“You’re right,” Larry concurred. “You make love, and what does a woman want to do? Sleep or eat like a normal person? Nope, she prefers to chat a while, and if you happen to drift off while she’s cooing in your ear, it’s a personal slight.”
Travis finished his beer and pushed the empty bottle away. “Another thing. You allow a woman into your home and before you know it, they’re fixing things. They can’t leave well enough alone, wanting to paint here and put up frilly curtains there. As far as I’m concerned it’s a waste of time and good money.”
“You get married and that’s exactly what’ll happen.”
Travis’s frown grew darker and heavier as he waved for a second beer.
Stan, the bartender, bald and generally crabby, strolled over to where the two men were sitting at the bar. “What are you two grumbling about now?”
“Travis here’s got to find himself a wife.”
“So?” Stan demanded. “What’s so damn difficult about that? The world’s full of women looking for an easy ride.”
Any woman who married Travis thinking she was going to freeload off him would learn otherwise soon enough. Not that Travis planned on making her sweat blood out on the range the way he did. All he needed a woman for was rearing Lee’s children. If he was going through the hassle of marrying her, then he felt entitled to sleep with her.
“What kind of gal you looking for?”
Travis wasn’t completely sure he understood. “Personally, I like long-legged women.” A lot of men were turned on by big busts, but breast size didn’t matter that much to him. As long as they filled his hands and mouth, then anything left over was pure fluff.
“Long legs,” Stan echoed approvingly.
“Legs all the way up to her neck,” Travis embellished. “I’m partial to a tight butt, too.”
“That’s not the only thing you’re going to want that’s tight,” Larry said with a chuckle.
“You lookin’ for a virgin, too?” Stan asked with an incredulous jerk of his head, as if he were holding back a rowdy laugh. “I didn’t know there were any left here in Grandview.”
Travis reached for his beer, but the heavy malt wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the first one had been. “What I really need is a housekeeper. Problem is I can’t find one, and even if I could, it’s doubtful I could afford her.”
“A wife ain’t cheap,” the bartender was quick to inform him. “I ought to know, I’ve been married three times, and each wife cost me more than the one before. What the hell do you think I’d be doing in a place like Grandview if I wasn’t hiding out from those thieves?”
“What about one of those church ladies?” Larry offered as if struck by pure genius. “They’re the marrying kind.”
Travis had already given serious consideration to every woman he could think of in the entire Methodist congregation. Not that they’d have anything to do with the likes of him, mind you. As far as he knew, there wasn’t an unmarried one in the lot of them, other than three widows well into their seventies and a couple of teenage girls in braces. If he were to approach either group, he’d likely get arrested. There wasn’t a woman in town he could picture in his bed. And damn it all to hell, if he was going to have to marry, then he wanted it to be to someone he’d enjoy viewing naked.
“What do you suggest?”
“If you’re serious about this, then advertise for one,” Stan said.
Travis didn’t find many things amusing, but he found Stan’s suggestion downright comical. “You’re joking.”
“The hell I am. Men do it all the time.”
“Where?”
Stan strolled out from behind the counter and across the room to a lopsided stand, where he picked up a local trade paper. He walked back and slapped it down on the bar. “There must be fifty ads or more right here, all from men looking for a wife or a quick lay. Sometimes even the women place the ads.”
Travis exchanged an amused look with Larry. As far as he knew, the only thing the Little Dime advertised was used equipment, old furniture, and garage sales and the like. It covered a two-county area and was published bimonthly. The only time Travis read the Little Dime was when he ate at Martha’s, the cafe where Tilly worked, and he couldn’t remember ever seeing a personal column.
“If you don’t want a woman from around here, then I suggest you put something in the Billings paper,” Stan said, wiping down the scarred mahogany bar with a wet rag.
Travis peeled open the newspaper and spread it out, looking for the “Dateline” section. It took him a moment to locate the proper page. He read through each ad twice and discovered the majority of them were from men.
