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Return to Tyler

Where scandals and secrets are unleashed in a small town and love is found around every corner…

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Secret Baby Spencer

Jule McBride

Patchwork Family

Judy Christenberry

Prescription for Seduction

Darlene Scalera

Bride of Dreams

Linda Randall Wisdom

Patchwork Family
Judy Christenberry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Judy Christenberry has been writing romances for fifteen years because she loves happy endings as much as her readers. Judy quit teaching French recently and devoted her time to writing. She hopes readers have as much fun reading her stories as she does writing them. She spends her spare time reading, watching her favorite sports teams and keeping track of her two daughters. Judy’s a native Texan, but now lives in Arizona.

Who’s Who in Tyler

Quinn Spencer—His prowess in the courtroom is rivaled only by his skill in the bedroom.

Molly Blake—Her new Breakfast Inn Bed caters to lovers—but her own bed is empty….

Sara Blake—She wants a daddy for Christmas….

Martha Bauer—A master quilter with a sweet tooth…and a soft heart.

Ursula Wilson—Nothing gets past this old biddy, on Ivy Lane…or anywhere in Tyler, for that matter.

Emma Finklebaum, Tillie Phelps, Bea Ferguson, Merry Linton and Lydia Perry—Tyler’s Quilting Circle—they sew the most beautiful quilts…and matchmake the most unlikely couples.

Marge Phelps—The proprietor of Marge’s Diner, where good food is served up along with plenty of gossip.

Kaitlin Rodier—The keeper of Kaity’s Kids, Tyler’s premier day care center.

Elias Spencer—This patriarch watches after his sons…but has a wandering eye for the ladies.

Brady Spencer—He doctors broken bones and broken hearts…all except his own.

Seth Spencer—The first of the Spencer brothers to fall… Will he be the only one to wed?

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Blood pumped through Molly Blake’s body as she raced across the town square of Tyler, Wisconsin.

“You’re being ridiculous!” she panted to herself as she ran, but she didn’t slow down. Instead, her mind listed the reasons for panicking.

Thank God, it wasn’t a large town square. It wasn’t a large town, for that matter. But if she’d had to run any farther, she might have collapsed.

She leaned for only half a second by the discreetly lettered brass plate that read Trask and Spencer, Attorneys-at-law. With a prayer of hope, she drew a shuddering breath and shoved away from the red-brick wall of the building and slammed back the door to the law offices.

Warmth flooded her. After all, it was winter in Wisconsin, the beginning of December. Every occupied building had its heat on full blast. And she was still wearing a knitted cap over her messy long braid, still had her navy pea jacket wrapped around her, her gloves on her hands, boots on her feet.

She shivered. The cold was coming from deep within her. From her fears. From—

“May I help you?” a pleasant woman asked.

In the almost shadowy interior of the building, Molly hadn’t really seen her.

Gasping for air, Molly got out, “I need to see Mrs. Trask, at once. It’s—it’s an emergency!”

With the calm precision of someone who loves routine, the woman asked, “Are you a client of Mrs. Trask’s?”

Molly wanted to leap over the desk and yank the woman to her feet by the elegant lapels of her gray suit, even though she couldn’t blame the secretary for her lack of enthusiasm. Molly knew she wasn’t at her best.

She’d run a few brief errands at the post office and the grocery, after dropping off her child at day care. She’d planned to hurry home to continue refinishing one of the wooden tables she’d bought for the dining room. The stained sweat suit beneath her coat wouldn’t do her any favors in the impression department, either.

“Yes!” she said, drawing out a hiss as she fought to control her temper.

“Your name and the nature of your business?” the secretary prodded.

Dear God, she might throttle the woman yet. “Molly Blake. And I’ll explain the nature of my business to Mrs. Trask. Just tell her I’m here and it’s an emer—”

“I can’t do that, Ms. Blake.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s out of the office.”

“What?” Molly almost screamed, unable to retain any semblance of sanity. If she didn’t get help, she wouldn’t be sane, anyway. If there was no hope—

Just as the woman began to caution her for her unruly response, a door to the left of the reception desk opened and a handsome man stepped out.

“Problem, Mrs. Allen?”

Molly had seen him before. Heard stories about him. Overheard him explain with great clarity his distaste for children. She wanted nothing to do with Amanda Trask’s partner, Quinn Spencer.

Anyway, he wouldn’t understand.

“Yes, sir,” the secretary said, nodding her head like a bird considering a worm. “This lady seems a bit overheated.”

“An amazing feat in this weather,” the lawyer drawled.

Molly’s dislike instantly turned to hatred. How easy to be above it all with a wealthy family, a secure job, a life of—of jet-setting!

She drew a deep breath and faced Mrs. Allen. “When will Mrs. Trask be available?”

Surely she had made that request in a calm, professional manner. Why was the woman hesitating?

It took a nod from the attorney for the secretary to open an appointment book on her desk.

“I believe she’s free on the eleventh…of January,” the woman said. She looked up at Molly over the rims of her glasses, pen in hand. “Do you want that appointment?”

“No!” Molly cried, pain filling her voice and her body. By then it would be too late. Too, too late. “I can’t wait,” she gasped, reduced to pleading. “Please, if you’ll talk to Amanda, I’m sure—”

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the man, Quinn Spencer, murmured.

Molly stared at him, shock making it difficult to even figure out what he’d said. He wanted to do the politically correct niceties when she was dying here? With a nod, she turned back to the dragon guarding the entrance to the secret cave. “Please—”

“I’m Mrs. Trask’s partner. Did you say you’re a client of Amanda’s?”

“Yes,” she snapped.

Before she could again plead for help, he spoke to the secretary. “Mrs. Allen, if you’ll pull Mrs. Blake’s file and bring it into my office, I’ll see if I can assist her, since she said her visit is an emergency.”

She might not like what she knew about Quinn Spencer. She might have decided thirty seconds ago she hated him. But she did know everyone considered him to be a brilliant attorney. Any port in a storm, as her dad had always said.

“Thank you,” she muttered, and hurried into his office as he held the door for her.

QUINN SPENCER CLOSED the door behind him even as he considered Amanda’s client. Had he made a mistake, agreeing to see her? He’d heard her name—maybe Amanda had mentioned it—but he couldn’t quite put together what business the woman was conducting with his partner.

