an order. Tired and unsure what to do himself, he unceremoniously loosened the red-patterned tie at his neck, then yanked off the tailored wool suit jacket he’d worn all day. Tossing the jacket across a chair, he watched as Myla straightened it and hung it over the back of the chair, her hands automatically smoothing the wrinkles out.
“Thank you,” he said.
He watched as a flush bathed her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Force of habit. My husband liked everything in its place.”
Nick nodded, then wondered about her marriage. Had it been a happy one? Not that it was any of his business, but the sad, almost evasive look in her eyes made him curious. Did she miss her husband? Of course, she probably did, especially now when she was struggling so much.
“How about a roast beef sandwich?” he asked as he lifted the heavy pan of meat out of the refrigerator. “Henny cooked this for Sunday supper, but I didn’t get back into town to enjoy it.”
“That’s a shame.”
“No, that’s the life of an oilman. Lots of trips, lots of leftovers.” Searching through a drawer, he found a large carving knife. “I say, let’s cut into this thing.”
“Yeah, let’s cut into that thing,” Patrick echoed, clapping his hands. “My mouth’s watering.”
Jesse smiled, then coughed.
“Are you hungry, Jesse?” Worry darkened Myla’s eyes. “She has allergies and she’s fighting a nasty cold.”
A spark of warmth curled in Nick’s heart. “Maybe some good food will perk her up.” He offered Jesse a glass of orange juice.
Nick found the bread, then poured huge glasses of milk for the children. Myla located the coffeemaker and started a fresh brew. She sliced tomato and lettuce, then made some thick roast beef sandwiches. Soon all four of them were sitting around the butcher block counter. Nick picked up his sandwich for a hefty bite, but held it in midair as Myla and her children clasped hands and bowed their heads.
Seeing his openmouthed pose, Myla said quietly, “We always say grace before our meals. I hope you don’t mind.”
Nick dropped his sandwich as if it were on fire. “No, of course not.”
When Myla extended her hand to his, something went all soft and quiet in his ninety-mile-an-hour mind. When was the last time he’d said a prayer of any kind? He listened now to Myla’s soft, caressing voice.
“Thank you, Lord, for this day and this food. Thank you for our safety and for the warmth you have provided. Thank you for sending us help when we needed it most. We ask that you bless each of us, and this house. Amen.”
Stunned, Nick wasn’t so sure he wanted his house blessed. He felt awkward as he lifted his hand away from the warmth of Myla’s. To hide his discomfort, he said, “Let’s eat.”
Patrick didn’t have to be told twice. He attacked one half of his sandwich with gusto. Nick flipped on a nearby television to entertain the children, but mostly to stifle the awkward tension permeating the room.
He watched them eat, hoping Lydia would call soon. Patrick wolfed his food down in record time, while Jesse nibbled at hers between fits of dry coughing. Their mother broke off little bits of her sandwich, as if forcing herself to eat, her eyes darting here and there in worry.
Finally, out of frustration more than anything else, Nick said, “That hit the spot. I was starved.”
“Me, too,” Jesse said, speaking up at last.
Nick’s eyes met her mother’s over her head. It didn’t help to know that Jesse probably had been really hungry, when to Nick the words were just a figure of speech. Myla only gave him a blank stare, though, so to hide his confusion he munched on a chocolate chip cookie while he watched the children, and their mother when she wasn’t looking.
The baggy teal sweater brought out the green in her expressive eyes. Worn jeans tugged over scuffed red Roper boots encased her slim hips and long legs. Couldn’t be more than thirty, just a few years younger than him, yet she carried a lot of responsibility on her slim shoulders.
“You’ve got a pretty name,” he said to stop the flow of his own erratic thoughts.
“I was named after my grandmother,” she said. “She hated her name because people would always call her Mi-lee. My mother named me after her to make her feel better about it.”
“Where’s your family?” he asked, hoping to learn more about her situation.
She shot him that luminous stare before answering. “My parents passed away several years ago—a year and a half apart. First my mother, from a stroke. Then Daddy. The doctors said his heart gave out, and I think that’s true. He died of loneliness. They’d been married forty years.”
Nick felt a coldness in the center of his heart, a coldness that reminded him of his firm commitment to keep that part of himself closed away. “Same with my parents. My mother died of cancer, and my father was never really the same after her death.” He looked down at his half-eaten sandwich. “He…he depended on his Ruthie, and her death destroyed him. It was as if he changed right before my eyes.” Not wanting to reveal more, he asked her, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
She nodded. “A brother in Texas—he’s got five kids. And a sister in Georgia. She just got married a few months ago.” She sat silent for a minute, then finished. “They don’t need me and my problems right now.”
“Do they know…about what’s happened to you?”
Her flushed face gave him his answer. She jumped up to clean away their dishes. “No, they don’t. Not yet.” Turning toward the sink, she added, “I really appreciate your help, but I don’t intend to live on handouts. If my job hunt pays off—”
“What sort of work are you looking for?”
“A waitress, maybe, for now. I love to cook. One day, I’d like to run my own restaurant.”
Nick wanted to touch her face for some strange reason. She had that dreamy look about her again, and it endeared her to him. He felt an overwhelming need to buy a building and turn it into a restaurant.
But he didn’t touch her, and he didn’t offer to fund her venture. Instead, he looked down, as embarrassed by being wealthy as she obviously was by being destitute.
Myla’s touch on his arm brought his head up. “I want to thank you, Mr. Rudolph, for helping us. All day, I prayed for help, and then you came along. You offered us shelter, and that’s something I’ll never forget. So thank you, for your kindness and your understanding.”
Nick looked in her eyes and felt himself falling, falling, as if in slow motion. Moving away abruptly, he said, “Call me Nick, please. And you don’t have to thank me.”
The confused look she gave him only added to his woes. He couldn’t tell her that he rarely let people get close enough to touch him, either physically or emotionally. He couldn’t erase the hurt look in her eyes.
When a special news bulletin interrupted the noisy cartoon on the nearby television, Nick was thankful for the distraction until he heard the report.
