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Somewhere along the way, the house had become a home.
He could all but feel the warmth that emanated from it, smell the scent of fresh-baked bread wafting from the open windows. A swing suspended from the ceiling of the covered front porch swung lazily in the afternoon breeze, the pillows scattered along its back plump and inviting. Clay pots filled with bright geraniums edged the steps, while tall wicker planters holding lacy-leafed ferns welcomed guests from either side of the door.
He wanted to believe that Matt was responsible for the changes, just as he wanted to believe that Matt had painted the Lone Star flag on the barn roof. But he knew better. Matt was never one to fret much over appearances. He was just too darn lazy to put forth the effort. If left up to him, the house—as well as the barn—would have remained in the same condition as the day he had moved in.
That left only one person who could be responsible for the changes.
Melissa.
Which made Whit wonder if she was also the one responsible for the debts Matt had supposedly left behind. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine her requesting—maybe even demanding—that he remodel the house. More so than Matt, she had come from money and was used to having the best of everything. Her father’s home in Lampasas was nothing short of a mansion, complete with a live-in housekeeper, cook and full-time groundskeeper. For her to leave all that opulence and move into Matt’s house must have been a shock for her.
But from the looks of things, she hadn’t wasted any time bringing the house up to her standards.
Setting his jaw against the resentment that rose, he climbed down from his truck and strode to the front door, anxious to get his business with her over with and be on his way. He rapped his knuckles hard against the screen door, then waited. When no sound came from within, he glanced around, then headed for the rear of the house. A shed at the back of the yard caught his attention and made him stop and stare. He remembered the building from his first visit to Matt’s place as looking as if it was one strong wind away from collapse. Nothing at all like it appeared now.
The wood frame structure had been painted a soft, buttery yellow and trimmed out in a crisp, clean white. The glass in the two windows that faced the front gleamed in the afternoon sunshine and reflected images of the flowers that spilled from the window boxes suspended below them. Though the afternoon was hot, a Dutch-style door was propped open to catch the occasional breeze.
Drawn by the open doorway, curious, Whit crossed the yard to peer inside. Against the far wall, he found Melissa sitting with her back to him, her head bent over some unseen task. Since she didn’t appear to have heard his approach, he took a moment to look around.
The room was crowded with a wild assortment of items yet he sensed an order to the chaos. Shelving lined the two longest walls and held buckets of paint, tools and what looked to be jars filled with beads and buttons. A child’s playpen was angled into a far corner and stacked high with old, faded quilts. To his left, salvaged iron was propped against the wall, visual proof that Melissa had designed the gate he had tripped over at the grand opening, just as Macy had claimed.
Not liking the stab of guilt that accompanied the discovery, he scowled.
“Where do you get all this junk?”
Startled, Melissa spun on the stool, her eyes wide in alarm. They narrowed to slits when her gaze met his.
Snatching a rag from the table behind her, she stood and wiped her fingers with quick, angry jerks of her hand. “If you’ve come to insult me again, you can leave.”
He was tempted to do just that. Leave. She was the one who needed him. He sure as hell didn’t need her or her attitude.
But he’d come to help out a friend, he reminded himself. And he wasn’t leaving until he had.
Dragging off his hat, he stepped inside.
“I stopped by to take a look at that horse you wanted me to train.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “I thought you said you didn’t have time to take on any more clients.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Seems now I do.”
She eyed him a moment longer, then turned her back and swiped the rag over the tabletop, sending white dust to clog the air. “Sorry. But I’ve already hired someone else.”
He knew she was lying and knew how to prove it, too. “Who?”
She froze, her fingers knotting in the rag. Forcing her hand into motion again, she said, “That’s none of your business.”
“I’m making it mine.”
When she didn’t respond, he lost what little patience he had left with her. Crossing the room in two long strides, he grabbed her elbow and spun her around to face him.
“Listen, dammit,” he said angrily. “I know you’re in a bind and I’m here to offer my help.”
Though the grip he had on her was strong, she didn’t cower in fear, as he might have expected. Instead she met his gaze squarely and with an anger that matched his own.
“Why would you want to help me?”
He released her arm with a force that sent her stumbling back a step. “Don’t kid yourself, Melissa. I wouldn’t spit on you, if you were on fire. I’m doing this for Matt. He was my friend.”
“Friend?” she repeated incredulously. “How can you claim to be his friend when you couldn’t even be bothered to come to his funeral?”