She’d seemed nearly hysterical, but at least she didn’t seem dangerous at the moment.

And he was considerably larger than she. His solid six feet weren’t exceptional in Tyler, but he had a good seven or eight inches on her. And in spite of the bulky coat, he suspected she’d have trouble weighing more than one-hundrd-and-ten pounds.

She was still standing, her face tight, her body tense.

“Sit down, Mrs. Blake. Take off your coat. It’s too warm in here to be all bundled up.” He could do the manners thing. A lot of times it helped ease the situation, whatever it might be.

“Please! You don’t understand!” She waited until he circled his desk. Then she began pacing his spacious but pleasantly cluttered office as if she were in a psych ward unit. Wringing her hands. Frowning fiercely. Well, as fierce as a five-foot-four blonde with big blue eyes could seem.

“No, but I will if you’ll stop pacing and explain it to me.”

He didn’t win any brownie points for his calm demeanor.

“I’m going to lose everything! I can’t— I’ve budgeted very carefully! It’s— I can’t! I won’t let that woman—”

There it was again. That raw emotion, the pain, the anger. Not the first time he’d heard those things, but there was no question she was feeling them all.

He softened his voice. After all, he’d dealt with distraught women before. Sometimes the emotional reaction had even been caused by him. This time he was sure he was innocent.

“So your difficulty stems from your budget?” After all, that was the only clue she’d given him.

“No!” she said, whirling around to face him. Anger became the dominant emotion. “No! My difficulty stems from that damned Ursula Wilson!” Then she looked stricken, a guilty expression on her lovely lips.

Uh, not lovely, he stuttered in his mind. He hadn’t meant to notice that. He turned his attention to whatever had changed her expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

He blinked twice before he asked cautiously, “You mean it’s not true? Mrs. Wilson isn’t—”

“Yes, it’s true! She’s trying to get revenge for—Anyway, it’s true, but I shouldn’t have cursed her.”

He almost laughed out loud. In all her ranting, the woman was castigating herself because she’d said “damn?” He couldn’t believe it. Wisconsin was known for its wide-eyed milkmaids, but this was ridiculous.

Covering his hand with his mouth and pretending to cough, he suggested again, “Why don’t you sit down and give me the details of Mrs. Wilson’s activities? I’m slightly acquainted with her and have some knowledge of local law, so…” Inside he was smirking. Some knowledge of the local law. Yeah. Local, state, national and international.

Suddenly, as if he’d discovered the key to unlock all the information stored inside, she did as he asked, almost falling into one of the leather wing chairs in front of his desk and spewing out information.

“She’s trying to block me from getting my business license. She’s also filed a zoning protest! I’ve done everything exactly as is required. I’ve met every deadline, paid every fee. I talked to the Chamber of Commerce. I even talked to Joe and Susannah Santori and the Kelseys. I’ve done everything I could possibly do! But she won’t—”

“Whoa!” Quinn said, even holding up a hand, the universal symbol of stop, afraid his voice wouldn’t penetrate her spate of words. “Let me be sure I’ve followed everything so far. Uh, just for the record, what kind of business are we talking about?”

“My bed-and-breakfast. Breakfast Inn Bed on Ivy Lane.” The tiniest measure of pride appeared in her words, along with all those other emotions.

Well, that information cleared up some of his questions. Ursula Wilson lived on Ivy Lane. A neighbor. Joe and Susannah ran the only bed-and-breakfast in town. Mrs. Blake’s competition. And the Kelseys had a boardinghouse.

“Okay, you’re starting up a business. You’ve done everything you’re supposed to do, and you feel Mrs. Wilson is trying to shut you down?”

“Yes!”

“She’s filed something at Town Hall?”

Hesitation had her blinking those big blue eyes. “I—I’m not sure. Lydia said—”

“Lydia?”

“Lydia Perry. She said Mrs. Wilson is circling a petition among my neighbors. And—and she said she was going to prevent the zoning change.”

He made a couple of notes. Lydia Perry was a member, albeit a fairly new one, of the beloved Quilting Circle that operated out of Worthington House. Quinn’s favorite people.

“When did she tell you this?”

“This morning! I was in the grocery picking up a couple of things and she stopped me. Said she’d been meaning to call me. I—I tried to remain calm, but my heart started beating fast and I couldn’t breathe and—and I left her standing there and ran over here. You see, I need to— It has to succeed. I’ve got enough to make it for a year. New businesses need that much cushion. I know that. I’ve planned for it. I’ve been fixing up the house, buying furniture. I’ve even bought some quilts, so I can— Never mind, you don’t need to know that. But I have to succeed! And I will not allow that woman to destroy everything I’ve worked for just because she’s jealous!”

“Take a deep breath,” he counseled in his most charming, soothing, masculine, I-know-best manner, hoping to relieve some of her stress.

Instead, it appeared he’d pressed the wrong button. She leaped to her feet and leaned over his desk. “Weren’t you listening? Remaining calm isn’t going to get me anywhere. I’ve got to do something! I need to know what I can— I need to see Amanda!” she exclaimed, and turned to charge the door.

He stayed in his chair. “She’s out of town and won’t be back until next week. There’s an emergency case that requires—”

“I’m an emergency case!” she reminded him.

“Yes, you are, and that’s why I’m talking to you. I understand the urgency, Mrs. Blake. But if you’ve given yourself a cushion of a year, as you’ve said, then another half hour for me to understand the problem, whereby I will be able to plan our moves, doesn’t seem too much to ask.”

SHE HATED HIM.

The calm, rational man, making her sound like an overemotional woman. Okay, so she couldn’t deny either of those assessments. But he didn’t understand how difficult the past two years had been. How much she had resting on the hope of the bed-and-breakfast.

He didn’t understand about Sara, her beloved daughter. She couldn’t fail Sara. Not when Christopher had already abjectly failed his daughter. Not when Sara had no one else to depend on.

Drawing a deep breath, she tried to bring her emotions under control. After all, Mr. Spencer had at least listened to her so far. And if she lost everything—she gulped back a sob—then she’d find a way. She’d move back to Chicago, get a regular job again.

She and Sara would survive, no matter what.

A calm centered in her and she took her seat again. Looking up from the clenched hands in her lap, she said, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Spencer, for my rudeness. You’re quite right, of course.”

