the plan.”
Dawson cast a concerned glance toward the office door. “What about Dad? How will you get this past him?”
“I’ll think of something. He’ll come around.”
“He doesn’t like his orders to be ignored.”
“Dad never likes anything I do, but I get the work done.”
“That’s because Buchanon Built has flourished with you as foreman in a way it never could with Dad in the role. He was too harsh with subcontractors.”
Brady huffed. “No kidding? Dad? Harsh?”
The brothers exchanged a chuckle.
“Hop in, Dawson, my man.” Brady popped a palm against the roof of his truck and slid into the driver’s seat. “Santa Claus is about to do his thing.”
“What about the plumber?”
“I’ll worry about him later.”
With an amused shake of his head, Dawson shucked his tool belt and climbed into the big Ford with his brother, relegated Dawg to the backseat, and slammed the door. “No wonder you and Dad butt heads. Who is this year’s beneficiary of a Buchanon Built makeover?”
“Abby Webster. You know who she is. She works at the Buttered Biscuit.”
“Yeah.” Dawson turned an interested face toward Brady. “I know who you mean. Good waitress, all business and not too smiley or talkative but remembers exactly how I like my eggs and coffee.” He put the edge of his hand at nose level. “Up to here, pretty tall with long brown hair she wears in a ponytail over her shoulder. Right?”
Brady glanced from the road to his brother. “Tall? She’s not tall.”
“Compared to you she’s not tall. Compared to other women she is.”
Brady conceded a truth he had to live with and really didn’t mind all that much. He was some kind of genetic throwback to his giant Celtic ancestors, both in looks and size. Even his rust-brown hair, which he clipped short, was out of sync with the rest of the family. Dawson, on the other hand, was so black-hair-and-blue-eyed pretty, he belonged on the cover of a magazine. Not that Brady would tell his manly little brother he thought he was pretty.
“Did you know she has a little girl with some kind of handicap?”
“Like I said, Abby Webster’s not much of a talker. Brings my food and skitters away.” From the backseat, the dog poked a cold nose in Dawson’s neck. Dawson gave him a gentle shove. “Stay in the back, fella.”
“Wait until you see this place, Dawson.” The enthusiasm Brady had for the Christmas project bubbled up inside him. “Abby and her little girl need this makeover badly. The house is run-down, shingles missing, windows cracked, no handicap accessibility. She’s going to be thrilled.”
“How do you find out this stuff?”
“I ask. I look.” Truth was, he drove all over town looking at houses. “People tell me.”
“That’s because they know you’re a soft touch like Mom.”
“To whom much is given, much is required.”
“That’s Mom’s favorite verse.”
“Yeah, well, she’s right. Giving back is the right thing to do, and it feels pretty good, too, especially at Christmas.” And nothing made him feel as worthwhile and as necessary to the planet, especially after a run-in with his critical father. “I’m not backing out no matter what Dad thinks.”
“What if he pulls the powerful Buchanon rug out from under the project? You need the company to make this happen.”
Brady hadn’t had time to think that far, but he couldn’t deny the possibility. When Dad was crossed, he could be a tough customer.
But Brady had made up his mind. One way or the other, Abby Webster was getting a home makeover. And he couldn’t wait to see how happy she was when she heard the news.
* * *
Gabriel’s Crossing, Texas, was the kind of place where few people crossed the railroad tracks into “that” part of town unless they lived there.
Abby Webster and her daughter lived there.
Legs aching from the twelve-hour shift at the Buttered Biscuit and delighted to be heading home, Abby encouraged her exhausted old CR-V to travel the distance from the Huckleberry Play School to the sagging house on Cedar Corner. Anyone could find her house without the number—something that had been missing far longer than Abby had lived there. Hers was the house with duct tape over a crack in the front window and the cheery crayon drawings of blue and red angels hanging next to the crack. Her four-year-old had a thing for colorful angels.
Abby parked in the driveway, a strip of blacktop with dead grass poking through the cracks. “Out you go, jelly fingers.”
Her daughter, the joy of her life, giggled from her car seat. “I’m hungry.”
“Imagine that, Lila Webster is hungry.” Abby hopped out of the car and went around to the other side. She opened the door and unbuckled her daughter’s seat belt. “How about a peanut butter and broccoli sandwich?”
“Ew, Mommy.”
Smiling into her child’s chocolate-colored eyes, Abby lifted the four-year-old into her arms, thankful Lila was still small. Hopefully, by the time Lila was too big to carry, they could afford a house with the space for her special equipment. Or just maybe Lila would be walking on her own without a walker or wheelchair. Such possibilities existed and Abby would never give up hope that the mild function in her child’s spinal cord would continue to develop.
“Okay, then, maybe macaroni and raisins?”
Lila cocked her head, a tiny frown between dark eyebrows as she considered the combination. Then, her face lit with enthusiasm, she said, “Okay!”
Marveling at the precious gift of her child, Abby juggled Lila and her keys to unlock the front door and bump it open with her hip. Raising a child with special needs wasn’t easy, but Lila’s undaunted spirit and joy in living made everything worthwhile. What other child would react with such pleasure to a meal of macaroni and raisins?
“Were you a good girl at school today?”
“Yeth.”
“Did Gerry say mean things to you?”
“He was nice.”
Abby breathed a sigh of relief. Some kids didn’t understand why Lila was different. While most didn’t seem to mind that Lila wore braces and didn’t walk normally, some were downright cruel at times.
Dropping her keys on the table, Abby set her daughter on the love seat with the ever-present crayons and paper and went to the kitchen to create another macaroni masterpiece.
The pasta was on to boil when Lila called, “Somebody’s
