Anne Eames - A Marriage Made In Joeville

Max stood abruptly. “No. I’ll take care of it this time.”

Hannah didn’t budge. “You? Whadaya know about cookin’, anyhoo?”

“Not a damn thing...except how to hire someone who can.” He softened his tone, not having meant to sound so brusque. Still, Hannah had scared away at least six women so far. He wasn’t about to make this one number seven. He lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows. “Let me handle it, okay?”

“Humph.” She spun on her heel and headed for the kitchen, not looking too convinced she shouldn’t be involved.

Shane and Joshua craned their necks for a better view of the path to the door, but Max waved them back to their food, not wanting their interference, either. He ignored their complaints as he closed the double doors to the dining room and headed for the front of the house.

A once white Grand Am made its way up the dusty road and finally came to a stop at the end of the bark-strewn walk to the porch. Max sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward when the latest candidate stepped from the car. She was young, all right, and too damn good-looking. Not for himself, but for the three men he’d never been able to keep in tow. He watched her smooth her short, tight denim skirt down another inch, which still left it high above her knees. Her peach knit top fit snugly, leaving nothing to the imagination. Hannah would have his hide if he hired this one. Yet how much longer could Hannah handle everything on her own?

Max walked down the path to greet the young woman, seeing a warm and genuine smile lighting her face as he grew near. A good omen, he decided. Friendly counted for a lot in these parts. If she could string two words together in a halfway acceptable fashion, he’d offer her the job.

Savannah gave one last tug at Jenny’s embarrassing skirt, then pasted on her best smile and walked toward the man she assumed was Max Malone—the one and same person she’d spoken to on the phone last night; the one and same person she’d heard so much about in high school. Two more steps and she thought she saw Ryder’s dark eyes in his father’s, an observation that made her stomach do another cartwheel. How was she ever going to pull this off? The man stopped a yard in front of her and extended a hand.

“Max Malone. You must be Essie.”

She grasped his large, but smooth, hand and pumped it enthusiastically, grateful his gaze stayed at eye level. She’d kill Jenny for her silly stunt—substituting all of her smaller clothes for Savannah’s more modest wardrobe. What must this man be thinking?

“Well, you passed the first two tests.” His laugh was warm and easy. “You found the place and made it here by six a.m.”

She wouldn’t tell him she’d left the motel at four-thirty, or how many wrong turns she’d made before she got it right. She was here and that’s what counted. “Yes, and I brought the reference letter I mentioned on the phone. I hope one is enough.” He looked over his shoulder at the house, then back.

“Do you mind if we talk outside for a while? I’m afraid I don’t get out of my office as often as I’d like...and it’s such a beautiful day.”

“Your office?”

“I’m a doctor. I see a few patients in my office at the back of the house. The paperwork is what keeps me inside, not the number of patients.” She nodded her understanding as he took her letter and gestured to the bench behind him. The wide seat was thick, weathered wood, held up on either side by large wagon wheels. She preceded him and sat carefully, keeping her knees locked together and pointed in the opposite direction from Ryder’s father, who sat sideways beside her, crossing an ankle over a knee. He read the letter slowly, his gaze traveling back to the top of the page.

“S. E. Smith. Is that how you came to be called Essie?”

He was rereading Jenny’s souped-up letter, which gave her a moment to regroup. She’d never told him her name was Essie. He must have heard it that way when she said S. E. on the phone. Essie. Essie Smith. Not her favorite, but it would work.

“Yes, that’s right. Odd little name, but it’s mine.” She widened her smile.

“I bet the S stands for something you’re not too crazy about.” He looked up at last, his face tanned and handsome. And very much like Ryder’s.

She pulled herself back to the conversation. “Y-yes.” She waved her hand in a dismissive way. “You know, sometimes old family names are...well, out of step with the present.” This was never going to work.

“Where do you live, Essie?”

“Uh...well, I’m new to the area.” She’d practiced this one earlier, deciding to avoid any mention of Michigan on the off chance he’d play the old do-you-happen-to-know game. “Been staying at the Big Beak Motel till I find a job, then I’ll get a place close by.”

“Big Beak? That’s quite a hike from here. Have you considered working as live-in help? I mean...if you find something you like.”

She laughed before she answered. “Haven’t seen too many apartment buildings around.” She hadn’t seen much of anything around. “Yes. If someone has room and makes an offer, I probably would.”

Max slapped his knees and stood abruptly. “Well, Essie, your letter says you can cook, and we’re in dire need of help. But in all fairness to you, maybe you should come in and meet the brood, look around before you decide. How would you like to join us for breakfast? There’s bound to be something left.”

Just like that. She had the job. It’s what she wanted, but now that it was time to go inside and meet the “brood” as he’d put it, she found it difficult to swallow, let alone move. Would Ryder recognize her? Would the jig be up before it was started? She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“Thank you. I’d love to. Just let me get my purse.” She turned and walked back to her car. Through the rear window she saw a pickup truck barreling down on her and she jumped clear of the vehicle. There was no sign of the driver slowing. He was going to hit her car.

She stumbled backward onto the bark walkway, waving dust from her face and holding her breath. Brakes squealed and the back end of the pickup swerved. But it stopped inches from her bumper. Out jumped a rumpled-looking cowboy, his Stetson low over mirrored sunglasses. He strode toward her with a long, deliberate gait, a cocky swagger that reeked of arrogance.

“Well, well. What do we have here?”

“I hope we have a new cook...if you don’t scare her off before she steps foot in the place.” Max scowled at the cowboy.

Essie crossed her arms across her chest—first, because she didn’t like his attitude, and second, because the glasses were aimed at her cleavage. The cowboy removed his hat and beat it against his faded jeans, sending more dust in her direction. With one hand he raked his fingers through his tangled brown hair, and with the other, removed his shades.

She gaped at the familiar face, her heart sinking to her shaking knees.

“Sorry all to hell, ma’am,” he said, his scowl now fixed on his father. “Any grub left?”

“Last time I looked there was plenty.” Max looked around his son. “Essie, this is my son, Ryder. You’ll have to excuse his manners.” He looked back to Ryder. “Or lack of them.”

Savannah watched the pair glowering at each other as though she didn’t exist, their anger so transparent she felt embarrassed witnessing it. More than that, she felt sad. After all these years, she’d hoped this part of Ryder’s life had changed.

Finally, Ryder glanced over his shoulder at her, his jaw muscles knotting. Then without a word, he looked away and started for the front door. Savannah stared after him, swallowing the lump at the back of her throat. This wasn’t what she’d hoped to find. Not even close.