Larry was reading over his shoulder. “Here’s one,” he said, pointing to the three-line ad at the top of the page. “But what the hell does she mean by ‘herpes okay’?”
Travis jerked the paper away. “Don’t be stupid.”
Larry chuckled. “Hey, buddy, who knows, she might have long legs and a tight butt.”
Travis slapped some money down and headed out to his truck. The only way he would ever place one of those ads was if he got desperate. Frankly he wondered how much longer that would take.
The answer came in two weeks.
Travis had been working out on the range and returned to the house exhausted, hungry, and in no mood to deal with another social worker. He must have talked to three or more in the last couple of months. They were doing their best to help, but frankly, he felt a whole lot more harassed than he did encouraged. Each visit netted him another list of atrocities he’d committed. Another lecture on his inadequacies as a nurturing parent. Another voice suggesting he was a failure.
“Hello,” Travis said as he strolled into the house. He stopped in the middle of his kitchen to find Shirley Miller sitting at the table, waiting for him.
“Hello, Mr. Thompson.”
He set his hat on the peg just inside the kitchen, walked over to the refrigerator, and reached for a pitcher of iced tea he’d made that morning. Without pausing he drank directly from the pitcher, gulping down several cool swallows. He was annoyed to note Mrs. Miller entering a notation on her ever-present clipboard.
“I noticed there were several containers of food left uncovered in your refrigerator,” she said. “I realize that sounds like a small thing to you, but it’s terribly unhealthy.”
“What the hell!” Travis couldn’t believe it. They were actually going to make a fuss over a bowl of leftover stew. Canned stew to boot.
Beth Ann beamed at him proudly. “That’s good, Uncle Travis. Hell’s a much better word than the ‘s’ word.”
Frowning, the social worker quickly entered that tidbit on her clipboard as well. Travis had never been more frustrated in his life. This woman had been sent direct from the bowels of hell to harass him. She’d made his life a nightmare, dropping in unexpectedly for inspections, issuing unwanted advice. It didn’t matter how hard he tried, he seemed to be doing something that was sure to place Lee and Janice’s children in grave emotional and physical danger.
“Mr. Thompson, there have been complaints.”
“From whom?”
Shirley Miller sat on the edge of a kitchen chair and sighed heavily. “I’m not at liberty to say, but the…person who contacted me did so out of genuine concern for these children.”
“I’ll bet.”
“It’s my understanding Beth Ann missed two days of school last week.”
“She had a cold.” His eyes refused to meet the little girl’s for fear she’d call him a bold-faced liar. The kid had a way of announcing his faults to anyone who would listen. Generally she did so at the worst possible moment.
“You didn’t contact the school to let them know Beth Ann wouldn’t be in, nor did you write a note to explain her absence.”
“Not writing a note has got to rank right up there with leaving a cover off a bowl of leftover stew.”
The social worker sighed and then waited an inordinate amount of time before she conti
nued. “Contrary to what you think, the state doesn’t want to place these children in a foster home.”
Leaning his six-foot-three physique against the door-jamb, Travis struck a relaxed pose. “Frankly, I’d like to see you try.”
“I don’t even want to. You’re being difficult, Mr. Thompson, when all I want to do is help.”
“Let’s make sure we understand each other.” He hardened his dark eyes until he was confident she got the message.
“I’m afraid we don’t,” the middle-aged woman said, and her voice dipped regretfully. “You’re doing everything to the best of your ability, but frankly, it just isn’t good enough. Look at this place. It’s hardly a fit environment for these children.”
Travis glanced around the kitchen, seeing it from Shirley Miller’s point of view. The linoleum table had been around from the time he was a kid, the corners chipped and broken. The chairs were mismatched, the padding tattered. He couldn’t remember the last time the walls were painted, but it couldn’t have been that long ago. Ten years sounded about right. Okay, so the place could use a bit of renovation, he’d admit that much. If all she wanted was for him to paint a few walls and buy a couple of things, then no problem. Hell, he was willing to do about anything to get the state off his back.