He stared at her as if she were an alien creature. She couldn’t blame him. She had a feeling she hadn’t made the man’s day with all her weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

He smiled, another of those I-can-charm-your-socks-off smiles that made her want to slap him. Christopher had practiced those—on a lot of women. Except her, of course. He hadn’t needed to charm her.

“Thank you for—for calming down, Mrs. Blake.”

He’d been about to say for coming to her senses. She knew it. She hated him.

“Certainly. Do you believe you’ll be able to help me resolve these issues?”

“Of course we will. We’re a well-respected firm, and for good reason. If, as you say, you’ve done everything you should, Mrs. Wilson won’t have a leg to stand on. Now, I just have a couple more questions.”

“Yes?” Okay, that had been a little short, less gracious. She tried again with a smile that she hoped looked better than it felt. “Of course. Please, what else can I tell you?”

“You could explain your remark about revenge.”

She closed her eyes briefly, hysterical laughter rising in her. Fighting it back, she cleared her throat and said, “I hope you’ll excuse my emotional outburst earlier. Those remarks really had no place—I’m sure Mrs. Wilson’s reasons are based on—”

Quinn folded his hands together and leaned forward, interrupting her stammering explanation. “Mrs. Blake? I understand that your feelings are not facts. It’s my job to evaluate the situation. But I need to have your impressions. All of them.”

He was right as usual, logical, calm. She definitely hated him. With a deep sigh, she avoided his gaze and abruptly began, “My husband, Christopher, is—was a native of Tyler, Mr. Spencer.”

She got more reaction that she expected. “You’re Christopher Blake’s wife?”

That question was the first non-lawyerly remark the man had made. Molly proceeded with caution. “Widow. I’m his widow. Did you know my husband?”

She already knew the answer. Christopher had spoken of Quinn Spencer occasionally, usually with bitterness because Christopher didn’t have the fortune to back him that Quinn had. It made being a playboy so much more difficult. Playboy on a budget. No, somehow that just didn’t work.

“Of course I did,” Quinn replied. “We went through school together. I wasn’t aware that he’d died. When—”

“Two years ago.” She couldn’t be that gracious. And she couldn’t be remorseful. She’d tried, but the grieving widow role required more talent than her amateur acting skills.

When she said nothing else, he prodded, “And this applies to Mrs. Wilson because…”

She licked her dry lips. “It applies because Mrs. Wilson hates my guts. She envisioned her daughter, Layla, Linda, Lannie, I don’t know, some L name, as Christopher’s wife.”

He shielded his mouth again, giving another polite cough. “I believe her name is Lila.”

She shrugged her shoulders, tired of the story. “Whatever. It seems her daughter married beneath herself because she still loved Christopher and I had stolen him, according to Mrs. Wilson.” How she wished she’d been able to give him back.

“I see.” Very lawyerly. He even nodded, steepling his hands beneath his chin.

Very nice hands. Large, strong, well cared for.

She jerked her gaze away. It immediately collided with his. A question resided in his hazel eyes. Or were they green?

What was wrong with her? The man’s eye color had nothing to do with her.

“Do you have other questions?” she asked, seeking that peaceful calm, the center of the storm that had gotten her through the past few minutes.

He stood, giving her a polite smile. “No, not at the moment. I’ll study your file. Then I’ll check with the clerk’s office to see if Mrs. Wilson has filed.”

“There’s a petition. She’s circulating a petition to all my neighbors, trying to get them to side with her, to keep me from opening.” How could she have forgotten—

He looked down at his notes. “I believe you did mention it. We won’t be able to stop her petition, but we should be able to come up with a strategy to counteract it. A petition isn’t legally binding, you know. It’s a tool for persuasion. But there are others.”

She took another deep breath. She was verging on the hysterical again. Determined not to ruin her performance of a calm woman, however pathetic it had been, Molly stood. “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to repeat myself.” She extended her hand, trying to be professional. However, as she realized she’d removed her gloves at some point in their conversation, she also noted the brown stains on her fingers.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, snatching her hands behind her back. “I’m sorry. I’m staining some furniture and—”

“That’s quite all right,” he assured her soothingly.

Except it didn’t soothe her. She whirled toward the door, anxious to escape the most humiliating experience she’d ever suffered through.

“Your coat, Mrs. Blake?”

It was getting worse. Not only had she taken off her gloves, she’d apparently shrugged out of the old navy pea jacket she’d found in one of the closets and fallen in love with. The pea jacket that covered the stains on her sweats.

After all, she’d intended to make two stops that would take five minutes, tops, and then be back at work. It seemed silly to even think about changing.

Wrong.

“I—I’m sorry. I know I look a mess. I’m staining a table—”

“Yes, I believe you did say that. Don’t concern yourself, Mrs. Blake. This isn’t New York. We don’t have a dress code for our clients.”

Gracious answer. So why did it make her want to scream? Maybe because he was standing before her in a very expensive navy pinstripe suit and leather wing tips that would probably cover her food budget for half a year. His light brown hair, with just a touch of blond to suggest days spent in the tropics, had been expertly cut. Businesslike, of course, but with a touch of freedom, giving him a sophisticated air of self-determination. The perfect jet-setter cut.

Christopher would’ve loved it.

She shrugged on her coat without responding.

Then, sticking her hands into her coat pockets, she nodded to the man with impeccable clothes. Impeccable manners. Impeccable everything.

“I appreciate your time, Mr. Spencer. Your secretary has my address for billing. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

As an exit line, it wasn’t bad. Until she neared the door and almost tripped over a table holding an expensive vase.

She grabbed the vase and stepped back. Then, after taking a deep breath, she steadied it back in its place.

Without turning around, offering another apology or trying for a better exit line, she walked out of the office.

And prayed Amanda would get back to town at once.

Chapter Two

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Quinn said, his best smile in place. “Are you keeping warm?”

The quilting circle of older women smiled back at him, as welcoming as ever. Each lifted her cheek for the kiss he always bestowed on them, patting his arm as if he were a little boy.

Maybe that was the charm that frequently brought him to Worthington House. To the rest of the world, he was a playboy. To the ladies here in this sun-drenched room that looked out on a cold world, he was Quinn, a young lad with a good heart.

Or maybe, he reluctantly admitted to himself, these ladies were his surrogate mothers, making up for his mother walking out on her family so many years ago. His friends would laugh at the thought that Quinn Spencer longed for his mother. Or any woman.

