An Ideal Father. Elaine Grant

      “Was that the contractor you were talking to in the café?”

      “Yes, he’s going to start working on the house next week.”

      “Nope. I don’t work with anybody.”

      “Then what are you doing in here? Did it occur to you to ask permission before you trespassed?”

      “You were somewhat rushed this morning.” He tucked his pad and pencil into his shirt pocket. “It’s a beautiful old house.”

      Sarah stared at him. “You’re the first person who’s said that in a long time.”

      “Obviously well built. Just a bit run-down. Most of the problems are cosmetic.”

      “I’m glad to hear that. I’m going to remodel it and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.”

      “Remodel? This house deserves to be restored.”

      “Love to, but I can’t afford it.”

      His lips pressed together and his brow knitted.

      “That’s too bad.”

      “Why?”

      “I’d hate to see a fine old mansion like this messed up any more than it already has been. The craftsmanship is irreplaceable.”

      “What business is this of yours?”

      He blew out a long breath, rubbed his hand across his mouth and said, “It belongs to me now. Your brother Bobby sold it to me.”

       CHAPTER THREE

      SARAH SUCKED IN a shocked breath. She clamped her fists against her hips and glared at him. He hoped she wasn’t the fainting kind.

      “That’s a lie!” she snapped, alleviating his worry that she might swoon. But the nearly imperceptible tremor in her chin belied her bravado.

      He almost smiled at her pretty face, which was suddenly as pale as porcelain except for a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks. Her turquoise eyes were shooting sparks.

      “No, ma’am, it’s not. I’ve got the documents in my truck, if you want to look them ov—”

      She gave an adamant shake of her head, unleashing several red curls that immediately fell across her forehead. Brusquely she shoved them back. “I don’t care what papers you’ve got. Bobby can’t sell this property to you.”

      “Why?”

      “Because I’m buying it from him.”

      “You’ve got a legal document to that effect?” Cimarron asked, recalling the earlier conversation he’d overheard between her and the local contractor.

      Wyatt’s hands squeezed Cimarron’s leg in a death grip. He fought the urge to shake the boy off so he could concentrate. Sarah hesitated for a second, lips pressed tight.

      “No, not exactly.”

      “Not exactly?”

      “We have a verbal agreement. It’s always been understood that he would sell the house to me.”

      “An ‘understanding’ is not going to hold water. I’ve got a legal bill of sale.”

      He considered ducking to avoid the daggers being thrown from her eyes.

      “I don’t care. Your papers aren’t worth a plug nickel. A verbal agreement is binding, too. Bobby can give you the money back and the deal’s off.”

      That underhanded brother of hers hadn’t told Cimarron that anybody else wanted the place. In fact, he’d never mentioned a sister at all. He’d acted like the house was his, free and clear.

      “It’s not that easy.”

      “Why?”

      “Couple of reasons. For one thing, did it occur to you I might not want to negate the deal? I’ve got plans for this house.”

      She narrowed her eyes. “What plans? Who are you anyway, and how do you know my brother? Why do you want my house?”

      “Cimarron Cole. I met your brother last year in New Orleans and he told me about the house. I had a friend check the place out, and I made an offer. Bobby turned me down back then, but he called a few weeks ago to see if I was still interested. It seemed like a good investment…at the time.”

      “How could he do this to me?” Bewilderment clouded her face for a moment, then she clenched her jaw and straightened her back. “And how did somebody check out my house without my permission?”

      “Don’t guess he realized he needed permission. Bobby said the house was his, which I get the feeling is the truth. Maybe you were busy in the café and didn’t notice. I doubt he’d have been here long.”

      “It doesn’t matter, Bobby and I had a verbal agreement and I want my house back. Just let me find him and make him return your money.”

      “Good luck,” he said with a smirk.

      “What do you mean by that?”

      Cimarron gently disengaged Wyatt from his leg. “Go over there and play,” he said. Wyatt hesitated, still leery of the stranger. “Go, I said.” Cimarron gave the boy a slight push and Wyatt reluctantly crossed the floor to sit on the edge of the hearth, ready to bolt back at a moment’s notice.

      Cimarron leaned against the window frame and crossed his arms. “The last time I saw your brother, the taillights of his brand-new Coachman RV were disappearing around the bend, and his new showgirl-turned-bride was waving her bejeweled hand out the window. I doubt the ink was dry on the sales contract.”

      “What? He got married? Again?” Her exasperated voice rose to a squeak. “A Coachman? Isn’t that the big…”

      Cimarron nodded. “Yep. About a hundred thousand dollars big. And the wedding rings were probably another fifteen grand.”

      He thought the woman was going to faint for sure this time. Her hand flew to her throat and her mouth fell open. “How much did you pay?”

      “A hell of a lot more than I would have if I’d known the real situation. But the fact is, Bobby’s already run through most of it and I don’t think you’re going to be seeing him for a while.”

      She sank to the windowsill. “I don’t have that kind of money,” she whispered.

      “I don’t want your money anyway. I want the house. Bobby never mentioned your interest in it.”

      “He’s such a rotten brother,” she said.

      Cimarron agreed, but held his tongue.

      “This property has been in our family for generations. Bobby promised he’d sell his part to me.”

      “I believe dear Bobby went for the bucks, not family loyalty. If I hadn’t bought it, his plan was to move on to the next bidder.”

      She surprised him by muttering, “The little shit.” Then she looked up with bold determination. “I’ll get the money to buy it back. I’ll get a loan.”

      “No bank’s going to loan you the amount I paid for this house. Not the way it looks right now.”

      “I thought you said it was in good enough shape.”

      “It is, but not to the casual eye.”

      “I’ll get an appraiser.”

      “It won’t appraise for what I intend to sell it for. Besides, you’d spend the rest of your life paying back that kind of loan, even with a bed-and-breakfast.”

      “I don’t care.” She faced him squarely, her eyes glinting fire. “You’re not going to get it. I’ll sue you.”

      “For what? It’s a