In the deepest part of his being, Travis recognized the truth of what Mrs. Miller was saying, but it didn’t alter the facts. Jim, Scotty, and Beth Ann were his to raise, and it would take a whole lot more than one social worker or, for that matter, the entire state of Montana to take them away from him.
“You can’t feed growing children macaroni and cheese four nights a week.”
How the hell she knew that, Travis could only speculate. It seemed the woman rode a broomstick, circled his place, and wrote down every move he made. He was convinced she knew he was lying about Beth Ann missing school because of a cold.
With the five-year-old enrolled in the afternoon kindergarten program, Travis had only a few hours late in the day to make up for the time he spent in the house baby-sitting her. Unfortunately, that didn’t leave a whole lot of opportunity for cooking a three-course evening meal.
If the weather was decent, he took Beth Ann out on the range with him, but all too often he’d lose track of time and she’d miss her bus. Then he’d either have to chase down the transportation provided by the school district or drive her into town himself. It was easier to let her miss class. Frankly, he didn’t believe kindergarten was important enough for him to ruin the few precious hours he had to race all over kingdom come. The kid could already read some words; it seemed a waste of effort to teach her the ABCs when she could recite them as well as he could.
“We didn’t have macaroni and cheese every night,” Beth Ann delighted in telling the social worker. “One night Uncle Travis fixed popcorn. We had strawberry ice cream for dessert.”
Travis groaned inwardly but didn’t say anything in his own defense. There wasn’t much to say. He’d been tired and cranky, and when he asked Scotty what he wanted for dinner, Scotty had suggested his two favorites. Travis had complied willingly.
Beth Ann walked over to stand next to Travis, as if aligning herself with him. He appreciated the gesture but wondered how much weight that pulled with the social worker, if any.
“How long has it been since you combed Beth Ann’s hair?” she asked.
Travis frowned. The kid wouldn’t hold still long enough for him to braid it properly, the way her mother had. His hands were too large, and her hair kept slipping between his fingers. Besides, Beth Ann was tender-headed and cried when he tried to brush it for her. It tore at his stomach to hurt the child. He heard her sob most every night, and nothing he could say or do comforted her. Part of each evening he spent sitting by her side and gently patting her head because he didn’t know the words to ease the ache of not having her mother.
“It’s my understanding Clara Morgan is coming in once a week to help?”
“That’s right.” The retired schoolteacher might well be an old biddy, but she generally stayed long enough to cook dinner, and Travis appreciated it. The day of the funeral, several of the town folks had claimed they’d be out to lend him a hand. In his pain, he had lashed out that he didn’t need any help, didn’t want any. A few had come, but Travis had turned them away. Clara Morgan was the only one who’d ignored his protests and continued her visits.
The back door opened and the two boys strolled into the house, having finished their chores. As soon as they saw Travis with the social worker, Jim and Scotty walked silently into the kitchen.
“Hello, boys,” the social worker greeted them warmly. She made a notation on her clipboard, and Travis strained to read it. He hadn’t a clue what terrible crime he’d committed this time. Then he noted the small rip in Scotty’s shirt, at the elbow. He could probably sew it himself, he’d been mending his own clothes for years, but as with so many other things, he simply hadn’t gotten around to it.
“Hello,” Scotty answered, glancing up at his uncle. His young face was filled with concern, and Travis grinned, attempting to reassure him.
Jim didn’t respond to the greeting. He stood silently in the background, waiting, it seemed, for the bomb to explode, staring it in the face, refusing to flinch or back away.
“I’ll give you more time, Mr. Thompson,” Mrs. Miller said, standing. She paused and glanced around the room again, as if she were afraid she’d missed some infraction the first go-around.
“Thank you,” he said, meaning it. He walked her to the door.
She hesitated a second time, and when she looked up at him, her eyes were filled with warning. With one look she told him she must put these children’s best interests first, it was her obligation to do so. If that meant taking them away from him, she’d do it without batting an eye.
