A Match Made in Texas. Arlene James

what had to be done to make his house on the west side of Fort Worth habitable again—and how it had come to be in need of repair—pained and exhausted him, so he shoved it out of mind.

      Thankfully, Aaron returned just then with a laden tray, announcing gaily, “Hey, they got a dumbwaiter. Imagine that. Comes up out there on the landing. It’s like an elevator for food, but Hilda says she sends the laundry up that way, too. Pretty slick, huh?”

      Stephen nodded and shrugged. “There’s one in my stepfather’s flat in Amsterdam, where the houses are very old. It works on a pulley.”

      Kaylie took the tray and placed it on Stephen’s lap, asking, “Older than this place? Chatam House is almost a hundred and fifty years old, you know.”

      He smirked at this. “My stepfather’s flat is in a converted herenhuis built in 1632.”

      She blinked. “My, that is old.”

      “Sixty percent of the houses in Amsterdam were built before the eighteenth century,” he muttered, mentally cataloging the contents of the tray. He identified orange juice; eggs scrambled with parsley and diced onion; toast with butter and strawberry jelly; four slices of crisp bacon; a baked apple sprinkled with cinnamon and swimming in cream; and what appeared to be a cup of strong black coffee.

      “Mmm,” he said, inhaling appreciatively.

      Kaylie smiled. “You’ll find the fare at Chatam House on an entirely different plane than that of most hospital food.”

      “No kidding.”

      He picked up the ridiculously delicate china cup from its matching saucer and touched it to his lips for a quick sample, then made a face. Hot tea. Yuck. He’d never developed a taste for it, and his mother had not pressed him to. He set the cup back onto the saucer and reached for the orange juice instead.

      Kaylie chuckled and said to Aaron, “There’s a chain coffee shop down on North Main, about a block south of the highway. They have a drive-through window, but I’m sure that if you pick up his favorite grind, Hilda will be happy to make it for him.”

      “All right,” Aaron said, digging into his pocket for his keys. “Be right back.”

      “I have to be going, too,” Kaylie said, swinging toward the door.

      Both Aaron and Stephen spoke at the same time.

      “What?”

      “Where are you going?”

      “Home,” she answered, turning to face them.

      “B-but what about Steve?” Aaron asked, waving a hand toward the bed.

      “I don’t know. Who stayed with him last night after you fired the nurse?”

      “I did,” Aaron answered.

      “Well, then…”

      “I’ve got a brand-new wife at home!” he exclaimed, twisting to throw Stephen a pleading look.

      Kaylie’s eyebrows rose at that, but she said only, “I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared to stay at this point. Aren’t there any family—”

      “None close,” Stephen interrupted tersely, frowning.

      “Mom’s in Holland,” Aaron explained. “Dad’s in Lubbock. No siblings.”

      “Friends?”

      Stephen sighed richly. Yeah, like his hard-partying friends would take turns sitting at his bedside. Besides, the team was busy. This was their first year to make the playoffs, and the last thing he wanted was to become more of a distraction to them than he already was.

      Aaron rubbed his chin. “Cherie, maybe.”

      “Who’s Cherie?” Kaylie asked.

      Aaron waved a hand. “Aw, that’s Stephen’s girlfriend-of-the-moment.”

      “Aaron,” Stephen scolded, glaring a warning that his agent completely missed.

      “The female du jour,” the social lummox blathered on, “flavor of the month. Matter of fact, unlike you, she’s a not-so-natural red—”

      “Aaron!” Stephen shouted forcefully enough that Aaron actually closed his mouth. Finally. Stephen muttered, “Cherie’s just a team secretary.” A team secretary who liked to style herself as his girlfriend whenever it seemed convenient for her.

      A shop-made redhead, with a store-bought figure and trendy “bee-stung” lips, the only things real about Cherie were her hands and feet. Even her fingernails and eyelashes were fake, not to mention her cheekbones and chin. That penchant for plastic surgery and high-end beauty salons hadn’t seemed like any big deal to Stephen; now it suddenly seemed a little…tawdry, and he didn’t want her anywhere near the Chatams. Truth to tell, he didn’t want her near, period. He just didn’t have the energy to play her game right now.

      “Ah. Well, someone’s going to have to bring him his supper. We’ve already imposed on Hilda enough for one Sunday,” Kaylie was saying to Aaron. “After he’s eaten, if you just make him comfortable, he should sleep through until morning.”

      “But what about the night?” Aaron began. “Someone has to be here in case he hurts himself again.”

      “If she doesn’t want to help us, she doesn’t want to help us!” Stephen barked.

      “I didn’t say that,” Kaylie insisted. “It’s just not a decision I can make instantly.”

      Aaron sighed, shoulders slumping. “Okay, okay. I’ll sack out in the other room.”

      “Don’t strain yourself,” Stephen muttered, picking up a heavy silver fork and attacking his eggs with his right hand.

      “Stevie,” Aaron said placatingly, “it’s not me. It’s Dora.”

      Aaron’s bride of some three months was given to pouting if Aaron neglected her, which, Stephen admitted silently, happened too often. Still, what was he supposed to do without help? Didn’t the small fortune that he paid Aaron count for something?

      Kaylie stepped backward. “Well, I’ll leave you to your meal.”

      “But you’ll let us know about the job soon, right?” Aaron pressed.

      “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

      She whirled and hurried away. Stephen dropped his fork and fixed his agent—and, in truth, his friend—with a glare.

      “Now what?” he demanded, suddenly weary again. For once, Aaron had no glib response. “That’s what I thought,” Stephen muttered morosely.

      Hurrying down the gracefully curving marble staircase, her hand skimming the gleaming dark wood of the banister, Kaylie pondered the situation. Stephen Gallow was unlike any man she’d ever encountered. She wasn’t at all sure, frankly, that she liked him, but her like or dislike was not the issue. Part brute and part little boy, he presented a problem: she didn’t quite know how to deal with him. How could she? The men in her life were calm, solid, accomplished, erudite, polite…in short, gentlemanly.

      Her father, Hubner Chandler Chatam, Jr., was a retired minister. Bayard, her eldest brother by more than three decades, was a banker, and Morgan, at forty-two, a history professor. Even her third brother, Hubner Chandler Chatam III—known as Chandler or Chan and twenty-nine to her twenty-four—had a degree in agricultural engineering, though to her father’s disgust, he made his living mainly in pro rodeo competition. Of all the men she knew, Kaylie supposed that Chandler had most in common with Stephen Gallow, but he never snarled, lost his temper, behaved rudely or, God forbid, cursed. At least, not as far as she knew. And Chandler was a believer, a Christian. Stephen Gallow was obviously not.

      Moreover, Gallow was a little crude, or as her father would put it, rough as a cob, though not lacking in all sensibility. He had moderated his language, with some difficulty, on her behalf. None of that,