An Ideal Father. Elaine Grant

to Bozeman.

      “Unca Cimron, are we gonna live in that house?”

      Cimarron glanced at Wyatt, then back at the highway. Buckled into a booster seat, Wyatt rotated his toy truck in his hands, pretending to study it.

      “Maybe for a while. Why?”

      A small shoulder shrugged. “Don’t look very nice.”

      “Well, I plan to fix it up.”

      “Oh. Do you have a house somewhere else for us to live?”

      “No. I don’t have a house. I live in this truck. And sometimes I live in a trailer, when I’m working on a house.”

      “Can we live in a trailer while you work on that house?”

      “Might be fun to live in the house. We can pretend we’re camping out.”

      “That lady said no.”

      “That lady doesn’t know everything.”

      “It’s kinda spooky. That old house…”

      “You scared?” In the rearview mirror, Cimarron caught a glimpse of Wyatt’s lower lip trembling. “Come on, you’re a big boy. Besides, it’s just old. Nothing in there to be scared of. Anyway, we won’t be here that long.”

      Wyatt brightened. “Okay.”

      “Listen, Wyatt…” Cimarron licked his dry lips. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

      “Okay.”

      “Do you think you’d be happier living with somebody besides me? I mean, I’m on the road all the time and…”

      “My daddy,” Wyatt said softly. “That’s all.”

      “Yeah, I understand. But you know how that is. I was just wondering…” Cimarron let the words trail off as his palms grew sweaty on the steering wheel. Sooner or later, he had to tell Wyatt about his plans, but somehow he chickened out every time he tried to explain. He had no business scoffing at Wyatt for being afraid of a spooky old house. He was completely frightened by a five-year-old. Not to mention his brother’s ghost.

      “I don’t want to live with nobody else.”

      Cimarron pulled into the parking lot of a large home-improvement store, hoping to find the part he needed. Three stores later, he found a replacement burner and they headed toward Little Lobo once more. Cimarron breathed a sigh of relief when he pulled into the parking lot. The house was still standing.

      He took the new burner and the tools required from the back of his truck. Sarah was nowhere to be found, but the rear door to the café stood open and the screen was unlatched. The place was spotless. Apparently she’d made it through lunch. Cimarron put Wyatt in the booth with his backpack of toys and went behind the counter to work.

      Sarah came in the kitchen door a few minutes later and busied herself there while he continued to work in the dining area. Half an hour later, he wiped the last trace of grease from the stainless griddle. He walked into the other room to clean his hands.

      Chopping an onion with a vengeance on a cutting board near the double sinks, Sarah didn’t look up. Through the windows the disputed house loomed, a reminder of the reason for the tension hovering in the room.

      “Your griddle’s fixed.”

      Silence.

      A to-do list hung on the corkboard above the counter.

      Chop onions

      Soup base

      Fry bacon

      Slice tomatoes

      Peel boiled eggs

      Ice in front bin

      Slice deli meat

      Brew fresh coffee

      Cimarron stopped reading and put a large skillet on the stove. Adjusting the heat, he rummaged in the refrigerator until he found a butcher-paper packet marked Bacon. He laid the strips side by side until the bottom of the pan was covered, the only sound in the room that of the meat beginning to sizzle and the rat-a-tat-tat of Sarah’s chopping. Sarah cut her eyes around at him.

      “I don’t want your help,” she said.

      “I know you don’t. But you need it.” He turned the crisping bacon with tongs taken from overhead hooks that were laden with a conglomeration of kitchen tools. A larger rack hung nearby, loaded with industrial pots and pans.

      While the bacon continued to cook, Cimarron peeled one after another of the boiled brown eggs that were sitting in a bowl on the counter. Sarah scooped her chopped onions into a container, popped the top on it and began to slice the blood-red tomatoes nestled in a colander set in the sink.

      The comforting smell of bacon filled the room, making it hard to hold a grudge.

      “Thanks,” she said softly. “For the griddle…and this…”

      “I don’t see how you do it alone.”

      “I usually have help. He’s sick.”

      “Just two of you?”

      “Yes. Bobby used to help out, but—” She laid the sliced tomatoes in a container, then diced the rest. “You’re pretty good at this.”

      “Lots of practice when I was young.”

      “I see. Why?”

      Cimarron busied himself moving the bacon to a paper towelndash;lined pan. “Do you want this bacon whole or crumbled for the salad?”

      “A third of it whole, the rest for the salad.” She turned and leaned against the counter, her eyes on him as she dried her hands on a towel. “You’re not going to answer me, are you?”

      He met her clear gaze straight on. “Nope.”

      “Why are you helping me like this? To bribe me?”

      “No. I don’t work that way.”

      “How do you work, Mr. Cole? How did you talk my brother into selling out to you without so much as a word to me?”

      Cimarron almost told her the truth, but then he bit back the words. She probably loved her brother, even though right now she’d never admit it. No need to paint her a picture of the louse Bobby really was. He shook his head and went back to his task with the bacon.

      “What? Did you get him drunk? Or just keep offering him more money until he couldn’t resist?” Lingering fury smoldered in her words. “Have you been after him for a long time? Until finally you wore him down?”

      She dumped stock and sautéed vegetables into a tall soup pot, seasoned the mixture and put a lid on to let it simmer.

      “I think you’re a cheat.”

      “Well, I’m not. I didn’t cheat your brother out of anything. Have you located him yet?”

      “No.”

      “Not likely to, either,” Cimarron muttered.

      Sarah huffed, but backed off. “Where’s your little boy now?”

      “Playing in a booth.”

      “He’s very quiet. Most kids that age make a lot more racket. What’s his name?”

      “Name’s Wyatt. Don’t worry about him, he’s fine.”

      The bell over the front door tinkled and Sarah threw the towel aside, smoothing her hair back.

      “Thanks for helping. Do you want to feed Wyatt before you go?”

      “I’m not going anywhere.”

      “No, really, I’ll get by tonight. There’s no need for you to stay. If you’ll leave your name and a way to get in touch,