He’d been only seven years old when his mother, Violet, had left them. They’d been in Tyler only six months, his father having relocated from New York where he left behind his lucrative career on the stock exchange for a quieter, gentler life in the small town. Elias had hoped his high-strung wife would learn to relax once she was out of the bustle of the city, but Violet couldn’t—or wouldn’t—change. She’d run off with Ray Benedict, her lover from New York, much to the shock of their social circle in the city and the residents of Tyler. Not to mention her husband and three sons.

“We didn’t expect you today, Quinn dear,” said Martha Bauer, one of the older members, calling Quinn back from his memories. She patted an empty chair next to her. “Sit down.”

“I’d love to as long as you share your M&M’s,” he teased. Martha had a sweet tooth and he kept her supply of candy well stocked.

Tillie Phelps nodded her head. “We even have cookies today. Bea made a fresh batch this morning.”

Bea Ferguson, at sixty-seven, was one of the younger members. She blushed but nudged a plate toward Quinn.

“Don’t mind if I do, Bea. These look terrific.” And they were. He enjoyed them more than any expensive hors d’oeuvres he’d ever been served.

As he munched, he watched the ladies set tiny stitches in the colorful quilt they were making. Each quilt was either given to charity or sold and the money used to help the community. The women had become legendary both for their incredible artistry and their hearts of gold.

“Where is this one going?” he asked, while he considered how to bring the conversation around to the reason for his visit.

Merry Linton, another newcomer to the group, smoothed a loving hand across the patchwork quilt. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? It’s called Bachelor’s Puzzle.”

He nodded, still tangling with his own puzzle.

Bea answered his question. “That lovely young woman with the new bed-and-breakfast has purchased it.”

He choked on a cookie crumb. Clearing his throat, he asked cautiously, “Do you mean Molly Blake?”

Martha and Tillie exchanged a look he couldn’t interpret, but it put him on his toes. Something was up.

Martha smiled. “Why, yes, dear, have you met Molly? Isn’t she wonderful?”

Quinn frowned. He could agree that Molly was attractive. Wonderful? The distraught, angry woman he’d faced in his office that morning was hard to fit into the simple word wonderful.

Complex, challenging, sexy. He shook his head. No, not sexy—

“You haven’t met her?” Tillie asked, obviously interpreting his shake of head as a no.

“Yes, yes, I have. This morning, in fact. So, you like the idea of a new bed-and-breakfast?”

“Oh, yes,” Emma Finklebaum said with a sigh. “Such a lovely idea. A romantic bed-and-breakfast. And she’s going to plan the decor of each suite around one of our quilts.”

“Ah,” he said, like Sherlock Holmes uncovering a vital clue. “You’re glad because you’ll make money!”

The ladies chuckled. Through the years, they’d expressed amazement at the rising value of their efforts.

“It’s more than that,” Martha said. “She’s a lovely person…and the best mother in the world.”

“Mother?” That subject hadn’t come up in their visit that morning.

“Oh, yes,” Merry agreed. “Her little Sara is a charmer. Molly brings her to visit us sometimes.”

“Sara likes my candy,” Martha added, as if that were a vital piece of information.

Quinn smiled, charmed by Martha’s pride. He wouldn’t tell her that every kid liked candy. He would never do anything to make Martha feel less important than she did.

Tillie, who had remained silent until now, asked, “Why did she come to see you? Is there a problem?”

At her question, all the ladies stopped plying their needles and stared at Quinn.

He held up a hand. “Client confidentiality,” he murmured, then waited quietly for their response. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Ursula!” Bea exclaimed.

“I can’t believe she’s still causing difficulties,” Merry exclaimed.

But, then, sweet Merry never believed the worst of anyone.

Emma leaned even closer. “What’s the problem?”

Quinn carefully phrased his question. “I wondered if any of you had been approached about signing a petition.”

“Of course we have!” Martha exclaimed, adding a snort of derision. “That woman thought we’d want to sink poor Molly’s plans. As if we would!”

“Why does she want to stop the opening of the bed-and-breakfast?” he asked.

Tillie leaned closer. “She says it’s because the business will destroy the peace and quiet of Ivy Lane.”

“But you don’t believe her?”

“Of course not,” Bea, unusually animated, replied. “She thinks Molly stole Christopher from her Lila, don’t you know.”

“As if he were a prize,” Emma added.

Quinn tried to picture Christopher as the answer to a woman’s dream. In particular, Molly’s dream. He’d been trying to do so ever since Molly had left his office.

“And he wasn’t?”

The ladies all looked at one another. Finally Martha responded. “No, Quinn dear, he wasn’t. He was a selfish, egotistical man. A playboy!” She put all her disgust into her last words.

Quinn cleared his throat. “I’m considered to be a playboy, too,” he reminded her.

Martha leaned over to pat his cheek. “But we know better, dear.”

Quinn smiled but shook his head. Maybe that was why he loved these ladies. They saw him through a proud mother’s eyes. Instead of a mother who’d obviously been so unhappy she’d run away and left her three sons—with no word for over twenty-three years.

“Do you think the neighbors will go along with Ursula?” he asked.

All the women proclaimed their hopes that Molly would come out on top.

Emma capped off their remarks with, “Ursula needs to get a life!”

Such a flippant, with-it comment from eighty-year-old Emma brought a smile to Quinn’s face. “I believe you’re right, ladies. And I’ll see what I can do to help things along.”

Amid their praise, he eased himself from the room, promising to visit them again soon.

Heading back to the office, he thought again about what he’d discovered. Ursula Wilson had filed a request to deny the zoning change necessary for Molly’s inn, as he’d suspected. She had another week to supply the city with her petition. It needed one-hundred names. In the morning, he had an appointment with the mayor to discuss the potential problem for Molly Blake.

He thought the situation was a tempest in a teapot, but he wanted to be sure to cover every aspect. The passion in Molly Blake’s voice prodded him to be thorough.

The woman had intrigued him all day. She’d been a mess, of course, in appearance. But an intriguing mess. A woman who took charge of her future. He’d been impressed with her planning, her hard work.

Then he’d discovered she was a mother.

Any interest disappeared with that information. He’d promised himself never to be involved in a child’s life. It was too great a responsibility. One his own mother had abdicated. And he was her son.

