and covered in grass stains and dirt. Traci looked at Rex and groaned inwardly. If she was as disheveled as he was, she must look a sight, indeed. Adding to her discomfort, Wyatt Gilley went down on his haunches and reached a hand toward her. She flinched involuntarily, her heart beating a heavy, rapid rhythm in her chest. She felt a gentle tug, and her sagging hair tumbled about her face. Simultaneously his hand came away with the soft, fat, elastic band that had held her hair in a loose ponytail. He offered it to her, and she plucked it from his fingers.
“Thank you.”
His mouth quirked up in a grin. “You’re welcome.” For a long moment he just squatted there and stared at her, his forearms resting upon his knees and his grin growing wider by increments while her face slowly heated to a red glow. “Work must be going well,” he said at last, “if this is how you’re spending your time.”
The remark reminded her of her earlier pique, and she frowned. “Work is not going well,” she snapped, “because this is how I’m forced to spend my time.”
“Ah.” That was it. Just “Ah.”
For some reason she was all the more irritated. She pulled her knees up in preparation of standing, then found his hand beneath her elbow. Realizing it would be churlish to pull away, she allowed him to help her up, but when he began to dust off her backside, she danced away. Smoothly, as if he had not even noticed her escape, he turned his attentions to Rex.
“I can guess who forced whose hand,” Wyatt said, dusting off his son with firm, even strokes. “Rex is the mastermind of my matched pair. His day is just one long prank, or so his teachers tell me.”
“If he gets into as much mischief at school as he does here, I imagine you speak to his teachers a lot,” Traci said smartly.
Wyatt laughed. “Quite a lot.” Looking down, he pulled Rex’s water gun from his hand, smoothed the boy’s flaming red hair and planted his palm between protruding shoulder blades, pushing firmly. “I’m sure you and your brother are supposed to be doing something useful. I suggest you get to it.”
“Aw, Dad,” the boy whined, “it’s time to go!”
“We’ll go when you’re finished and not before.”
“But we haven’t even started!”
“All the more reason to get busy.”
“Blast!” The boy put on a mulish face at his father’s raised eyebrow, and defended his language. “She says it all the time!”
“Does she now?” said Wyatt, giving the boy another firm push. Reluctantly Rex moved off, and Wyatt Gilley turned his attention to Traci, who was staring at the grimy fingers with which she’d almost combed her hair. He grinned. “Do you say Blast!’ all the time?” he asked.
Traci grimaced. “I guess I do,” she admitted, and Wyatt Gilley’s grin widened.
“Well, it’s quite an improvement over what usually comes out of that kid’s mouth. I wonder what other improvements you’ve managed.”
“Not many, I’m afraid,” she said. “Mr. Gilley, I’m—”
“Wyatt,” he interrupted smoothly.
“Huh? Oh. Right. As I was saying, Wyatt, I’m afraid this isn’t working out as well as I’d hoped.”
He nodded, a smile stretching his mouth. “I knew you were going to need me sooner or later,” he said, “but you’re stubborn, Traci Temple. You should have asked for my help sooner.”
Asked for his help? “But I wasn’t…” she began, only to realize that she was speaking to his back as he strode after Rex. Blast the man! He was as exasperating as his sons. Quickly she went after him. By the time she caught up, he had reached the storage building, which Rex and Max were supposed to be cleaning out so she could install shelves. Only a glance was required to see that Rex had not taken his father’s instructions to heart. Both boys were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shed, giggling over the most recent havoc they’d managed to wreak. Wyatt reached down and grasped the back of a striped T-shirt in each hand.
“Up and at it!” he commanded, hauling them to their feet. “Hop to it, and make it snappy.” Rex opened his mouth to complain, but Wyatt shook a finger in his face. “The first one to say a word will give me twenty-five push-ups—on his toes! The second one will pull fifty!” The boys groaned but didn’t utter so much as a syllable as they turned to their work. “That’s more like it,” Wyatt said heartily. He stepped back and folded his arms. “Now, Traci, I’m curious about that grease on your hands.”
She blinked, trying to follow. The man switched gears faster than she could. “Grease. Yes.” She licked her lips. “It’s the display case. The refrigeration’s on the fritz.”
“Ah. Well, I’ll take a look at it. Just give me a minute to get my tools out of the car.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. He owed her, after all, for saddling her with these two hooligans of his, if nothing else. In any case, he was already moving away from her and across the side deck toward the front of the building and the street. She turned her attention to the boys, who were working reluctantly but steadily. The work would go faster, she decided, with six hands than four. She waded in and got after it.
The jumble inside the storage shed was almost all transferred outside when Wyatt Gilley stuck his head out the back door and called her name. “Traci?”
She stopped what she was doing and wiped a forearm across her brow, miffed by his casual use of her given name. “Yes?”
“Could you help me a minute? I need you to hold a fitting while I tighten the coupling.”
That sounded promising. Perhaps he had found the problem. She wiped her hands on her bottom. “Coming.”
His head withdrew. Seconds later she had picked her way through the jumble on the ground and was stepping up into the shop. She passed through the back pantry and around the end of the display case to find Wyatt Gilley lying on his back upon the floor, his head and shoulders skewed into the motor compartment of the case. She walked behind him and crouched down.
“Where do you need me?”
“In here.” He eased himself back until his shoulders rested fully upon the floor. His head was lying on the lip of the door that slid open to reveal the motor compartment, and his hands were suspended above him, holding a narrow copper line and a wrench fixed to a tiny nut. Its slightly smaller twin rested at an odd angle above it. “I need you to reach that top fitting, push it down and hold it there until I can tighten the bottom one to keep it in place.”
Traci widened her eyes. Just how, she wondered, was she supposed to get in there with him lying in the way? “Can’t you manage it alone?” she asked in a small voice.
The wrench clattered to the floor, and Wyatt Gilley lifted himself up on his elbows, blue eyes glaring. “If I could manage it alone, I wouldn’t have called you in here. What’s the problem anyway? All you have to do is hold down that top fitting.”
“The problem,” she snapped, “is getting to it, as you very well know.”
He gave her a withering look. “Do you want this thing fixed
