get dirty.” Marlie had spat up on his bare shoulder.
With that, Jake led the way to the stairs.
No doubt about it, Calista thought as she followed behind him and walked up the stairs to his room, the man looked good coming and going.
There went her stomach again, contracting into a knot.
Get a grip, she ordered herself. The man needs someone to help him out, not to drool all over him. He’s already got the latter covered.
When they came to the landing, Jake brought her over to the second door on the right. The door was closed. He opened it, then walked in and nodded toward the bathroom located over in the far corner of the room. There were four other guest rooms in the large house, but this one was the largest. Erin had told him that she thought this would be more suitable to his needs, especially with the baby.
“Right in through there,” he told Calista. He pointed in the direction of the bathroom as he stopped by the bureau. Opening the top drawer, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away the latest deposit of baby drool from his shoulder. That done, he absently shoved the handkerchief into his back pocket.
Setting Marlie down in her portacrib for a moment, Jake went over to the closet. He was still in the process of unpacking, but there were a few shirts already hanging there. He grabbed the one closest to him, a blue pullover that, once on, brought out the color of his eyes more intensely.
His stained shirt still clutched in her hand, Calista forced herself to look away and head toward the bathroom. She couldn’t help but notice that the room looked as if it’d had an encounter with a tornado, and lost.
“Still unpacking?” Calista asked, raising her voice so that he could hear her.
“Still hunting for things,” he amended. “Well, I’m decent again,” he said to his daughter after he’d pulled on the new shirt. “Try to keep your lunch down for at least a few minutes,” he urged her, picking up the baby again.
Marlie cooed in response, as if she understood him and was telling him that she’d do her best to try.
The noise made him smile. Funny how outwardly perfectly insignificant things like a sound coming from a seven-month-old infant could make him feel so warm inside. He supposed this was what being a father was all about, celebrating the small, personal things that no one else was privy to or could begin to comprehend.
He looked over toward the bathroom. The woman he’d just agreed to allow to watch over his daughter was still in there, but he wasn’t hearing any sounds.
“Let’s go see what’s up,” he said to his daughter as he crossed to the other end of the bedroom. “So how’s it coming?” he asked Calista, raising his voice.
Calista glanced at him over her shoulder. He was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, once again holding Marlie in his arms, and mercifully wearing a shirt again.
Now if only that fact would register with her racing pulse and make it settle down, she thought.
“It’s coming along,” she repeated.
To prove her point, she picked up the shirt and held it up over the sink to allow him to see for himself. She’d filled the basin with a little water to dilute the concentrated lemon juice and it was dripping down as she raised the shirt for his perusal. The spot that Marlie had branded with a gooey, milky-white substance was actually growing fainter.
“Like I said,” she repeated, pleased, “sometimes it takes a little longer than other times. But it looks like you won’t have to throw this one away.”
He joined her at the sink for a closer look. It really was fading, he thought, impressed.
“So that’s all I have to do?” he asked, his eyes shifting to look at her. “Just pour lemon juice on it and let it soak? Because I’ve got about ten shirts that really need work,” he confessed. “None of them would really come clean, even after I threw them into the washing machine a couple of times.” He was on the verge of throwing them all out. Tossing out shirts after wearing them only once or twice wasn’t exactly something he could afford to do indefinitely.
Calista looked a little skeptical as she asked him, “When you washed your shirts, you didn’t have the setting on hot, did you?”
Damned if he knew. “The machine has settings?” he asked.
“Why don’t you pile them up for me and I’ll take a look at your shirts the next time you have me over to watch Marlie?” she suggested.
Initially he had balked at asking for help or letting anyone know that he wasn’t up to handling this situation he found himself in. But after closer scrutiny, maybe this wasn’t going to be such a bad deal after all, Jake thought. If this cheerful woman with the sparkling brown eyes and endless brown hair could save his shirts as well as help him save his sanity, she was clearly worth her weight in gold.
“Sounds good to me,” he responded to the suggestion with feeling.
Yes, Calista thought, unable to contain her smile any longer, it certainly did.
Chapter Three
“You’re late.”
Jasper Fowler bit off the words as he glared at Calista from beneath shaggy gray-and-white eyebrows.
Just coming in, Calista eased the door to the Tattered Saddle antique shop closed behind her. If Fowler expected her to flinch at his obvious displeasure, he was going to be sorely disappointed, she thought. Growing up amid seven brothers and sisters had long since taught her how to hold her ground and stand up for herself. It was either that or suddenly find herself getting plowed under and lost in the shuffle.
So far, she’d never once gotten lost in the shuffle.
“I’m on time,” Calista corrected pleasantly, deliberately pointing to the closest clock to her on the wall.
Currently, there were several clocks on display, all hanging on the shop walls, all antiques, all fashioned with a decidedly Western flavor. And each and every one of them testified to the fact that she, and not the crotchety, cantankerous elderly owner of the store, was right. She was right on time.
With a frame that resembled nothing if not an animated question mark, his shoulders hunched in so far that they appeared to be almost touching one another, Fowler moved past her and grumbled, “Well, you would have been late in another minute.”
As was his habit, he refused to give in or concede the point. If asked, no one in town could recollect ever hearing the old man admit that he was wrong—about anything.
“But I didn’t take another minute,” Calista countered cheerfully. “So I’m here on time.”
In her own way, she was just as stubborn as the old man she was working for this summer. Beneath it all, she wanted to think that the man rather enjoyed sparring with her, enjoyed the challenge of having someone who didn’t cave in to him. Everyone else, she’d noted, always backed away, considering a verbal bout with the man just a waste of time and energy.
Maybe she was wrong, she thought, picking up the ancient feather duster