Travis literally felt sick to his stomach after she left. He was going to have to do something, and quick.
“What was she doing here?” Scotty asked, looking out the back door window as the social worker drove from sight, leaving a plume of dry Montana dust in her wake.
“Someone filed a complaint.”
“I didn’t have a cold,” Beth Ann admonished him. “Mommy said we should always tell the truth.”
“You’re right.” Travis lifted the youngster into his arms and hugged her. He might not be much good when it came to parenting, but he’d grown to love these children deeply.
“What are you going to do?” Beth Ann asked.
“I’m not going to live in any foster home,” Jim said from behind him.
“You won’t have to.”
“We might not have any choice.”
“Not true,” Travis said, setting Beth Ann back down on the floor. He walked across the kitchen and took out a fresh piece of paper and a short lead pencil, then pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. One chair leg was shorter than the other and rocked under his weight.
“What are you doing?” Beth Ann scooted out the one next to him and crawled onto it, kneeling on the seat and leaning toward him.
“Writing an ad.”
“For what?”
“A wife.”
He expected someone to say something. Scotty for sure, who rarely kept his mouth shut. The kid could speak nonstop for hours, driving Travis to the point of insanity with his questions and idle chatter. Even Beth Ann was staring at him as if he’d lost his wits.
“We need someone around here to help out, and since no one wants to take on the job of housekeeper, I was thinking maybe some woman out there would be willing to be my wife.”
Scotty jerked out a chair and climbed next to him. “You can write away and get one?”
“Sure.” Hell, he didn’t know what kind of woman would answer his ad, if any. He glanced up to discover three faces staring at him so trustingly that his insides knotted.
“All right,” he said, licking the end of the pencil. “Let’s make a list of what we want.”
“She should be a good cook,” J
im suggested.
The others were all quick to agree, and Travis entered that quality on the top line. After nearly three months of macaroni-and-cheese dinners, he was willing to marry the first woman who could bake a decent apple pie.
“And sew,” Beth Ann added. The ruffle on her best dress had ripped, and Travis had tried to mend it by hand, damn near ruining it. He felt doubly guilty about that since it was the same dress he’d inadvertently dyed pink.
“She should like horses and cattle if she’s going to live out here with us,” Scotty added thoughtfully.
“Right.” Travis quickly added those facts.
“Do you think Mary Poppins might come?”
“Who?” Travis repeated. This wasn’t the time to revive fairy tales.
“Mary Poppins,” Beth Ann said again. “She was in a movie Mommy took us to see once in Miles City a long time ago. Mary came to be a…a nanny to some kids just like us, only their mommy and daddy didn’t die. She could fly with her umbrella and make a messy room all tidy.” She paused and supported her chin in her palms as she leaned forward, closer to Travis and the list. “She sang real pretty, too.”
“Beth Ann wants you to find a wife who can work magic,” Jim explained quietly.
“A woman who does magic tricks and sings.” Travis added the two qualities to the growing list. To be blunt, Beth Ann’s request wasn’t that much out of line. He was looking for a woman who could perform miracles.
Now all he had to do was find her.
Two
“Did you see it?”
Mary Warner glanced up from her desk in the front of Petite, Louisiana’s lone library. She took a second to adjust her reading glasses, scooting them from their perch at the end of her nose. Then and only then did she look up at Sally Givens, the high school junior who came in two afternoons a week. The teenager’s pretty blue eyes were hidden behind ridiculously long bangs that swayed like a pendulum across her face when she walked.
“See what?” Mary quizzed softly.
“The ad. Karen found it when she was putting the Billings, Montana, newspaper back on the shelf.” Giggling, she absently brushed the bangs away from her eyes. The sides of her head were shaved high above the ear as though a crazy man had gotten lose with a razor. Apparently the style was the latest rage, and both of Mary’s young assistants had caved in to peer pressure.
Morning Comes Softly Page 2
