Milky Way. Muriel Jensen

I could have the money for you in a week,” she said, trying desperately to keep the plea out of her voice. She wanted to convey competence, reasonableness.

      “Or the bank could turn you down,” he said gently.

      She tilted her chin. “I believe they’ll approve me.”

      Jake stood. If he had to hurt her feelings, he felt he had to do it on his feet. “I’ve seen your credit file, Mrs. Hansen. I think you’re deluding yourself.”

      Anger sparked in her eyes, which were suddenly like the lake in an electrical storm. “At the moment, hope is all I have, Mr....” She hesitated over his name.

      “Marshack,” he provided.

      “Marshack,” she repeated. “If you’re going to tie me to the train track, let me at least hold on to the hope that the real Dudley will come along.”

      Jake wanted out of the warm, cozy kitchen and out from under her judgmental glare more than he wanted anything else at that moment. Yet something rooted him in place. He guessed the reason was that she looked so touchingly brave that he couldn’t do anything cowardly.

      So he decided to tell her what he thought. “Mrs. Hansen, small farms run by strong men are going under left and right. Why continue to fight the inevitable? We’ve offered to buy you out twice. Maybe it’s time you considered it.”

      She was now rigid with anger, but he gave her credit for controlling it very well. Had their roles been reversed, he’d have had her on the porch by now, on the business end of the pitchfork.

      “This is a heritage farm,” she said, her voice very quiet. “It’s been in my family for four generations—five, counting my children. I’m not interested in turning it over to a dairy that now owns more of Wisconsin and Illinois than the state park systems.”

      He nodded. “I’ve been empowered to raise the offer.” He named the sum Stan Foreman, vice president of sales, had brought to his office that morning with the subtle reminder that acquiring her property for the company would speed Jake’s rise up the corporate ladder. The offer was generous and was intended to knock her off her feet and out of her stubbornly negative stance. It didn’t.

      For an instant the blue eyes widened and he saw a flash of longing, then it was gone and he was treated once again to the February lake. “You don’t understand,” she said, her patience obviously strained. “Four generations of Bauers were born here. It’s been like a gift passed from hand to hand. I couldn’t sell this farm any more than I could sell one of my children.”

      “How are you going to provide for those children’s education, Mrs. Hansen?” he asked. “You’re in considerable debt already, with little chance of fighting your way out without selling—or marrying a wealthy man. Would you rather the bank got your memories?”

      She paled, holding both arms rigidly to her sides. “How dare you worm your way into my kitchen—”

      “You invited me in,” he reminded her quietly, “after I prevented you from breaking your neck.”

      “—drink my coffee,” she shouted over him, “then proceed to call me a deadbeat?”

      This wasn’t going at all the way he’d hoped. “I said no such thing,” he denied, pushing the chair he’d occupied back to the table. “I mentioned only what is public record. If you sell, you can pay all your debts, buy a nice little place somewhere and still have enough left over to start four college funds.”

      She did not appear appeased. “You even know how many children I have.”

      “Details are an important part of my job,” he said without apology. “You owe us a lot of money, Mrs. Hansen. One of us better do his research.”

      She marched across the kitchen, her braid flapping against her upper back. She yanked the door open and fixed him with a lethal stare, her cheeks pink, her voice wavering a bit as she said darkly, “I’m a 34B, I love silk underthings and mocha fudge-nut ice cream, and I root for the Milwaukee Brewers. Anything else you’d like to know?”

      Jake tried to accept defeat gracefully. But his life and career were on a timetable, and her inability to pay her debts, plus her refusal to sell, were holding things up. The Winnebago Dairy board would be making the vice-presidency decision at the end of summer. He’d hoped to be district quota buster by then, or to have reeled in her property for the company so that he’d be the only possible choice.

      On such short acquaintance he’d decided he liked her, even though she was making his life difficult. He’d try again. There had to be a way to reach her. But he had to regroup first.

      He smiled politely and went to the door, resolutely keeping his eyes from the charming dimension she’d announced. “We’ll deliver,” he said, “as soon as your bill is paid.”

      He stepped out onto the porch, but was swept back into the kitchen when a wave of children collided with him, then carried him along as they burst into the house. He heard the four of them yell, “Hi, Mom.” Four lunch boxes clattered onto the table, then the wave dispersed in four directions—the refrigerator, the cookie jar, under the table where the dog lay and to the small television in the opposite corner. A bouncy cartoon ditty filled the room. The kittens raced back in, seeking attention.

      A slender boy about twelve or thirteen polished an apple and studied Jake from a careful distance. He wore jeans and a plaid flannel shirt open over a T-shirt. “Your wheels in the driveway?” he asked.

      “Yes,” Jake replied.

      The boy nodded. “Cool.” Then he looked from his mother’s frowning face to Jake’s unfarmlike attire and asked with an edge of hostility in his voice, “You from the bank?”

      Britt put her arm around her older son’s shoulders and forced herself to smile. She tried so hard not to let her financial woes affect her children, but money, or the lack of it, had become so large a part of her life lately that the subject intruded everywhere. Determined to keep it from gaining more ground as long as she could, she said cheerfully, “Matt, this is Mr. Marshack. We were just talking about...about Great-Grandma Bauer.”

      Jake saw the transformation take place on the widow Hansen’s face as, snacks secured and the dog and kittens petted, the children gathered around her. He guessed it was maternal reflex at first; she didn’t want them to know she was upset. Then the youngest boy and girl flanked her, each leaning in to her, and she seemed to visibly relax.

      “This is Christy,” she said, putting a gentle hand atop a preadolescent with hair the same shade as hers. The child wore glasses with red frames and had eyes that studied him with the same suspicion her mother’s showed.

      “David,” she went on, moving her hand to a boy about eight. He was the only one in the group with dark hair, and his blue eyes verged on green.

      “And Renee.”

      “I’m six,” the plump little girl reported. She was the spitting image of her mother and sister, but with the rounder features of early childhood. She smiled up at him. “You look like Robin Hood,” she said.

      Britt’s eyes met his and said without words, But you’re more like the Sheriff of Nottingham. Aloud, she said, “Mr. Marshack was just leaving.”

      “Stay cool,” Matt advised.

      “Nice to meet you,” Christy said.

      David waved at him from his mother’s side, and Renee followed him out to his truck.

      “I’m in first grade,” she said, hopping on one foot beside him, then racing to catch up as he got ahead of her. “My birthday is in October. You know, January, February, March, April...”

      She went all the way through to October while following him around the truck and watching him open the door and climb in.

      He let her go on without comment because he never knew what to say to children. He always