first sign of vandalism anywhere on these grounds, I’ll hunt them down and have a little chat with their parents and yours. Understand?”
The boy gave a curt nod.
The man gestured toward the group of women watching on the sidelines. “You’ve got a long walk. I suggest you get started. None of these ladies is planning to give you a ride home.”
The boy took off at a fast clip along the route that Elisa had just traveled.
Only then did the man turn to her. For the first time she had the opportunity to really take stock of him. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was the color of darkly roasted coffee, his angry eyes a blue so intense they were the most arresting feature in an immensely attractive face.
“Thank you.” He held out his hand. “Sam Kinkade. I’m the minister.”
She had already guessed that. She extended her hand. “Elisa Martinez. I hope I’ll be your new sexton.”
They stared at each other longer than politeness called for. In those unexpectedly charged seconds, she warned herself of a hundred different things. The incident with the boys had left her shaken and vulnerable. This man might well be her new employer. She was lonely and worried about getting this job. The talk of police had frightened her. Adrenaline was pumping through her body.
And still, if she subtracted all those things and added in years of hard-earned caution and the fact that she could not afford even the briefest foray into romance, she was still left with a strong attraction to Sam Kinkade.
“Well, go ahead and hire her right now, preacher,” one of the women, the oldest, demanded, moving closer. “What other proof do you need that she can do the job? A signed statement from the Almighty?”
Chapter Two
SAM TURNED TO the old woman and managed a smile. His anger was just beginning to fade. He was not easily provoked, but by the same token, he was not easily placated. “Thank you, Helen. I’ll take your recommendation into consideration.”
“You do that, and don’t you try to humor me. I saw the whole thing. We could use somebody around here who takes matters into her own hands. If she’s not scared of that gang of teenage thugs, she won’t be scared of a little dirt.”
Sam walked over and slung his arm around Helen Henry’s shoulders, steering her back toward the church, which was not an easy job. She was a big-boned woman in her eighties, but she still knew how to do a day’s work. The church had been a far more boring place before she started coming regularly, and before the quilters organized and commandeered the Beehive.
Sometimes he was nostalgic for boredom.
“How’s the quilt coming?” He knew this subject would take them all the way inside.
The other women started heading inside. He walked back to Kate Brogan, who was standing ten yards behind the others, and he scooped the flailing Rory out of his mother’s arms and set him on his hip, leaving Kate with only shy baby Bridget.
Sam paused a moment and turned to Elisa Martinez, who was standing exactly where he had left her. He was struck, as he had been a moment ago, by how gracefully appealing she was. She was average height and slender, wearing a simple white blouse and black pants. She had shining dark hair clipped back in a ponytail that fell past her shoulder blades, creamy toffee-colored skin, and eyes so darkly liquid and expressive that he had felt himself going down for the third time in just the seconds he had stared into them.
He shoved his mind back into gear. “Do you mind following us inside? We’ll do the interview in my study.”
Cathy Adams, one of the quilters, waited to walk with Elisa. When he saw they were bringing up the rear, he made his way through the lot and the play yard into the Beehive. He deposited Rory in a corner after a brief man-to-man chat about ninjas and sledgehammers, said a few words to each of the women, genuinely admired the quilt stretched out on the frame, and finally motioned for Elisa to follow him upstairs.
He was in marginally better spirits by the time he closed the Beehive door and they started for the steps. Beside him, Elisa was silent.
They were upstairs and on the way to his study before he spoke. “No sign is worth risking your safety for.”
“I’m not sure what came over me.”
He wondered if that was true, or if she knew very well and wasn’t going to acknowledge it. He unlocked his door and ushered her inside, leaving the door open, as he usually did. He did not like enclosed spaces, and today the church secretary, who was usually at the desk in the next office, was out of town for the rest of the week.
“I’m sorry your first visit to our church started that way.” Sam motioned to the leather sofa that sat in front of two large windows looking out over the rose garden. While she seated herself, he noticed that yesterday he had forgotten to put away the wheelbarrow after he dumped a load of compost to be spread. He made a mental note to do it later, then asked himself why he was avoiding looking at Elisa. He was not a man who was uncomfortable with women. His fiancée, Christine, with her blatant sex appeal and choke hold on femininity, had never intimidated him in the least.
“I’ve encountered prejudice before,” she said.
“I’m sorry for that.” He made himself look down at her. “Under any circumstances there would have been resistance, but as you probably know, there’s some troubling evidence that Hispanic gangs have moved into the area. Peaceful, sleepy Shenandoah County.” He shrugged. “That’s set off a backlash.”
She was smiling softly. “Let’s find a subject that doesn’t make you feel sad. Or guilty.”
He relaxed a fraction. “Iced tea.”
“Iced tea as a subject?”
“Would you like some?”
“Very much, if it’s not too much trouble.”
He was grateful for something to do. He left for the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two glasses. “The staff goes through gallons of this every week. Whoever drinks the last glass has to make a new pitcher.”
She took the glass, then a sip. “I can do that.”
He had debated where to sit. She had left him a full half of the large sofa, and there was a table just in front of it with room for his tea. It was the obvious choice.
He sprawled over his half. “So...” He considered where to start.
She solved the problem. “Elisa Martinez, thirty-three. Like every Spanish-speaking friend I have made here, I am not a gang member. I am well acquainted with cleaning products, mops and brooms, and the need to clean the men’s urinals more often than the ladies’ toilets. I’ve been working the late shift as a nurse’s aide at the Shadyside Home in Woodstock, but last week my shifts were cut to two because the aide I replaced is returning from maternity leave. If you hire me, I promise that won’t interfere with my work at the church. On those mornings I can start here as soon as I’ve finished there.”
He didn’t speak, and she went on. “My supervisor will be glad to write a reference, or she’ll be glad to talk to you.”
He