MOLLY STARED AT HERSELF in the mirror.

She couldn’t believe the difference a few hours had made. When she’d reached the street, after her interview with Quinn Spencer, she’d seen her reflection in a plate-glass window. She’d already realized her appearance was less than professional.

But the physical evidence of her reflection shook her.

All along she’d planned to update her appearance, knowing it would be an important part of marketing her bed-and-breakfast. But she figured that part of her plan could wait. There was no urgency.

Seeing herself as Mr. Spencer must’ve seen her, however, changed her mind.

The Hair Affair, the beauty salon on the corner, became her immediate destination. Forget the table waiting at home. She had more important business to conduct.

Now she stood before a dressing room mirror, wearing navy wool slacks topped by a cream turtleneck sweater, her hair feathered around her face. The new short style made her feel younger. The manicure gave her a touch of elegance.

She closed her eyes, seeing Quinn Spencer staring at her, respect and awe in his expression. Then she burst out laughing. Talk about fantasy!

The saleswoman in Gates Department Store, the Neiman-Marcus of Tyler, asked in bewilderment, “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Bell. You’ve been very helpful. These clothes are exactly what I had in mind. I’ll take them. And also the other two pair of slacks. And the blue sweater.”

The lady beamed at her. “Excellent choices. You have such wonderful taste.”

Probably not what Quinn Spencer would say, Molly admitted, but at least the next time she encountered the worldly Mr. Spencer, she wouldn’t feel like Little Orphan Annie.

After she’d paid for and collected her packages, she realized she had almost an hour before she needed to pick up Sara from her friend Kaitlin’s day care. Instead of heading for Ivy Lane and home, she went to Worthington House.

The quilting ladies had become a refuge of support and love for Molly. With no family of her own, she’d discovered among them a sweetness and friendship that went a long way to counteracting the anger and bitterness of Ursula Wilson.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” she called out as she entered the room where the quilting took place. She always marveled at the women’s patience and hard work.

“Molly!” several exclaimed, smiles on their faces. Then they took a second look.

“Why, don’t you look pretty!” Martha exclaimed.

Merry beamed at her. “So young and fresh!”

Molly smiled at them. “Well, certainly better than I’ve been looking lately. I was so involved in fixing up the house, I forgot to fix me up!”

Emma Finklebaum asked, “What made you get all polished up today?”

Molly felt her cheeks heating up. She certainly wasn’t going to mention Quinn Spencer. Besides, she’d intended to improve herself all along. “Um, I decided I needed a more professional appearance to sell the idea of my bed-and-breakfast. After all, Ursula is trying to convince everyone I’ll be a failure. I didn’t want to help her.”

Tillie patted her hand. “Good thinking. I think you’ve made the right decision. Besides, you look so pretty!”

“You certainly do,” Bea seconded, causing Molly’s cheeks to redden even more. “Why, you might just attract a young man with that pretty smile of yours, don’t you know.”

Molly’s breath caught in her throat and she cleared it before she answered. “Um, no, I don’t think— I’m too busy with my plans to— I have no interest in men.”

Lydia Perry came in at that moment to distract her friends. Molly breathed a sigh of relief.

“Molly, dear, I’m so sorry I upset you this morning,” the lady said as she sat down.

“Oh, no, Lydia, it wasn’t your fault,” she hurriedly assured her. “I should’ve remained calm but—but I had no idea Mrs. Wilson had gone so far in her anger.”

“But did you see Amanda Trask? Did she tell you what to do?” Lydia persisted.

With all the ladies anxiously awaiting her answer, Molly couldn’t avoid mentioning the one man she wanted to forget. “Amanda is out of town, but I spoke with her partner. He’s going to look into it.”

The ladies exchanged glances and Molly wondered what they were thinking.

Bea nodded. “You can trust Quinn. He’s the sweetest boy.”

“And very smart,” Martha assured her.

“Such a dear,” Merry added, a gentle smile on her lips.

Tillie agreed. “He’s quite popular around here.”

Molly tried to fit the Quinn Spencer she knew, or rather knew about, with the ladies’ comments. But the playboy, womanizer, jet-setter and all-around man-about-town just didn’t seem “sweet” to her. “I’ve heard he’s a very good attorney.”

“Of course he is,” Martha said, patting her hand. “Don’t worry, dear, he’ll take care of you.”

Somehow, the thought of letting Quinn Spencer “take care” of her left Molly breathless.

“It’s—it’s just until Amanda returns. She should be back in town soon.” She hoped she didn’t sound as edgy as she felt.

If the ladies’ satisfied nods were to be believed, she must’ve have sounded like she had every confidence in Quinn Spencer.

Maybe she was a better actress than she’d thought.

QUINN LEFT THE MAYOR’S OFFICE the next morning, a satisfied smile on his face. The mayor had assured him the entire council was in favor of the bed-and-breakfast. Even if Ursula Wilson got the one-hundred signatures on her petition to bring it before the council, the zoning change would be approved.

He paused on the sidewalk and took a deep breath. It was one of those perfect winter days that occasionally came along, bright sunshine making everything sparkle in spite of the cold air.

Assuring himself that he was only doing so to better serve Amanda’s client, Quinn turned in the direction of Ivy Lane. A brisk walk would be good exercise, and he could personally inform Molly Blake of the good news.

He hadn’t been down Ivy Lane in a while. It was a stately avenue, lined with old homes built years ago. When he reached the Blake home, he noticed the outside of the home had been recently painted and restored.

“That must’ve cost a pretty penny,” he muttered to himself, remembering Molly Blake’s comment about her budget. At least she’d prepared for what was important. A sudden curiosity filled him about the inside. He’d visited Christopher’s home once or twice when they’d been in school. Even then the house had been showing its age.

He trod up the steps and crossed the wide porch to rap on the door. A new door, with a delicate stained-glass oval depicting flowers. With a smile on his face, he prepared himself to greet Molly Blake as the door swung open.

Shock rattled through him.

Gone was the harried, frustrated, angry woman with the messy appearance. In her place was a fashionably dressed young woman with pale blond hair feathering around her face, setting it off like a prized picture in a frame. She was dressed in trim wool pants and a blue sweater that enhanced her eyes.

