No Place Like Home. Debbie Macomber

his eyes as if he could barely stand being in the same car with anyone so stupid.

      “I can ask, can’t I?” Clay whined.

      “Of course,” Molly answered, attempting to divert a shouting match.

      After repeated warnings, Clay finally secured his seat belt and fell asleep, his head cocked to one side. Because the car’s air conditioner didn’t work, Molly had hoped to avoid the heat as much as possible by leaving before six that morning. Already both boys were tired and cranky. Not long after Clay dozed off, Tom braced his head against the window and closed his eyes.

      The silence was a blessed relief after two hours of almost continual bickering. Molly was grateful for the quiet, grateful for her grandfather—and grateful to Sam Dakota for calling her when he had.

      She hadn’t met the man and already he’d changed her life.

      * * *

      A cooling breeze came from the north. Walter Wheaton sat on his rocker on the front porch and enjoyed the fresh sweet morning air. He was weak, but even his bad heart couldn’t curtail his excitement.

      Molly and the boys were on their way. They’d been on the road two days and by his best estimate would arrive around noon. He was already imagining how they’d turn from the highway and onto the meandering dirt road that led to the ranch. When they did, he wanted to be sitting right here on the porch waiting for them. Damn, but it’d be good to see Molly again. Good to see those young ones of hers, too. She hadn’t said so, but he knew she worried about being a good mother. The world was a different place now, compared to when he’d grown up, but love and discipline still worked wonders.

      The older boy had a sassy mouth; Walt had heard it himself when he’d talked to her on the phone. And the younger one was like a puppy, making a mess wherever he went. In time they’d learn, though. Tom might require a little help adjusting his attitude, but Walt felt up to the task. What that boy needed was a man’s influence, a man’s guiding hand. That and a switch taken to his backside when he deserved it!

      In the big city someone was liable to report him for suggesting the rod. Child abuse they’d call it and probably toss him in the clink. Walt believed that child abuse was ignoring your children, neglecting them, not giving them guidance or a good example. Those things hurt kids far more than an occasional smack on the rear. What was the matter with people these days? he wondered.

      A plume of dust showed at the end of the driveway. Molly. He hadn’t expected her quite this early. His Molly and her boys.

      Walter stood carefully, taking his time so as not to overtax his heart. My, oh my, he was looking forward to seeing his family. Thank goodness Molly had mailed all those pictures! Without them, he wouldn’t recognize the boys.

      His eyes weren’t what they used to be and it took Walt far longer than it should have to realize it was a truck that barreled toward him and not a car pulling a trailer. Another minute passed before he recognized his neighbor, Ginny Dougherty. The woman didn’t have the sense God gave a rock chuck.

      Walt grunted in annoyance. Ginny was a damn fool. The widow simply didn’t know her limitations; she was crazy trying to run a ranch on her own. Fred, her bachelor cousin—aged at least sixty—lived with her and helped out on the place. In Walt’s opinion, the two of them were like the blind leading the blind. And he’d told her so, too. Frequently.

      Ginny’s truck squealed to a halt, kicking up dust. The door opened and she leaped out so fast you’d think the seat was on fire.

      “Before you start shouting,” she began, “I suggest you hear me out.”

      Walt didn’t have the strength to yell much these days, but he wasn’t letting Ginny know that. “What do you want this time?” he demanded. He wrapped his arm around the post and casually leaned against it, so she wouldn’t realize how weak he was.

      Ginny stood with her hands on her hips. Walt looked her up and down, then shook his head. A woman her age had no business wearing dungarees; he was firm on that.

      “Someone knocked down your mailbox,” she told him, her chin angled stubbornly toward him. “The way the tire tracks went, it looks deliberate.”

      Vandals had been wreaking havoc the past few months. Walt didn’t understand it. “Who’d do such a thing?”

      “Anyone who knows you, Walt Wheaton. You’ve gone out of your way to make yourself the most unpopular man in town.”

      “Are you going to stand on my property and insult me, woman?” He forgot about conserving his strength. Ginny always did have a way of getting his dander up. He suspected she did it on purpose, and if the truth be known, he often enjoyed their verbal skirmishes.

      “I’m not insulting you. I’m telling you the truth.”

      “I don’t...have to...take this,” he said, then slowly lowered himself into the rocker.

      Ginny frowned. “Are you okay?”

      “Of course I’m okay.” He closed his eyes, and his breath came in shallow gasps. It always happened like this; without warning, he’d be unable to catch his breath. No feeling on earth could be worse. It felt as though someone’s hands had closed around his throat.

      “Walt?”

      He dismissed her with a flick of his hand.

      “Walt?” She sounded much closer now.

      “Pills,” he managed between gasps. He patted his shirt pocket. His head slumped to one side and he felt Ginny’s hand searching around for the small brown bottle. The entire time, she was talking. Leave it to a woman to chatter at a time like this. If his heart didn’t kill him, Ginny’s tongue would.

      An eternity passed before she managed to get the pill under his tongue. A couple of minutes later, it took effect. Walt managed to remain conscious, but only by sheer force of will. He refused to pass out; otherwise Sam was sure to haul him back to the medical clinic. If a man wasn’t sick when he walked in there, he would be by the time he walked out.

      Dr. Shaver had damn near killed him while Sam sat there watching. Walt had fired Sam three times in the next few days, but Sam had ignored his orders. The problem was, his foreman could be as stubborn as Walt himself.

      “Drink this.” Ginny thrust a glass under his nose.

      “What’s in it? Arsenic?”

      “Water, you old fool.”

      When he didn’t obey her fast enough, Ginny grabbed it back and gulped it down herself.

      “I thought you said that was for me,” he grumbled.

      “I needed it more than you.”

      Ginny collapsed in the rocker next to his own. Molly’s rocker. For forty years she’d sat on the front porch with him each night. She’d darned socks, crocheted, knitted. His wife hadn’t believed in idle hands. Every now and again he’d find a way to steal a kiss. It had never ceased to amaze him that a woman as beautiful and talented as Molly MacDougal would marry the likes of him. Her one regret was that she’d only been able to give him one son.

      Now they were both gone. Adam killed by a drunk driver while still in his twenties and then, later, his Molly. He’d be joining them soon. But not right away. There was work that had to be done. Affairs settled. Arrangements made. He wanted time with Molly and her boys first. God would grant him that much, Walt was sure. The good Lord had seen fit to take Adam and Molly early in life, and as far as Walt was concerned God owed him this additional time.

      “You gave me the scare of my life!” Ginny cried. She was rocking so fast she damn near stirred up a dust devil.

      “What’d you do with my mail?” he demanded, hoping to change the subject.

      Ginny glared at him, her dark eyes burning holes straight through him. “I saved your life and all you care about is your stupid mail?”

      “You’ve