Roxanne Rustand - Lone Star Legacy

JOEL SETTLED BACK with one elbow propped on the arm of his chair, his coffee cup in one hand. As always, Maria’s tamales and enchiladas had been incomparable, while the rich, creamy caramelized flan and fluffy sopaipillas were the perfect, sweet balance to her strong coffee.

But the conversation around the table couldn’t have been more awkward.

Between the glowering looks Walt shot at him and the tension radiating from the woman across the table, Joel figured this would be a three-Rolaids night for everyone except the little girl, who seemed blissfully unaware of the emotions swirling above her head.

After seeing Sophie the first time, he’d gone home, tossed back too much Scotch, then lost himself in his own grim memories. The hangover and his strength of will had helped shove those images back into some dim recess of his brain, and he’d vowed that he wouldn’t let them surface again.

But now, looking at the little girl’s sparkling eyes and listening to her childish chatter about puppies and cats and some friend from back home named Lizzie, his melancholy resettled over him like a suffocating cloud. He wanted nothing more than a quick escape.

“…so what do you think?” Walt lifted his coffee cup toward Beth in salute. “Want the job?”

Joel jerked his thoughts back to the present. “I thought we—you—were going to do the usual reference check, and all that.”

Walt ignored him. “Well?”

Beth shot a defiant glance at Joel. “I’d be glad to give it a try.”

Joel exhaled slowly, considering. His caution was probably misplaced, but as a cop, he’d seen more than his share of con artists who were experts at charming the socks off easy marks, and it didn’t pay to be careless. On the bright side, he’d be working at the clinic, too, and could keep an eye on her for a while. In fact…

“You know what, I was just thinking.” He bared his teeth in what he hoped came across as a friendly smile. “I’m looking for more construction work. I could come over Monday morning and shoot you an estimate on your remodeling projects.”

Definite alarm flared in her eyes. “I…think I’m pretty well covered already.”

“How far out are those contractors booked?”

“A—a month or so.” She set her jaw. “Which will work just fine.”

“That’s a long time to wait,” he said mildly. “And you know those dates are probably very optimistic, in order to snag your business. At least let me take a look.”

“I don’t think so. She glanced at Walt, who gave her an encouraging smile. “It would probably be a waste of your time.”

“He does mighty fine work,” Walt said. “Just look at what he’s done so far in the clinic. But of course, I’m probably biased.”

“I…” She wavered, biting her lower lip. Then her shoulders sagged, and Joel knew she felt trapped by common courtesy to her host—and new boss—to at least let his nephew look at the project. “I…suppose another estimate wouldn’t hurt,” she said after a long pause, her voice noticeably devoid of enthusiasm.

She clearly didn’t want anything to do with him, and Joel could hardly blame her for that.

So he was going to make an offer she couldn’t refuse.

“ARE YOU SURE?” Beth looked down at the paper in her hand with a dubious expression, apparently adding up the numbers a second time. “This is way below the other estimates.”

Joel shrugged. “Seemed fair enough to me.”

“B-but the materials. Your time.” She looked up at him and frowned. “Have you actually done much remodeling?”

“You can check out what I’ve been doing over at the clinic. I also worked my way through college on a construction crew.”

Joel watched her expressive face as she sorted out what was, in truth, an estimate far below the going rate. He didn’t need the money right now—he’d only started the remodeling work for Walt to fill his time with something worthwhile, though if he stayed in Texas, he might turn it into a business.

But in this case, he’d wanted to make doubly sure that the client would accept.

The irony was that perhaps he’d gone too low.

“Honestly, I hadn’t intended to even consider you, but this estimate is just too affordable for me to pass up,” she said slowly. “I know you’re still working on the clinic, though, and that should come first.”

He nodded. Either way, she wouldn’t be far out of sight.

“So how about this—quote me an hourly rate for your labor if I go pick up the materials myself.”

He suppressed a grin, and again he shot her a low quote—one that barely topped the wage of a convenience store clerk in Dallas.

“Let’s go one project at a time, then,” she murmured. “If that’s okay with you, then I guess we have a deal.”

“So…where do you want to start?”

She led the way from the café into the dark and dingy kitchen. “Once I can get the café up and running, it will help finance the rest of the work, and might also make this place more desirable to buyers.

“I’ll do the painting.” She tapped her copy of Joel’s estimate. “But all of those old wooden butcher-block counters have got to go. The floor tile needs to be replaced. The vent system is filthy, to say the least. The three-compartment sink leaks. With this low estimate of yours, I’ll be able to afford a small commercial dishwasher, but it will need to be installed.”

“Not a problem. So tell me,” he added casually, “why are you tackling this whole place on your own? No steady guy around to pitch in?”

“I…” She turned away and picked up an old teapot. Studied the label underneath. “You probably heard my daughter mention her father, on that first day.”

He nodded.

“He died about a year ago. Unexpectedly—in a single car accident.” She unconsciously touched a thin white scar tracing the edge of her cheek and temple. “Sophie and I were with him.” Her mouth curved into a faint, sad smile. “She was just three, and now she thinks every tall, dark-haired man looks like her daddy.”

Sophie was napping now, thank God, but at just the mention of her name, painful images from the past blindsided him. She was so sweet, so innocent. So very, very fragile.

And in the space of minutes, a precious child could be gone forever. It was a responsibility he never wanted to face again.

“Joel?” Beth was staring at him, the wariness back in her eyes.

He jerked his thoughts back into the present and scrambled for a response. “I—I’m sorry about your loss.”

“We’re doing okay. It’s harder for Sophie, because she suffered some hearing loss and she still has nightmares.” She stared over his shoulder, her brow furrowed. “I’ve tried and tried to remember what happened, but it’s all a total blank from the time we left home until I woke up in the ICU sometime the next day.”

Some of his perceptions about Beth shifted.

Of course anyone who’d been through such a tragedy would be deeply affected. Her wariness was probably a perfectly normal reaction by a grieving, vulnerable widow alone in a strange town.

“Perhaps that’s for the best.” He suddenly felt awkward, out of his depth. “Not remembering the accident, that is.”

“No.” Her knuckles whitened around the spout of the old china pot. “Sometimes Sophie wakes up screaming, saying things that make no sense. If I could remember, maybe I could help her.”

She winced, then opened her hand and looked down at her palm. The spout lay there broken, and blood welled from a cut at the base of her thumb. “All I can do is hold her, and tell her that everything will be all right. But that’s no help at all.”

BY THE END OF THE WEEK, Beth knew two things—that she’d never make it as receptionist/bookkeeper, and that no project was ever as easy as it looked.