings. How does that sound? I—Hey, where’re you goin’?”

      “Get the elf to do it. She’d make a great bird.” Sam tossed the words over his shoulder on his way to the door. He knew where he was headed. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

      “What about dinner?”

      Raising the bag of cookies, Sam smiled. “All I need is a quart of milk. I’ll call you.”

      “You’re going to break my sister’s heart?” Joe put a hand over his chest.

      Grasping the office doorknob, Sam paused long enough to answer. “No. I’m not going to break anyone’s heart.”

      

      Moving carefully, Dani lifted a steaming apple-raisin pie from the oven. She could feel the heat of the deep-dish Pyrex through her oven mitts and saw that some of the juice was still bubbling up through the heart-shaped vent she’d cut into the crust.

      Setting pie number twelve atop a baking rack on the crowded counter, she tallied her creations—four apple-raisin, two cranberry-pear and six pumpkin pies, dozens of cookies, cooled and ready for boxing, in five varieties—molasses-ginger, milk chocolate chip, honey-nut peanut butter, the oatmeal-coconut crunch she’d given Timmy yesterday for Santa Claus, and the buttery Russian tea balls that sold so well around the holidays.

      Sweet Dreams, the baking business she ran to earn extra money during the winter, was doing surprisingly well for a home business, but she was pooped. She’d been baking since four this morning. It was now one in the afternoon, and she still had a half dozen sour cream banana breads and her popular cinnamon-streusal orange coffee cake to go.

      She would be up most of the night tonight, baking and packaging, but Pop would make the deliveries for her tomorrow and Timmy would be in school, so perhaps she’d grab a nap then.

      Closing the oven door, Dani decided to give the reliable old workhorse СКАЧАТЬ