An Old-Fashioned Love. Arlene James

the same. They were singularly successful distractions apart. Together they were nothing short of disaster. She sat back on her heels, her toes and knees taking her weight, and resisted the urge to straighten the sleeveless, scooped-neck, pale pink T-shirt she wore atop her faded, old jean cutoffs.

      “What is it, Max?”

      “This!” shrieked Rex, popping up over the glass hood of the display case.

      Squirts of water hit her squarely in the eye and splattered over her face. She gasped and sputtered while more water drenched her blouse and shorts, and the twins giggled delightedly. Anger flashed through her. She made a grab for the water guns, got a hand on Max’s and took a squirt in the palm from the other, while Rex beat a fast retreat.

      “Blast you, Rex Gilley!”

      “Only if you catch mel” came the taunt.

      All right, if that was the way he wanted it. A tug delivered Max’s gun into her possession. Quick as a flash, she was up and around him, sprinting after his brother. Rex’s laughter trailed after him as he tore out the door, along the front deck, up the steps and across the big deck at the side of the store. Traci was closing on him by the time he reached the edge of the big deck. He leaped to the ground, and she followed, landing practically on top of him, so that their legs tangled and they went down. Before he could struggle up again, she grabbed the wrist of the hand that held his gun, pointed her own and squeezed the trigger in rapid succession, splashing his freckled face with streams of water. He twisted and writhed, trying to push her off with his free hand.

      “Stop! Stop it! Stop!”

      “Ho! Not so funny when you’re on the receiving end, Rex?”

      “Cut it out!”

      “Not til you apologize!” She kept on squeezing. He opened his mouth, but whether in protest or apology, she couldn’t know, for the instant he opened it, water poured in, and the words he would have spoken came out as comical gurgles. Traci started to laugh. Rex spluttered and joined her, bubbles dribbling over his chin. That, too, was a comical sight, and Traci laughed all the harder, releasing him. When Rex pointed his own gun at his chin and washed away the bubbles by shooting water at himself, she laughed so hard, she collapsed. Then he turned the gun on her again, and the battle was joined once more, but this time it was all in fun.

      They were both out of water, scrambling together on the grass, and laughing helplessly when Traci spotted a familiar pair of leather athletic shoes very near her face. Wyatt. Laughter died to be replaced by breathless pants and little moans as the combatants disentangled and sat up. They were wet, rumpled and covered in grass stains and dirt. Traci looked at Rex and groaned inwardly. If she was as disheveled as he was, she must look a sight, indeed. Adding to her discomfort, Wyatt Gilley went down on his haunches and reached a hand toward her. She flinched involuntarily, her heart beating a heavy, rapid rhythm in her chest. She felt a gentle tug, and her sagging hair tumbled about her face. Simultaneously his hand came away with the soft, fat, elastic band that had held her hair in a loose ponytail. He offered it to her, and she plucked it from his fingers.

      “Thank you.”

      His mouth quirked up in a grin. “You’re welcome.” For a long moment he just squatted there and stared at her, his forearms resting upon his knees and his grin growing wider by increments while her face slowly heated to a red glow. “Work must be going well,” he said at last, “if this is how you’re spending your time.”

      The remark reminded her of her earlier pique, and she frowned. “Work is not going well,” she snapped, “because this is how I’m forced to spend my time.”

      “Ah.” That was it. Just “Ah.”

      For some reason she was all the more irritated. She pulled her knees up in preparation of standing, then found his hand beneath her elbow. Realizing it would be churlish to pull away, she allowed him to help her up, but when he began to dust off her backside, she danced away. Smoothly, as if he had not even noticed her escape, he turned his attentions to Rex.

      “I can guess who forced whose hand,” Wyatt said, dusting off his son with firm, even strokes. “Rex is the mastermind of my matched pair. His day is just one long prank, or so his teachers tell me.”

      “If he gets into as much mischief at school as he does here, I imagine you speak to his teachers a lot,” Traci said smartly.

      Wyatt laughed. “Quite a lot.” Looking down, he pulled Rex’s water gun from his hand, smoothed the boy’s flaming red hair and planted his palm between protruding shoulder blades, pushing firmly. “I’m sure you and your brother are supposed to be doing something useful. I suggest you get to it.”

      “Aw, Dad,” the boy whined, “it’s time to go!”

      “We’ll go when you’re finished and not before.”

      “But we haven’t even started!”

      “All the more reason to get busy.”

      “Blast!” The boy put on a mulish face at his father’s raised eyebrow, and defended his language. “She says it all the time!”

      “Does she now?” said Wyatt, giving the boy another firm push. Reluctantly Rex moved off, and Wyatt Gilley turned his attention to Traci, who was staring at the grimy fingers with which she’d almost combed her hair. He grinned. “Do you say Blast!’ all the time?” he asked.

      Traci grimaced. “I guess I do,” she admitted, and Wyatt Gilley’s grin widened.

      “Well, it’s quite an improvement over what usually comes out of that kid’s mouth. I wonder what other improvements you’ve managed.”

      “Not many, I’m afraid,” she said. “Mr. Gilley, I’m—”

      “Wyatt,” he interrupted smoothly.

      “Huh? Oh. Right. As I was saying, Wyatt, I’m afraid this isn’t working out as well as I’d hoped.”

      He nodded, a smile stretching his mouth. “I knew you were going to need me sooner or later,” he said, “but you’re stubborn, Traci Temple. You should have asked for my help sooner.”

      Asked for his help? “But I wasn’t…” she began, only to realize that she was speaking to his back as he strode after Rex. Blast the man! He was as exasperating as his sons. Quickly she went after him. By the time she caught up, he had reached the storage building, which Rex and Max were supposed to be cleaning out so she could install shelves. Only a glance was required to see that Rex had not taken his father’s instructions to heart. Both boys were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shed, giggling over the most recent havoc they’d managed to wreak. Wyatt reached down and grasped the back of a striped T-shirt in each hand.

      “Up and at it!” he commanded, hauling them to their feet. “Hop to it, and make it snappy.” Rex opened his mouth to complain, but Wyatt shook a finger in his face. “The first one to say a word will give me twenty-five push-ups—on his toes! The second one will pull fifty!” The boys groaned but didn’t utter so much as a syllable as they turned to their work. “That’s more like it,” Wyatt said heartily. He stepped back and folded his arms. “Now, Traci, I’m curious about that grease on your hands.”

      She blinked, trying to follow. The man switched gears faster than she could. “Grease. Yes.” She licked her lips. “It’s the display case. The refrigeration’s on the fritz.”

      “Ah. Well, I’ll take a look at it. Just give me a minute to get my tools out of the car.”

      She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. He owed her, after all, for saddling her with these two hooligans of his, if nothing else. In any case, he was already moving away from her and across the side deck toward the front of the building and the street. She turned her attention to the boys, who were working reluctantly but steadily. The work would go faster, she decided, with six hands than four. She waded in and got after it.

      The jumble inside the storage shed was almost all transferred