A Father's Second Chance. Mindy Obenhaus

attention returning to the caterer. “Gage has quite an eye for detail.”

      “Well, it just so happens that I’m a detail kind of girl. I’m very particular about how things are done.” Her smile teetered between forced and syrupy. “But, if you think you can handle it, you’re welcome to come by and look things over.”

      “Oh, don’t be silly.” Mom took hold of his daughters’ hands. “Gage can handle just about anything.” She beamed at Celeste first, then Gage. “Come on, girls. Let’s go say good-night to Papa.”

      The trio stole through the door, leaving him alone with the caterer. Talk about awkward.

      She stepped toward the counter and retrieved a disposable container. “Here’s the cake I promised Emma. I included enough for you and her sister, too.”

      He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but accepted the package anyway. “Cassidy.”

      “I’m sorry?”

      “My other daughter is Cassidy. I’m sure she will appreciate the cake every bit as much as Emma and me. Thank you. And...” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “Thank you for helping me out earlier.”

      “You’re welcome.” Her golden-blond hair was slicked back into a long ponytail. Save for one wayward strand, which she promptly tucked behind her ear. Her expression softened. “Look, I realize that was kind of an uncomfortable situation with your mother.” She peered up at him with eyes the deep, rich color of espresso. “If you’d like to drop by and check out the project, great. However, I understand if you don’t have time.”

      She was actually giving him an out?

      He hadn’t expected that.

      Unfortunately, his finances dictated he not turn down a job. “How about Monday at two?”

       Chapter Two

      Get in, and get out.

      Gage slammed the lid on the aluminum storage box in the bed of his pickup. He really wasn’t interested in meeting with Celeste Thompson today. True, his project at the Schmidts’ was drawing to a close, and he didn’t have anything else on the books, but he was fairly certain that the type of work Celeste wanted was not going to match up with the kind of work he specialized in.

      A breeze rustled the golden leaves of an oak in the Schmidts’ front yard. Their Queen Anne-style house, with its sprawling porch on the west side, had been one of his favorites long before they hired him to renovate the first-floor bathroom. He loved all the old buildings in Ouray. Appreciated the architecture and intricate details that made them grand. Restoring them was his forte. But he’d encountered one too many city dwellers who didn’t see the value in “old stuff.” They were only interested in removing the old and making everything modern.

      That was like tearing out the heart of a home. Something he could not—would not—do.

      He climbed into the cab of his truck, eyeing the burnt-orange landscape that spread up the mountainsides. He supposed it wasn’t fair to judge Ms. Thompson based on the actions of others, but she definitely fit the demographic—young urban professionals trading everything for the good life in Ouray, Colorado. What they failed to realize was that while life was indeed good in Ouray, it could also be tough. Many people worked two or three jobs, unless they owned their own business. In that case they had only one job to which they were on call 24/7. Which was why so many people threw in the towel after only one season.

      Celeste might be a good cook, but did she have the guts, the tenacity, to embrace Ouray and its oft-difficult way of life? Not to mention its historic architecture.

      He fired up the engine and dropped it into gear, deciding he’d find out the latter soon enough.

      Heading toward Main Street, he rolled down the windows to take advantage of the mild autumn air. Who knew how many more days they’d have like this? The thirteen-and fourteen-thousand-foot peaks that surrounded the tiny town were already topped with white.

      A few blocks down Main, he pulled into a parking spot across from Granny’s Kitchen. The place had changed hands several times over the past twenty-some years, but he still remembered it as the Miner’s Café. The owner, Mrs. Ward, used to make the best cinnamon rolls he’d ever tasted.

      He hopped out of the truck and ambled across the street to the two-story brick and stone Victorian building. Seemed like he’d heard someone mention that Celeste was Mrs. Ward’s granddaughter. If that were true, maybe he’d find cinnamon rolls on the menu.

      Opening the right half of the wood and glass double door, he was greeted by the most amazing aroma. A colorful dry-erase board to his left boasted tonight’s special—Granny’s pot roast with onions, carrots and homemade smashed potatoes.

      His mouth watered, the two bologna sandwiches he’d had for lunch a distant memory. He inhaled deeper. Yep, that was pot roast, all right.

      Above the menu, a double row of iron hooks lined the wall. Part function, part decor, they were currently home to a well-worn cowboy hat, a fedora that had seen better days and a faded denim jacket.

      “Welcome to Granny’s Kitchen.” Behind the wood-topped counter to his right, Ms. Thompson slid a tray of cookies into a glass case. Her blond hair was again pulled back in a ponytail, her smile easy and relaxed.

      “Nice place you have here.” He scanned the almost-empty restaurant. Lace curtains covered the lower half of the front windows, adding privacy to the row of wooden booths, while a Texas flag and some old mining pieces adorned the back wall. All in all, the place was warm and homey.

      “Thank you.” She started to close the case, then paused. “Care for a chocolate chip cookie? They’re still warm.”

      He eyed the treats, his stomach growling. “Sure.” He reached for his wallet.

      She waved him off, though. “It’s on the house.” Using a small wax paper sheet, she grabbed a cookie and passed it over the counter.

      As promised, it was warm. Not to mention loaded with pecans and some of the biggest chocolate chips he’d ever seen.

      He took a bite, savoring the melted chocolate that mingled with a hint of cinnamon. “Delicious.” Even better than his mother’s. Not that he’d ever admit that to her.

      Celeste’s smile sparkled in her deep brown eyes. “I do my best to live up to Granny’s reputation.”

      “Hello, Gage.”

      He turned as the door closed behind Blakely Lockridge, owner of Ouray’s finest Jeep tour company, Adventures in Pink. “Hey, Blakely.”

      His sister’s best friend moved toward the counter, a hand resting on her very pregnant belly. “I see Celeste has lured you in with her amazing cookies.” She wriggled onto the bar stool beside him, looking like an overinflated party balloon about to pop.

      Considering Blakely was down to her last month, her cheerful disposition was a welcome surprise. Tracy, his ex-wife, had been miserable throughout her pregnancies. And never hesitated to let anyone know it.

      “You’re right on time, Blakely.” Celeste pulled another cookie from the case. “They just came out of the oven.” She handed it to Blakely. “How are you feeling?”

      “Pretty good. The wedding wore me out, but Trent doted on me all day yesterday.” She took a bite. “Yum. Did you add more pecans this time?”

      “I did.” Celeste rested her forearms on the counter.

      “This is perfect.” Blakely closed her eyes and took another bite. “Just the way I like them.”

      Gage had to agree. His mother usually left out the nuts, but he preferred them. “Sounds like you’re a regular customer.”

      “Are you kidding?” Blakely smiled