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Lily spotted the bananas and clapped her hands. “Nanna! Me nanna!”
Amy washed a banana, peeled the fruit and handed it to Lily. “What would you like, Rose? Grapes?”
“Okay.”
While the girls ate their snacks, she stowed the food. Good grief, Matt had purchased laundry detergent and a bottle of Mr. Bubble for bath time.
“Look, Lily!” Rose squealed, when she spotted the Silly Nilly box—fruit-chew snacks Amy had stopped buying when she’d tightened the budget.
“Lily, if you let Rose help you use the potty and wash your hands afterward, then you two can have a fruit chew and sit outside on the swing while I make supper.”
“Okay.” Lily stuffed the rest of the banana into her mouth, slid from the chair, then waddled off.
“She went, Mama,” her eldest daughter announced five minutes later.
Amy crossed the room and straightened Lily’s pants, then handed out the treats and warned, “Stay on the swing.”
As soon as they stepped outside, Lily shouted, “Car!”
Not now. Payton Scott and his flashy red Mustang drove up the road. She followed the girls onto the porch and waited. The bank manager got out of his car and stood for a moment, staring at Matt’s truck and horse trailer.
“What can I do for you, Payton?” Amy called.
A moment later he joined her on the porch. “Whose rig is that?”
She’d rather not discuss Matt in front of the girls. “C’mon in.”
No sooner had the screen door closed than he demanded, “Whose horses are those?”
“They belong to Matt Cartwright. A friend of Ben’s.” Until she understood the reason for the visit, she refused to reveal any details of her and Matt’s agreement. She motioned for her guest to sit. Payton chose to stand, one hand shoved deep into his trouser pocket. “What brings you by?” Amy asked.
“Bad news, I’m afraid.”
“Oh?” She retrieved a cutting board and knife, then went to work chopping vegetables.
“I spoke with my father and he’s decided against granting you a ninety-day reprieve on your mortgage payments.”
“Why?” Amy had asked for the extension while she took a government-sponsored training class that began a week from tomorrow. The three-week data-entry program would hopefully lead to a job and a steady source of income until she figured out SOS’s fate and resumed boarding horses. She’d hoped not to have to make a mortgage payment until September.
“You should have taken the job I offered you at the bank,” Payton said, avoiding her question.
The job came with strings—strings that led right to Payton’s bedroom. That’s why she’d declined. Yes, she was desperate to keep her farm, but not desperate enough that she’d sleep with a potbellied pig. “I can’t afford child care,” she lied.
“I assumed you’d be stubborn, so the bank contacted Wineball Realty to begin the paperwork to put the property on the market.”
Amy set the knife aside, lest she be tempted to use it on Payton rather than a tomato. “The farm isn’t for sale.”
He flashed a sinister smile. “It will be if you don’t come up with the money for your May mortgage payment.”
HIDDEN IN THE SHADOWS of the barn door, Matt had a clear view of Dapper Dan and his flashy sports car. Ignoring the girls, who’d been sitting on the porch swing, the visitor had followed Amy inside the house.
Matt had a hunch the man’s visit wasn’t a social call. Don’t get involved. Shoot, Amy would tell him to butt out, too. He set the pitchfork aside and headed for the house, believing his curiosity about the visitor had to do with being neighborly and not territorial. He wouldn’t intervene unless Amy wished him to, but at least she’d know he stood in her corner.
“Hello, ladies,” Matt greeted the girls with a grin as he climbed the porch steps. The older child offered a solemn stare, but the toddler flashed a red-stained smile, then removed a half-chewed piece of food from her mouth and held it out. “Nilly.”
They were eating the fruit snacks he’d purchased at the grocery store. “I don’t believe we’ve officially met.” He whipped off his hat and bowed. “Matt Cartwright. You can call me Mr. Matt.” The older girl frowned. He wracked his brain, but her name slipped his memory. A flower. Yeah, that was it. Both girls were named after flowers. “So, Daisy—”
“Daisy’s not my name.”
He frowned. “Well, now, Daffodil, I—”
She giggled and shook her head. “Nope. I’m not Daffodil.”
“Marigold?” he guessed.
“No, silly, I’m Rose.”
“That’s right—Rose.” He snapped his fingers. “And your sister, Violet—”
More laughter, this time the toddler joined in and clapped her hands.
“I mean, Tulip.”
“Her name’s Lily.”
Matt chuckled at their belly laughs. Drool dripped off the little one’s chin and Rose’s eyes twinkled. He was taken aback that a little kidding tickled the funny bones of a couple of pint-size cherubs. “I need to speak to your mother. You flower buds stay here.”
He thought about knocking before entering the house, then changed his mind when the visitor’s raised voice carried through the screen door.
“You have no other option, Amy, but to sell.”
“What’s the reason your father won’t allow me a grace period on my mortgage payment? The bank will hardly miss my sixteen hundred dollars each month.”
“You’re a bad risk.”
“Ben was the bad risk. I’m not.”
“You’ve got no income. No one’s going to board horses here until you send that beast in the barn to the glue factory. Even that won’t be enough. You’ve accumulated too much credit card debt.”
“Ben’s doing, not mine.”
“Same difference.”
Matt had heard enough. He entered the kitchen unannounced and crowded the banker’s personal space. “Matt Cartwright.” He held out his hand.
“Payton Scott.”
Matt eyed Amy. She stood in front of the stove, her mouth stretched into a thin line. “It doesn’t sound like Mrs. Olson is interested in selling at the moment.”
Scott’s brow furrowed. “Mrs. Olson is running out of options.”
“The girls and I have nowhere to go, Payton. You can’t kick me out of my own home.”
Scott didn’t bat an eyelash. The jerk had no qualms about putting a woman and her two daughters out on the street. “The farm is yours as long as you keep up with the payments.”
“You didn’t tell him?” Matt asked Amy, hoping she’d play along.
Scott’s head bounced between Matt and Amy like a Ping-Pong ball. “Tell me what?”
“I’m paying Mrs. Olson a stud fee for Son of Sunshine.” He rubbed his whiskered jaw. “What did we agree the fee would be again?”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “Sixteen hundred dollars.”
“W-what?” Scott sputtered.
“You