himself on keeping in shape, but his build was blocky, while Ryder naturally carried his hefty two hundred pounds in his powerful arms, shoulders and chest. All three brothers had dark hair and brown eyes, but Ryder’s hair was straight and black, whereas Wyatt’s was curly and coffee brown. Jake’s slimmer build and wavy hair gave him a more polished air, especially in a military uniform, so naturally he had been the first—and thus far the only one—of the brothers to marry. Wyatt suspected that he still grieved the death of his wife, Jolene, deeply.
Handing his son to Wyatt, Jake carefully followed in Ryder’s path to minimize the possibility of falling through a weak spot in the porch floor. Wyatt waited, with Frankie in his arms, at a safe distance. The existing floorboards proved solid enough. The door, however, presented a challenge.
Jake elbowed Ryder out of the way and reached through the broken glass inset, saying, “My arm’s skinnier than yours.”
Gingerly fumbling for several moments, he frowned, but then something clicked and the outside edge of the door dropped slightly. Jake carefully extracted his arm from the jagged hole and stepped aside so Ryder could pull the door open. Wyatt followed his brothers inside.
Red-orange sand had blown into the entry through the broken glass, dulling the dark hardwood of the foyer floor and staircase. Framed photographs covered the foyer walls, all dulled by a thick layer of dust. Many of them, Wyatt saw at a glance, were poorly framed school pictures of him and his brothers, but others showed a sturdy girl with long, chestnut brown hair and heavy eyebrows, as well as a baby photo of a wrinkled newborn in a pale blue onesie. Everything else looked the same, dusty but familiar.
Antique furniture still stood around the cold fireplace in the parlor, dimmed by time and dirt. The dining-room wallpaper looked faded, and fragile gossamer webs coated the splotchy brass light fixture above the rickety dining table. Wyatt hoped the comfortable, roomy den and Dodd’s ranch office were in better shape, but the important rooms right now were the kitchen and downstairs bath.
Despite the fact that he and his brothers had run through these rooms like wild boys summer after summer, Wyatt felt as if they were trespassing. A lack of human habitation seemed to have reduced the gracious old house to a shabby pile, and made Wyatt abruptly doubt his plan. Then Ryder pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen, and suddenly Wyatt saw home.
The appliances, cabinets and countertops were hopelessly outdated, and most of the paint had worn off the familiar old rectangular table. Thankfully, however, the room appeared as habitable now as it had the last time Wyatt sat in one of those old ladder-back chairs.
While Ryder checked the water, Jake took Frankie into the bathroom, and Wyatt tried the burner on the big, white stove. Pipes banged as water started flowing. Wyatt struck a match to ignite a tiny flame.
“Looks like we’re low on propane.”
“Pilot light on the hot water heater must be out,” Ryder said, holding his hand beneath the gushing spigot.
“We can heat water on the stove until we can see to it,” Wyatt determined.
Jake returned, Frankie following and hitching up his baggy jeans. “Storage room is full of junk, but everything seems in working order in the bathroom.”
That was good news because unless Uncle Dodd had updated the plumbing, which seemed unlikely, the only shower in the house was in that downstairs bathroom.
“Check the bedrooms,” Wyatt said to Ryder, who strode off at a swift clip for the staircase. “Jake, think you can find a broom?”
Before Jake could even begin to look, the sound of a vehicle arriving turned them both toward the back door.
“Company already?” Jake asked, swinging Frankie up into his arms.
“Folks around War Bonnet are friendly,” Wyatt commented, “but this is ridiculous.” Through the glass inset in the back door, he saw a small, white sedan pull up next to the back stoop. He walked over and threw the deadbolt, relieved that the door swung open easily.
As Wyatt watched, a curvy brunette of average height slid from behind the sedan’s steering wheel. Dressed in a simple gray skirt with a bright pink, sleeveless blouse, she presented a polished, feminine picture. Her short, stylishly rumpled, cinnamon hair framed a perfectly oval face with enormous, copper-colored eyes. Though she seemed oddly familiar, Wyatt couldn’t place her. Maybe she was one of the town kids who the brothers had sometimes played with. Whoever she was, she was lovely.
If this is the War Bonnet welcoming committee, he thought, things are looking up already.
Then she parked her hands on her hips, tossed her cinnamon brown head and demanded, “What are you doing in my house?”
* * *
“Your house?”
After the week she’d had, Tina was in no mood to explain herself, especially not to some big lunk who probably thought he was God’s gift to women. That’s what all the good-looking ones thought, that women should fall at their big feet in stunned silence and stay that way. Well, she’d had enough of biting her tongue and hoping, praying, to be treated fairly. She’d come home—the only place she’d ever thought of as home, anyway—and here was where she intended to stay. Even if the house did look as if might fall down in a stiff breeze.
She reached into the car and grabbed her handbag. “That’s right. My house.” She lifted her chin at the big man in the doorway. “Who are you and why are you here?”
“I’m Wyatt Smith.”
Oh, no. One of the Houston nephews. She should’ve expected this. Another man crowded into the doorway behind the first, a young boy in his arms. Both had the dark Smith hair and eyes. Wyatt slung a thumb at him. “This is my brother Jake and his son, Frankie.”
Wyatt and Jacoby. Well, that was two of the brothers. “I suppose Ryder is also here.”
Wyatt frowned. “Who are you?” he asked, as if he ought to know her, though they’d never met.
“I’m Tina Walker Kemp.”
If the name meant anything to him, he didn’t show it. He folded his arms across an impressively wide chest.
“What makes you think this house is yours, Tina Walker Kemp?”
“I don’t think it,” she said, placing one foot on the sagging bottom step. “I know it. My stepdaddy left me this house.”
“Your stepdaddy,” Wyatt repeated, his tone skeptical.
“Dodd Smith.”
“Whoa!” Wyatt exclaimed. “Uncle Dodd left us this place.”
She shook her head. “That’s not what the will says.”
“That’s exactly what it says,” Wyatt countered firmly. “And I have the will to prove it.”
Tina lifted her eyebrows. “So do I.”
Just then her six-year-old son, Tyler, yelled, “Mo-om, I gotta go!”
Tamping down her impatience, Tina turned back to the car and opened the door for him. They’d
