Mom In The Middle. Mae Nunn

to kiss Dillon’s head, blocking Guy’s view of her private emotions.

      “Oh, no.” He spoke softly, understanding the implications, sending up a silent prayer for God’s healing mercy. He knew from the experience with his paternal grandfather that the injury could be a long painful recovery, a permanent disability or even worse if complications set in. The outcome for her family could be dire.

      “And they’d moved her around so much it was obvious she was suffering. That was hard to watch.” Her voice was a whisper.

      If she’d been one of his sisters, Guy would have wrapped Abby in his arms and rocked her along with the sleeping toddler. But she was a customer whose mother had just suffered a major injury on his family’s property. He didn’t dare touch her for fear of further complicating an already difficult situation that could potentially impact the lives of his family, the H&H shareholders and their employees.

      He sat straighter in his chair, pushed aside his own concerns. His worries were insignificant compared to Abby’s.

      “Did they give her pain meds?”

      She glanced up, nodded. “Something really strong so she’d rest. But she was rattling off instructions for me and the nurses when she fell asleep.” A sad smile flickered across her face and Guy mirrored her expression, imagining his mother doing the same, ordering the hospital staff about if the situation were reversed.

      “Will she need surgery?”

      “Dr. Cabot doesn’t think so. He says she’ll be in the hospital for a few days and if everything goes well she’ll be released to a rehab facility for extended physical therapy. As usual, she’s more worried about Daddy than she is about herself.” Abby sighed and rested her head against the back of the chair. “In forty-eight years of marriage my parents have never spent more than a few days apart. I don’t know how I’m going to keep them both occupied for six weeks with everything else I’ve got to do, but I’ll manage somehow.”

      “Abigail?” A heavyset woman in a floral-print housedress hurried toward them.

      “Oh, thank you for coming, Mrs. Eller.” Abby rocked forward and used momentum to swing Dillon onto her shoulder as she stood. Guy hopped to his feet as he was introduced to Abby’s neighbor. The two women exchanged a quick hug over the sleeping boy.

      “What room is your mama in? I’ll sit with her so you can go tell your daddy.”

      “You didn’t say anything to him, did you?” Abby sounded worried.

      “Goodness, no. Now you hurry on home before he gets suspicious about what’s taking so long.”

      Guy lifted Abby’s blue fabric bag sprinkled with dozens of fuzzy yellow chicks and slung it across his shoulder then followed her through the hospital’s emergency exit.

      “Would you like me to take you straight home?”

      “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll need my van to bring Daddy back to the hospital.”

      “I can give you both a ride,” Guy offered as he held open the door of the Hearth and Home SUV.

      She shook her head, blond curls bobbing. “Dad’s in a wheelchair and the side door of the van is outfitted with a lift.”

      Guy grimaced at the new information. Another hardship for this small family. How would Abby cope with the situation? You never knew the true measure of someone until their back was against the wall and their only choices were to crumble or come out fighting.

      No matter the circumstances of the injury, the corporation bore certain liability for accidents on their property. In this case it would be Guy’s responsibility to do everything possible to avoid litigation. The fact that the potential threat came in such a charming form would have nothing to do with his desire to help a woman out of a crisis.

      Or would it?

      He glanced at Abby Cramer. The sheen in her brown eyes said she needed more than assurances that medical expenses would be covered. Staying close to this situation would allow him to do two things—watch out for his family’s business interests and give Abby someone to lean on.

      She squared her shoulders in a proud profile that suggested she’d carried her burden alone for a long time.

      Would she be as stubborn as her mother or would Abby Cramer let him help her?

      Chapter Two

      On Monday afternoon, Guy stood on the porch steps of the Reagans’ modest brick home.

      “I’m coming! Hold your horses,” a male voice called from behind the front door.

      Guy shifted the box of bulky plumbing supplies to his left arm and stuffed his right hand into the front pocket of his store apron to deposit his keys. He glanced toward the driveway where he’d parked the Hearth and Home truck. He’d planned to bring the purchase by after church the previous day but his phone calls had gone unanswered. Since he’d concluded Abby and her father must be spending all their time at the hospital, he was surprised to get a response when he’d punched the doorbell three times in quick succession.

      The door creaked open an inch but no face appeared. Guy squinted to see inside the dark house.

      “Down here, drugstore cowboy,” the aggravated voice grumbled an obvious reference to the fancy boots.

      Guy glanced down, his gaze locking with dark eyes beneath an overhang of bushy gray brows.

      Abby’s father.

      Guy estimated the man to be in his late seventies, but the long, thin body sunken into the inexpensive low-slung wheelchair could have made him look older than his years. Guy extended his hand.

      “Guy Hardy, sir. Hearth and Home Super Center.”

      “Pete Reagan. Friends call me Shorty, mostly because I’m not.” His eyes raked Guy up and down. “Guess you can, too.”

      The old fellow kept the handshake brief.

      Needing an excuse to be standing on the man’s porch, Guy nodded toward the box he carried. “I brought the supplies your wife and daughter left at the store on Saturday. Thought you might need them.”

      “Women.” Shorty shook his head. “You can’t live with ’em, can’t trade ’em for catfish bait.” A rusty hinge complained as he pushed the door wider and maneuvered his chair to the left. After moving a few feet he stopped, leaned to one side and pulled a thin wallet from his hip pocket.

      “How much?”

      Guy watched as bony hands counted out several bills.

      “That’s covered, sir. I’m just making the delivery.”

      The bushy brows drew together. “Then how much for the delivery?”

      “There’s no charge, Mr. Reagan.”

      Shorty folded together a couple of one-dollar bills and thrust out the offering. “Then take this for your trouble. I insist.”

      Guy suppressed a smile as he accepted the modest tip. “Why, thank you, sir. May I carry this inside for you? The parts shift pretty easily so this box might be hard to manage.”

      “Well, since you’ve decided I’m an invalid, and you’ve already got my money, you might as well haul them all the way back to the laundry room yourself.”

      Guy winced. He hadn’t meant for the comment to come across as an insult, especially since he was normally so conscientious. Life with a houseful of women had taught him to choose his words carefully. That was even more important with customers.

      “Lord, keep me mindful of my words,” he muttered.

      “Say what?” Shorty snapped.

      “Nothing, sir.”

      “Well, stop talkin’ to yourself and come on.” He spun the chair, offering