Shame burned through Whit, but he refused to let her see it. No, he hadn’t gone to Matt’s funeral. But it wasn’t because he hadn’t wanted to be there. He’d wanted to go, if for no other reason than to honor the friendship the two had once shared. But he’d deliberately stayed away, knowing that, if he went, he’d see Melissa.
But he wouldn’t tell her that. If he did, she might think he still had feelings for her. And he felt nothing for her. Nothing at all.
“Matt was my friend,” he maintained stubbornly. “And he’d still be my friend today if you hadn’t come between us.”
She paled at the accusation, then quickly turned away.
But not before Whit saw the guilt that stained her cheeks.
She inhaled a deep breath, then turned to face him, her chin tilted high enough to catch water. “All right. If training the horse will clear your conscience, then you have my permission to train it.”
Clear his conscience? he thought in amazement. It wasn’t his conscience that needed clearing. But she could believe whatever she wanted to believe. He’d come to do a favor for an old friend, not to get into a spitting contest with that friend’s widow.
Ramming his hat over his head, he turned for the door. “I’ll load him up and take him to my place.”
“You can’t.”
He stopped, barely able to contain his frustration. “You just said I could train him.”
“He doesn’t load.”
Praying he’d misunderstood, he turned to look at her. “The horse doesn’t load?”
She shook her head.
He was tempted to tell her to forget it, that he didn’t have time to drive the sixty-plus miles to Briggs and back every day that working with the horse would require. But he’d come to return a favor to a friend and he wasn’t going to back out now just because of a little inconvenience.
Dragging off his hat, he pushed his fingers through his hair. “That’s gonna change things some,” he said as he worked through his schedule in his mind. “I have stock to feed at my own place, plus a few that’ll require exercise before I can head this way. I probably wouldn’t be able to make it over here until noon or so.”
Judging by the way she pursed her lips, he assumed she wasn’t too pleased with the time he’d named. But what difference did it make if he came at sunup or sundown? he asked himself. Either way, the horse got trained, and that was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
Already questioning his sanity in making the offer, he snugged on his hat and turned to leave again. “Look for me around noon tomorrow.”
Melissa didn’t want to look for Whit, at all. If she never laid eyes on him again, she would die a happy woman.
But looking for him was exactly what she found herself doing the next day as the clock slowly wound its way to noon.
He finally showed up at nine minutes after twelve. She knew the exact moment of his arrival because she glanced at the wall clock above her worktable when she heard his truck, and quickly did the math to see how much time remained before she had to pick up Grady from school. Two hours. Would that give Whit enough time to work with the horse and be gone before she returned?
Intending to ask him how long he planned to stay, she turned to look out the window again and was surprised to see that he had turned onto the lane that led to the barn instead of continuing on to the house.
Irritated that he didn’t think it necessary to check in with her before beginning work, she pursed her lips and turned her attention back to the cutter quilt she had spread over her worktable and the pattern pinned to it. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to make the long trek to the barn to see if he needed anything, she told herself as she pushed a tracing wheel along the pattern. Not in this heat. If he had any questions, he could darn well come to her. She was the one paying him, after all. Not the other way around.
Reminded of the money she would owe him, she caught her lower lip between her teeth. She didn’t have the money to pay Whit. Not and pay her monthly bills, too.
She blew out a breath. “Who am I trying to kid?” she muttered as she pressed the wheel against the quilt again. She wouldn’t have the money to pay him even if she didn’t pay her bills.
But he’d get what was due him, she told herself. She’d see that he did. He just wouldn’t get it until he’d completed the job and the horse was sold. She’d done her research. At the price War Lord would bring, she’d have enough money to pay Whit his trainer’s fee, plus the percentage of the sale price she had promised him, and still have enough left to pay off a large portion of Matt’s debts.
She cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder. Or she would if Whit was able to train the horse. The other three men she’d hired for the job had been unable to get close enough to the horse to touch him, much less work with him.
Reminded of the horse’s mean disposition, she caught her lower lip between her teeth again and worried it as she strained to see the area surrounding the barn. She really should at least warn Whit that the horse might be difficult to handle, she told herself.
Huffing a breath, she turned away from the window and pressed the wheel against the pattern again. He was a professional trainer, for heaven’s sake. He’d all but grown up on a horse. He didn’t need her to warn him that one might be dangerous.
Or did he?
Unsure of the answer, she dropped the wheel and hurried for the door.
When she didn’t see any sign of Whit or the horse in the pen or the corral, she broke into a run. By the time she reached the barn, she was out of breath and convinced that War Lord had trampled Whit to death in the stall.
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