He assumed the worried look on her face was the result of concern about her future. Hurriedly beginning his explanation, he was shocked again when she scarcely acknowledged his words. When she even began closing the door on him, he put out a hand to stop her.

“Wait. Do you understand, Mrs. Blake?”

“Yes, I—” She broke off as a wail floated down the stairs. She gasped and abandoned the door. “I’m coming, sweetie,” she called as she raced up the stairs.

Quinn frowned as he found himself standing alone in the entryway. He could leave. But then, if he did, he wouldn’t know what was wrong. Not his business, he argued with himself, but he didn’t leave.

Instead, he closed the door and stepped toward the stairs. Before he could ascend, Molly came back into sight at the top of the stairs, carrying a bundle in her arms.

“Is everything all right?”

She appeared surprised to find him still there. “No, my daughter is ill. I appreciate what you’ve done. I’ll—I’ll call later to discuss it. But she needs me right now.”

Quinn had kept his distance from children. And mothers. Too often, he’d seen a woman’s selfish disregard for her child’s needs. He knew how important the bed-and-breakfast was to Molly.

But not more important than her child.

A moan drifted up from the bundle in Molly’s arms. He hadn’t realized she was holding her child. She tightened her arms and murmured soothing words.

“She must be tiny,” he said with a frown, somehow drawn to the invisible child. “Have you taken her to the pediatrician?”

“I called. He can’t see her until late this afternoon.”

Quinn could tell she was trying to remain calm, but he heard the panic in her voice. “Is she running a fever?”

“Yes. It’s very high.”

He stepped even closer and pulled back the blanket, revealing a small face, quite similar to her mother’s, with the same pale hair and big blue eyes. “Hello there,” he whispered.

The little girl tightened her hold on her mother.

Okay, so he’d never been good with children. Never wanted to be good with children. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to walk away from this duo.

“Want me to call my brother?”

Molly blinked those big blue eyes of hers several times before she asked, “Why?”

“Sorry, I forgot you wouldn’t know. My brother Brady is a doctor at Tyler General. He might be able to see her now.”

He’d offered women gifts before, even occasional favors, but he’d never seen such intense gratitude in response. She even reached out to grasp his lapel.

“Oh, yes, please. With her fever so high, I’m—I’m worried.”

He patted her hand and asked for the phone. She led him to the small desk beside the staircase, standing beside him as he called, cuddling her daughter.

“Dr. Spencer, please. It’s his brother, Quinn.”

He covered the receiver and said, “They have to go get him.”

She nodded, hope in her gaze.

“Brady? It’s Quinn. I need a favor. A—a friend has a little girl running a high fever. The doctor can’t see her for seven or eight hours. Could you take a look at her?”

His brother’s hurried agreement had him hanging up the phone at once. “We need to get her there in fifteen minutes. Do you have a car? I walked.”

“Yes! Thank you! Thank you so much. My keys are in the kitchen. I’ll just—”

“Give your little girl to me,” he ordered, reaching out his arms.

She hesitated, as if not sure she should entrust her precious bundle to him, but then she handed over the child.

Quinn felt the heat rising in waves from the child and understood Molly’s fears. The child was very hot. He smiled down at the miserable face. “We’re going to take you to the doctor, and he’ll make you feel better.”

She whimpered and ducked her head against him. He cuddled her closer, surprised at the protective feelings that filled him.

Molly returned, shrugging into her coat. She scooped the little girl out of his arms and handed him the keys, all at the same time. “You drive, please.”

His eyebrows rose. “You want me to drive your car?” he asked, not sure he’d understood.

She nodded as she turned to lead him through the kitchen to the garage. “Yes, please. I have to hold Sara.”

Such motherly devotion filled Quinn with stark terror.

Chapter Three

All Molly could think about was Sara. She murmured soothing words to her daughter as Quinn Spencer drove them to the hospital. Sara had never been sick, other than occasional sniffles, in her four years of life. It unnerved Molly to see her baby in such straits.

“She’s so hot,” she muttered, scarcely aware she had spoken out loud.

“I’m sure Brady will be able to help her,” Quinn assured her. He pulled into the emergency parking area and came to a stop.

Molly was out of the vehicle, Sara still clutched to her chest, before he could come around and assist her. “Will your brother meet us here, in the emergency room?”

“Yes. He should be waiting.”

Molly scanned the medical personnel as they entered the hospital. It didn’t take her long to identify Brady Spencer. His hair might be darker than his brother’s, but they had the same eyes. Besides, he was hurrying toward them.

“Is this my patient?” he asked, voice filled with gentle reassurance. “What’s her name?”

“Sara,” Molly told him, but she was reluctant to release her child, even to the doctor.

“Hello, Sara,” Dr. Spencer said, pulling back the cover to see her daughter’s face. “How about we see if we can make you well again? Want to come with me? I may even have a lollipop for you.”

Sara nodded. The doctor scooped her from Molly’s arms. Molly reached out as he moved away, afraid to lose sight of her daughter.

Strong arms came around her. “She’ll be all right, Molly,” Quinn whispered in her ear. “You can trust Brady.”

With a strangled sob, she instinctively turned into those strong arms and buried her face in his chest. All she could think about was her precious child.

It had been so long since she’d had anyone to lean on, to share her burdens. The comfort the attorney offered was too tempting. She remained there, absorbing his strength, until other feelings invaded her concern.

She jerked herself from his embrace, embarrassed. How could she think about a man, any man, when Sara was ill? She certainly wasn’t a lonely widow looking for some man to rescue her. No! She and Sara were a team. They didn’t need anyone.

But, for a minute, she admitted, having someone to lean on had felt good.

“I’m sorry. I don’t usually fall apart, but Sara’s never been really sick and—and—”

“It’s all right. I guess I’d feel the same way if my child—” He broke off and looked away from her.

She already knew he had no children and never intended to be a father. One night at Marge’s, the local diner, she’d overheard a conversation not intended for her ears. Quinn had been explaining to his companions how he felt about children.

“Children only complicate your life and take up time. I’m always on the go. I’ll leave raising the little rug rats to other people,” he’d said with a laugh.

Which made his assistance today impressive.

“I appreciate your help. High fever always frightens me.” He must think her a real fraidy cat. After all, yesterday she’d been just as frantic. “You must think I’m always— I mean, yesterday—”

He took her arm and drew her over to a row of chairs. “Special circumstances, Molly. Don’t worry about it.”

