Her Small-Town Hero. Arlene James

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      “I can.” She looked pointedly to the skillet, adding, “But it’s been a while since I’ve even seen fried okra.”

      “Charred okra, you mean,” Holt corrected.

      Hap handed over the spatula with an expression of pure gratitude. “There’s more in the freezer.” He gestured at a large piece of sirloin hanging over the edges of a plate on the counter. “Do what you like with that. I set out some cans of sliced taters to heat in the microwave. Opener’s in this drawer here. Anything else you need, just nose around. Holt will set the table while me and Ace get acquainted.”

      “Oh, no. Ace will stay with me,” Cara insisted, looking down at her son. Too late, she realized that might have sounded rude, as if she didn’t trust the old man. Then again, she didn’t trust anyone. How could she? “I—I’m used to working with Ace close by,” she said, hoping that would be explanation enough.

      Hap traded a look with his grandson, and Cara held her breath until the old man nodded, smiled and said, “You and the boy will join us for dinner, of course.” He somehow managed to make it an order without it sounding like one. Cara breathed a silent sigh of relief.

      “Thank you.”

      “No need for that when you’re cooking. We’ll talk about the job later.”

      Nodding, Cara told herself not to blow this. It had been months since she’d cooked a meal, but surely she could manage this. Hap hitched himself past her and out into the other room, while Holt remained behind to lean a hip against the counter. Ignoring him, Cara sat Ace on the floor in a corner near what appeared to be the back door and removed his knit hoodie and the sweater beneath it. She took a small wooden toy truck from her jacket pocket and gave it to Ace before looking around her.

      The apple-green walls and cabinets of pale, golden wood contrasted sharply with the industrial-grade metal countertop, but everything looked neat and clean if an odd mixture of the old and new, the professional and the homey. Noting the lack of a dishwasher in the small, cramped room, Cara glanced hopefully at the solid door next to the refrigerator.

      “That goes out to the laundry room,” Holt told her.

      So, no dishwasher. She checked the sink. And no garbage disposal. Well, she’d survived a lot of years without those things.

      “There’s a big coffee can for scraps,” he said, pointing to the cabinet beneath the sink. “It goes into the Dumpster out back when it’s full. There’s extra cans on a shelf above the dryers.”

      Nodding, Cara got down to work. She went to the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, moving past the tall man who watched her like a hawk. She found the okra in a half-empty plastic bag and a small box of frozen green beans.

      “Okay if I use these?”

      Holt glanced at the box of green beans, then at the boy now tapping the truck on the floor. “Sure. Use anything you want.” With that, he moved to an overhead cabinet and began removing the dinner dishes, taking his time about it.

      While Ace banged happily, Cara scraped the blackened okra and grease into the can under the sink, replaced the lid, cleaned the skillet and began looking in cabinets. Finally she asked, “Oil?”

      Holt nodded at the tall, narrow cabinet doors across from the refrigerator. “In the pantry. Oh, and, by the way, there’s a chance my brother Ryan will be joining us, too.”

      That meant three Jefford men, not just two, which explained the huge slab of steak. Cara removed her jacket, hoping he wouldn’t notice the sleeveless tank tops that she wore in the dead of winter, and started heating the oil in the frying pan.

      “Should I set a place for Ace?” Holt asked. “We don’t have a high chair.”

      “No, that’s all right,” she answered without looking at him. “He’ll sit in my lap, eat off my plate.”

      Holt went out, carrying dishes and flatware.

      Cara’s hands shook as she reached for the skillet, but a glance at her son stiffened her resolve. She could do this. She had to do this. Everything depended on it.

      Chapter Two

      Hap sat at the end of the table in his usual chair, reading from his Bible, when Holt carried the dishes to the table. He looked up, waggling his eyebrows and jerking his head toward the kitchen, but Holt didn’t know what to make of Cara Jane Wynne yet. Shrugging, he began to deal out the plates onto the bare table. Charlotte had always kept the table covered with a fresh cloth and place mats, like their grandmother before her, but Holt and Hap had quickly found them a deal of work to maintain.

      Hap crooked a finger, and Holt stopped what he was doing to lean close. “So? Tell me ’bout her.”

      “Not much to tell,” Holt muttered. “She came in off the street, says she hasn’t worked since high school and grew up in Duncan but last lived in Oregon. My guess is she’s homeless and desperate.” Hap made a compassionate sound from deep in his chest, and Holt frowned. “That doesn’t mean she’s trustworthy,” he pointed out softly, then stiffened when she spoke from the doorway behind him.

      “Excuse me. Are there serving dishes you’d rather I didn’t use?”

      Hap smiled and shook his head. “Use what you like. She that cooks gets to make the decisions in the kitchen, I always say.”

      “Okay.”

      Frowning some more, Holt laid the flatware, then went back to the kitchen to fill three glasses with ice and water.

      Holt toyed with the idea of calling his brother to come over and evaluate Cara Jane. The satellite cell phones that their new brother-in-law Ty had given them for Christmas made it much easier to keep in touch, but Ryan often could not be called away from whatever activity currently required his supervision. As an assistant principal, history teacher and all-around coach, Ryan wore many hats. If they saw Ryan tonight at all, it would be briefly.

      Holt could have used Ryan’s input, but he understood only too well what it meant to be busy. His own drilling business and ranch and now the motel kept him tied up. Maybe, just maybe, Cara Jane was God’s answer to that dilemma. He wondered if hoping so made him selfish or if not quite trusting her made him unfair. He didn’t want to be either.

      He took his time ferrying the glasses from the sink to table, making two trips of it. She never once glanced his way, but he found it difficult to take his eyes off her and the boy, who had pulled himself up and wrapped his chubby little arms around his mother’s knees. Was she the poor little widow woman she seemed or something much more dangerous?

      Holt felt sure that Cara Jane and Ace Wynne were going to be around until God had accomplished whatever purpose had brought them here. If that meant Holt could soon get back to his own life, so much the better, but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that all was not as it should be with her.

      Cara placed the last platter on the table, Ace on her hip, and took a final survey of the meal: golden-fried okra, pan-grilled steak, buttered potatoes, green beans and carrots straight out of the can. Nothing fancy and nothing fresh.

      You’re not in California anymore, Cara.

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