didn’t waste time getting there. He rushed up onto the side porch, found the door unlocked and entered, the big stained glass door squeaking his arrival.
A small boy wearing action-figure-embellished pajamas stood waiting for him, his hair the same thick strawberry-blond color of the woman’s. The boy slanted big hazel eyes underneath long bangs, then flapped his hands in the air. “Wow, am I glad to see you. This is the third batch she’s tried this morning, and most of our visitors have done left and gone to get a sausage biscuit out on the highway.”
Adam had to chuckle at the kid’s dead-serious expression. “And just who are you?”
“Kyle Watson Forsythe,” the boy said, extending a hand in a very grown-up manner. “I’m trying to help my mom. But she says this place is nothing but a big, ol’ money pit and she wishes she’d never in-hair-it-ted it in the first place.”
Adam wondered what else the kid, who looked to be around six or seven, had learned from his mama, but he refrained from asking that right now. “Show me the way to the kitchen, son,” he said in his best cop voice, his instincts on full alert.
The boy rubbed his nose, then pointed. “Down that hallway to the right.” He pointed again, his expression bordering on panic. “She thinks the stove is messed up.”
“Thanks.” Adam dropped his leather duffel bag onto the hardwood floor and stalked across the formal Victorian parlor toward the kitchen and the sobbing woman.
Stella’s head came up at the swishing of the swinging door, her mind numb with failure and a definite lack of faith. Everyone had assured her that running this place would be an ideal job for her since she was organized to a fault and had a good business head. They said the Sanctuary practically took care of itself. Well, they had all been somewhat misinformed. And she’d been gullible and crazy to think she could do this on her own. Wishing the older couple that had helped her mother hadn’t retired to Branson, Stella squared her shoulders and took a deep breath as she waited for the muffin man.
She’d take whatever help she could find, including help from a perfect stranger.
The man who came barreling into the kitchen seemed to fill the vast space with his very presence, causing Stella to inhale the leftover sob she’d been about to emit into the air. Wiping her eyes with one of the annoying frilly ruffles of her dead mother’s apron, Stella tried to focus on this interesting person who’d apparently come to her rescue.
He was tall, but not too tall. His hair was clipped and edged into brittle brown tufts across his forehead and around his ears. His eyes, wide and hesitant right now, were a rich grayish blue. But it was his face that held Stella’s attention. His face looked as worn and aged as the masculine tan wallpaper in her daddy’s study across the hallway. It was a face etched in hard living, all planes and angles, all rough male, muscular and scarred. This man, whoever he was, sure didn’t look like someone who could make blueberry muffins. More like he could take down a band of ragamuffins with one strong-armed swipe.
“Did you say the navy?” she asked, dumbfounded.
“Yeah, two tours of duty. Then ten years on the police force in New Orleans. I’m retired now.”
The way he said that made Stella think it might not have been a voluntary retirement. “Is it still bad from the storms down there?” she asked, not one for making small talk.
“As bad as things can get and then some, but I still love the place.” He opened the refrigerator and found the fresh blueberries, then grabbed a mixing bowl from the ones stacked along an open bottom shelf underneath the butcher block. “Flour?”
Stella pointed to the tin canister sitting on the counter. “I have the recipe—”
“Don’t need it. I have my own recipe.” He tapped his forehead. “Right here.”
She leaned across the counter. “That’s real nice, but do you have a way of fixing an oven that refuses to cook at the correct temperature? I’m pretty sure the thermostat has gone haywire.”
He opened the door of the oven. “I think I see the problem, but it’ll have to cool down before I can get in there and fix it. Do you have a microwave or a toaster oven?”
She nodded. “But—”
“I know how to make microwave muffins.”
“Amazing,” Stella said through a sniff. “Uh, what’s your name?”
“Adam,” he said, eyeballing flour into the bowl. “Adam Callahan. And you?”
“Stella Forsythe.”
“Nice to meet you, Stella.” Then he motioned with his head toward the refrigerator. “I need about two eggs.”
She managed to find him “about two” eggs and “about a half cup” of oil and several other ingredients he called for in precise order. Then she stood back and watched as he went to work, his gray gaze centered on the creamy mixture inside the big white bowl.
“Do you need the mixer?” she asked.
“Nope.” He floured the blueberries, then whipped them right into the mix, lifting an eyebrow toward her. “But I do need a clean muffin pan. One that works in the microwave.”
Stella scrambled to find a pan that wasn’t coated with burned muffin remains. “I have this plastic one I use in there. Should I grease it?”
“Yeah. Grease and a little flour all over.”
She did as he told her, glad the splotchy red patches she always got along her neck and throat whenever she was under emotional stress had seemed to settle down into just freckles now. She hated getting all splotchy, but today had been a triple splotchy day, and it wasn’t even 7:00 a.m. yet.
“I’d planned an egg casserole, too,” she told him as he put the muffins into the microwave. “But—”
“Give me the ingredients,” he told her, his hands on his hips, a wet, white dish towel with tiny daisies on its hem thrown across his broad shoulder.
Stella moved like a sleepwalker, gathering ham and eggs, cheese and bread, her thoughts running together mumbo jumbo. Lord, how did I get so lucky? she asked the heavens in a silent prayer of thanks. Dear God, did You finally hear my pleas? The smell of blueberry muffins answered her, sweet and plump and intoxicating.
In minutes, the man had created a big glass Pyrex dish full of the breakfast-casserole concoction, adding a sprinkle of nutmeg to the top to make it look pretty. After the muffins were done, he shoved that into the microwave, then he meticulously went about tidying up the kitchen, stopping here and there to grunt out questions to Stella.
“How old’s your boy?”
“Six.”
“How long you been in Hot Springs?”
“About two months.”
“What happened with the muffins this morning?”
“I don’t know how to cook very well and the oven doesn’t, either.”
“Why is this place such