She sat down because she didn’t know what else to do. She’d wanted to follow the doctor into the examining room, but that hadn’t appeared to be an option, which worried her even more. A nurse had hovered at the doctor’s side, ready to assist him, and Sara hadn’t put up any resistance. Now, Molly clutched her hands tightly together, tensely waiting for the doctor’s —and Sara’s—reappearance.

A large hand reached out and covered her two. Its warmth helped ward off the chill that was racing through her. “It’ll be all right,” Quinn whispered.

“I appreciate your talking your brother into seeing us right away. I don’t know what could’ve caused such high fever. It could be meningitis, or even—” she gasped at the thought “—even leukemia.”

“It’s probably nothing more than the flu, which I’ve heard is going around.”

“You don’t know that!” she snapped, refusing to be consoled.

He squeezed her hands and said, “No, I don’t, but we don’t want to borrow trouble if it’s not necessary.”

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “No, of course not. I’m sorry.”

He seemed to take her apology in stride. “Do you have any family, other than Sara?”

She shook her head.

“Your parents?”

She stared at him. Did the man think she could carry on a normal conversation when her baby was desperately ill? “They’re both dead. My mother died when I was twelve, my father three years ago.” Before he could ask, she added, “I was an only child.”

As Sara was and would be. Molly had no intention of ever considering matrimony again, of giving Sara a stepfather who might fail her as miserably as her own father had done. No, it would be just the two of them.

“No aunts, uncles, cousins?”

“Are you asking who to notify in case of an accident? Or—or a death?” she demanded, her voice rising.

“No! I was just making conversation,” he assured her, squeezing her hands again.

She snatched her hands away from the warmth that had begun to seep into her tense body. Denying herself that comfort made her feel closer to her daughter.

“Molly, I wasn’t—” Quinn began, but he halted as Brady appeared, holding Sara in his arms.

Molly exploded from the chair and raced to meet her daughter. “What is it?” she asked the doctor. “Is she okay? What caused the fever?”

“She’s going to be fine,” Dr. Spencer assured her.

Molly’s knees suddenly went weak. She would’ve sagged to the floor if Quinn hadn’t been behind her to support her.

It was Quinn who followed up with questions. Molly couldn’t speak. “What caused the fever?”

“The flu. It’s going around. She got dehydrated, which only made the fever worse.”

“I tried to get her to drink juice, but it kept coming back up,” Molly told him.

“I know. I’ve given her a shot that will settle her stomach and ward off any additional infection, and we put an IV in her. I want you to get some Pedialyte to give her. It comes in liquid and Popsicles. She should be able to keep that down. Wash her face with a lukewarm washcloth to help keep the fever from getting too high.”

Molly nodded even as she reached for her child. Sara snuggled against her mother, but her eyes never opened.

“Is she asleep?” Molly asked, alarmed.

“Almost. The shot made her drowsy. She needs lots of rest and liquids. Feed her soup, keep her still and call if anything worries you.”

“Yes. Yes, of course, Doctor. Thank you so much for seeing us. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate—”

Brady Spencer grinned. “Thank my baby brother. He’s the reason I worked Sara in. But I’m glad I did. She needed attention right away.”

Molly nodded again, swallowing a huge lump in her throat. “Yes, I’ve already told him how much I appreciated his offer to call you.”

The loudspeaker blared out Dr. Spencer’s name, and he excused himself, rushing down the hall to his next emergency, leaving Molly holding Sara close.

QUINN WAS RELIEVED at his brother’s diagnosis. Molly’s fears had begun to affect him, and he’d feared that the small child might’ve had a dangerous ailment.

She was so tiny. Like a doll.

He offered to carry her, but Molly refused. “I have some money in my purse. Could we stop by the pharmacy here in the hospital and see if they have what the doctor recommended?”

“Yes, of course.” He paused and then said, “In fact, why don’t we put you and Sara in the car. I’ll go back and get the medicine. She’ll get heavy if you hold her while we shop.”

“Do you mind?” she asked, her blue eyes anxious.

“Not at all.” He escorted her to the car, putting her in the back seat, guessing she wasn’t going to give up holding her child.

“I’ll hurry,” he promised. Then he returned to the hospital.

In the pharmacy, he found Pedialyte in clear liquid form and in fruit flavors. And the Popsicles, encased in plastic, waiting to be frozen. He chose some of each variety, wanting to be sure Molly had what she needed. After paying, he hurried back to the car.

“I forgot to give you money,” Molly said at once as he slid behind the wheel.

“That’s okay. I’ll add it to your bill.” He’d do no such thing, but those words kept Molly from protesting.

When they arrived back at her house, he came around the car and reached for Sara.

“No! I’ll carry her.”

“Molly, she’ll have to be carried upstairs. Your arms are probably already tired from holding her. It’ll be safer if I carry her. You can go ahead and turn down the covers on her bed.”

“It’s on the third floor,” she warned, watching him.

So much for his manly appearance. She didn’t seem to think he could make it that far. “I think I can make it up two flights of stairs carrying your little girl. She hardly weighs anything.”

As if she took his words as a criticism, she said, “I try to tempt her to eat. She doesn’t have much of an appetite.”

“I think she’s small-boned,” he said, hoping to appease Molly. Hell, he didn’t know what four-year-olds should weigh.

He didn’t know anything about kids. And didn’t intend to. Today was the exception to the rule. He couldn’t have abandoned Molly and Sara when he found them in such desperate straits.

She unlocked the front door, waited for him to enter and then pulled it closed behind him to keep out the cold. “This way,” she said, circling him and starting up the stairs.

He watched her race ahead of him, her trim figure in his face as he followed. He’d been right about her figure beneath that tacky sweat suit she’d worn yesterday.

She was a very attractive woman.

But she was also a mother.

Cross her off the list of potential lovers.

Too bad.

They reached the second floor and she led the way to a staircase almost hidden in the back of the house behind a closed door.

“Isn’t it a pain, living on the third floor?”

“No, it keeps us in good shape.”

He couldn’t disagree with that statement.

“And it’s like living in a tree house. We feel safe, tucked up here.”

They reached the top of the stairs and she led him down a short hall, opening the first door on the right. He followed her, seeing only the bed. She pulled back the covers and turned around to take Sara from his arms.

