Run To Me. Lauren Nichols

noticed when she’d arrived. It was less than a hundred yards away, surrounded by trees and greenery, and separated from Amos’s home by a small, sun-spangled pond. “Go ahead and move your stuff into my grandson’s place.” A faint grumble entered his tone. “Lord knows he ain’t usin’ it. Since my stroke, he’s been hauntin’ my house.”

      Amos’s tone evened out. “You’ll have more room over there, anyways. When we advertised for a live-in housekeeper, we didn’t figure on a young’un. Truth is,” he went on, “this housekeeper nonsense is his idea. I did just fine before the stroke, and I do just fine now.”

      Erin smiled, but she could see that wasn’t so. Though his folksy speech hadn’t been affected—or if it had, he’d recovered—Amos’s right leg was weak, and the responsibility of running his general store in addition to his home chores was undoubtedly more than he could handle.

      She glanced again at the sprawling log home with its deep wraparound porch, suddenly uneasy. “Mr…. Amos. Are you sure your grandson’s all right with us staying in his home? That is, did you mention it when you phoned him earlier?”

      “If the boy’s gonna insist I get another housekeeper, he’ll hafta put up with the rest of it.”

      “Then…I’m the second? Third?” And what had happened to her predecessors?

      “Second and last,” Amos grumbled again. “First one had her cap set for me. I wasn’t interested.”

      The roar of a rapidly approaching vehicle drew their attention, and Amos squinted toward the dirt road beyond his driveway. A moment later an old, pale blue truck with an emblem on its side appeared, trailing a plume of dust as it sped toward the house.

      “Speak of the devil,” Amos said through a low chuckle. “Figured he’d hightail it back here soon as I phoned and told him to take down the Help Wanted sign at the store.”

      “Your grandson?” Erin asked, unnerved as the truck came to a skidding, gravel-spraying stop behind her van. This wasn’t the arrival of a passive, agreeable man, she thought, her heart sinking. This man was churned up about something—and it was probably her. Suddenly she wondered if she could count on this job after all.

      “Mac,” Amos replied, pride in his hazel eyes. “My daughter Jessie’s boy, God rest her soul.”

      The broad-shouldered man who swung out of the truck was tall, tanned and so beautifully put together that for an instant everything in Erin stilled. The black Stetson he wore low on his brow covered most of his dark-brown hair, and his chambray shirt, rolled back over muscular forearms, was open throated, showing a hint of chest hair. As he moved unerringly toward her, Erin’s gaze dipped to the faded jeans that hugged his thighs and calves…and she drew a soft breath.

      At her short-lived job in Maine, the pretty teenage waitress she’d worked with had had a word for men like him—men who brought a flush to her cheeks and sent her scurrying to their tables to take their orders. She could almost hear Trisha’s flirty whisper now. Smokin’.

      But as Amos’s grandson crossed the weed-choked grass, giving her a critical once-over, another word occurred to Erin. Trouble. It was obvious from his long strides and body language that he didn’t approve of his grandfather’s choice in housekeepers, and he meant to do something about it.

      Backing away from the steps, Erin lifted Christie into her arms again, turning her front and center. It wasn’t terribly noble to use her daughter as a bargaining chip, but when they were fighting for their lives, she’d use whatever weapons she had. Christie’s blue eyes and shy smile had totally disarmed Amos. His grandson would be a harder sell.

      “Hello,” he said politely as he ascended the porch steps. “I’m Mac Corbett.” The firm, callused hand he extended all but swallowed hers. “I understand Granddad’s considering you for the housekeeper position.”

      “I ain’t considerin’ her,” Amos snapped, “she’s got the job. It’s a done deal.”

      Frowning at his grandfather’s precarious position, Corbett pulled a chair close and quietly asked Amos to sit. When Amos lifted his chin and belligerently stood his ground, the younger man sighed and dragged the chair between his granddad and the steps.

      He worked up another smile and looked at Erin again. Christie promptly jammed her face into Erin’s neck.

      “You’re okay,” Erin murmured. “This is Mr. Corbett. He’s a new friend.”

      Corbett extended his hand to her. “Can we shake?”

      “No!” Christie shrieked.

      “Honey, don’t be rude.”

      “She’s okay.” Corbett’s smile increased a little. “She has a right to pick her own friends.” He drew a deep breath, then spoke again. “Would you excuse Granddad and me for a minute, Mrs.—”

      “Terri Fletcher,” she replied, praying Christie wouldn’t correct this new lie. She’d spoken to her about their new names, but few toddlers were good at keeping secrets. “And it’s Ms.”

      “Nice to meet you, Terri.” He pulled open the screen door. “Granddad?” he prodded, glancing at Amos, then back at Erin. “We’ll be right back. Feel free to walk around—check out the place.”

      “Thanks, we’ll do that.” Except, Erin knew that what he meant was, take a hike so I can grill my grandfather without being overheard. And she had a very good idea what he would say. We don’t know her. How can we trust her? Maybe Corbett even had someone else in mind for the position. All she knew was, whatever his motive for this tête à tête, the big man was miffed at being left out of the hiring loop. Seeing the return of that grim expression as he ushered Amos inside, Erin decided with a heavy heart that her chances of staying here were slim to none.

      When the inside door as well as the screen door banged shut, she sighed and walked Christie to the van to grab a box of apple juice from the cooler and the local paper from the front seat. Hopefully, another look at the want ads would turn up something more promising. If not…they’d be moving on again.

      Clamping the paper beneath her arm, she popped the attached straw into the juice box and handed the drink to Christie. “Here you go, sweetie pie. Now, what do you say?”

      “Danka!”

      Chills erupted on Erin’s skin.

      Slowly she crouched down to Christie’s level, laid the paper aside, and dredged up a smile, meeting her daughter’s sparkling blue eyes. “No, sweetheart, we say, ‘thank you,’ when someone gives us a treat. Remember? Can you say it for me now?”

      “Fank you,” she repeated happily, innocently unaware of what she’d done to her mother.

      “Good girl,” Erin murmured and hugged her close, juice box and all.

      Her sober gaze found Amos Perkins’s home again, and she wondered what was being said in there. She didn’t blame Mac Corbett for being cautious.

      If he knew their past, he’d send them packing in a heartbeat.

      Inside Amos’s living room with its mismatched furniture and dated wallpaper, Mac faced his grandfather. He was still startled by the nerves twitching beneath his skin. Terri Fletcher was a dyed-in-the-wool knockout, and that was an understatement—even with her pretty black hair pulled back from her face in that tight ponytail. Even devoid of makeup. The shapeless, beige cotton shirt and slacks she wore only made him wonder what was beneath them—and why a woman that beautiful didn’t want anyone to notice her.

      Fat chance of that happening.

      “Before you say one word,” Amos began, stabbing a finger into Mac’s chest, “I like her and she’s stayin’. She’s a nice woman, and she looks like she could use the money.”

      “I’m not disputing that, Granddad, I just would’ve liked to talk to her before we made a decision. What’s her story?