He let the warm little bundle go, reluctantly. It was only because he felt responsible for her, he quickly assured himself. As he stepped back, he took in his surroundings. Not a large room, but it was the perfect child’s room. A window seat, partially hidden by pink curtains, graced one wall. There was a mural on the wall next to the hall.

The bed had a pink ruffle around the bottom, beneath a pink and green quilt. Stuffed animals sat on several shelves, as well as storybooks. In one corner at the edge of the matching green rug sat a big brown bear.

A room full of loving touches. He had no doubt about who was responsible for the perfect child’s room. Molly Blake was the best mother he’d ever met.

Not that he’d met many mothers. There had been a few society women, a couple of whom had even tried to seduce him when he was dating their daughters. Their selfish attitudes only reinforced his own experience. His mother apparently had been more interested in her own happiness than any problems he or his brothers might have at having been abandoned by her.

Molly was different.

He began backing out of the room. “Um, I’ll leave you to make Sara comfortable.”

She whirled around. “I can’t thank you enough. Oh! The Pedialyte! It’s still in the car.”

“I’ll go get it.” He was glad for a real excuse to escape the nest Molly had created.

He hurried down the two flights of stairs and went out to the car. When he’d gotten the large sack, he turned back to the house. As he stepped inside, he drew a deep breath and took in his surroundings for the first time.

The first floor reflected as much love and care as Sara’s room. The wood on the banister gleamed with polish. The walls had been recently painted a soft cream. Flowers were tastefully arranged on the desk beside the stairway. A glimpse into the other rooms that opened off the main hall, the living room on the right and a large dining room on the left, were filled with antiques as polished as the banister.

Had she done all the work herself?

It reminded him of the idea he’d intended to explain to Molly. From his own memories of the house, he knew he had the right idea.

But the sudden need to escape, to get out of Molly’s personal space—and even the entryway was a reflection of Molly—seized him. He looked around for a place to set the bag.

“Thanks for getting it out of the car for me,” Molly called as she came down the stairs.

He jerked around and stared up at her.

“Sara’s gone to sleep. She’s resting much better and she’s not as hot.” She reached the bottom of the stairs. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee? It’s not much after all you’ve done for us but—”

“No! No, thank you. I’ve got appointments,” he said, thrusting the bag in her arms. “It was nothing, actually. I hope Sara gets better soon.”

And he ran out of the house.

Molly stood there, the bag in her arms, staring at the door through which Quinn had fled.

What was wrong with him? She’d offered a cup of coffee. That was all. You’d think she’d tried to seduce him.

LYDIA PERRY RUSHED OUT of the cold into the warmth of Worthington House early the next morning, knowing she’d already find her friends hard at work on another quilt. They’d finished the Bachelor’s Puzzle for Molly Blake yesterday afternoon.

“Have you heard?” she said as soon as she entered the room.

“Heard what?” Martha asked, barely looking up from her stitching.

“About poor little Sara Blake.”

Those words got everyone’s attention.

“What wrong with Sara?” Merry asked anxiously. The child was a favorite with all the ladies, but Merry especially delighted in her visits.

“She’s got the flu.”

“Oh, the poor baby,” Tillie crooned.

“She had a very high fever. If it hadn’t been for Quinn, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

Emma looked up sharply. “Quinn? What does he have to do with Sara being sick?”

All the stitching stopped as the ladies stared at Lydia.

“He called Brady and then took Sara and Molly to the hospital. Sara was dehydrated. He gave her an IV and fixed her up. This nurse I know told me how concerned Quinn was. He stayed with Molly the entire time Sara was with the doctor, holding her hand.”

Martha and Tillie stared at Lydia, then at each other, a light dawning in their eyes.

“Do you think—” Tilly began.

“It’s possible,” Martha agreed, nodding vigorously.

“I can’t believe it,” Emma protested. “Why, he steers clear of women like Molly. You know that.”

“Molly’s so pretty,” Bea said timidly.

“Did I miss something?” Lydia asked, puzzled by the conversation flowing around her.

“Not really,” Martha said, taking up her needle again.

“Now wait just a minute. I brought you the news. You should tell me what you’re talking about.”

“She’s right,” Tillie agreed. “It’s just that—Well, there’s not really anything to tell. More like a hope, don’t you know.”

“A hope for what?” Lydia asked in frustration.

Martha took up the explanation. “Quinn is a lovely man. Most people think he’s a flirt, a playboy, but he’s just afraid of being abandoned. That mother of his left him and his brothers afraid of commitment.”

“You sound like one of those ladies’ magazines, like—like Cosmo.”

“I know what I’m talking about,” Martha said sturdily, determination in her voice. “We want him to be happy.”

“He seems happy to me,” Lydia said.

“But he’s not. The boy hurts. He hides it, but I know,” Martha assured her.

“But how does that have anything to do with little Sara?”

“Woman, think with your heart, eh?” Emma suggested.

“You mean you think he and Molly— But if he avoids women like her, I don’t see—”

“He didn’t avoid her yesterday, according to you,” Merry reminded her. “He has such a soft heart.”

“He was kind, but that doesn’t mean he’ll see her again,” Lydia pointed out.

“And so? Whose side are you on?” Martha demanded.

Lydia stared at her friend. “Why, yours, of course. And Molly’s. I want Molly to be happy. Those Spencer boys, I don’t care what you say, they’re heartbreakers. Like their pa.”

“What do you know about Elias Spencer?” Emma demanded.

Lydia’s cheeks turned bright red. “Nothing! I’ve seen him a few times. About town.” Her fingers twitched, telling her friends she wasn’t being totally honest.

“Elias suffers from the same problem as the boys. He’s never forgiven that woman for leaving him and his sons. Probably never will. Anyone messing with him is asking for heartbreak.”

“Then why plan on Quinn having anything to do with Molly? You want her to be heartbroken again? I think Christopher Blake already did enough damage to poor Molly and her little Sara.”

“Quinn wouldn’t hurt either of them. All we have to do is make sure they spend time together,” Tillie said, narrowing her eyes as if trying to think of a plan.

“That won’t be a problem,” Martha said calmly.

Her friends all stared at her.

“What do you mean?” Lydia asked.

“Just wait and see,” Martha said, stitching again. “Are you ladies going to help or just sit there with your mouths open?”

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