kitchen greeted them as the buzz of the automatic garage door opener shut them snugly in for the night. Nick headed to the cordless phone, intent on finding his sister fast. Then he’d have to call Carolyn and make his excuses. When he only connected with Lydia’s perky answering machine, he left a brief, panicked message. “Lydia, it’s your brother. Call me—soon. I’m at home and I could really use your help.”
We make him uncomfortable, Myla Howell reasoned as she watched the handsome, well-dressed man talking on the phone. She knew she and her children were an inconvenience. When you didn’t have money, or a place to sleep, you became that way.
She’d learned that lesson over the last few months. People who’d called themselves her friends had suddenly turned away. She wasn’t good enough for them now. They didn’t have time for her now. They couldn’t be seen associating with a homeless person.
This man was the same. He couldn’t wait to be rid of them. But, he had saved them tonight. She’d give him credit for that. She watched him moving about the kitchen, taking in his dark, chocolate-colored hair, remembering his gold-tinged tiger eyes. Golden brown, but missing that spark of warmth. Calculating eyes? She’d seen that kind of eyes before; still bore the scars from trusting someone who could be so ruthless. Would this man be any different?
She hoped so, she prayed so, for the sake of getting her children to a safe place. Refusing to give in to her fears or her humiliation, she focused on her surroundings instead. What a joy it would be to cook in a kitchen like this! She missed having a kitchen. Cooking was one of her pleasures and with hard work and lots of prayer, it could soon be her livelihood, too.
The gleaming industrial-size aluminum stove shouted at her while the matching refrigerator-freezer told her there was lots of bounty here to explore. The long butcher block island centered in the middle of the wide room spoke of fresh vegetables and homemade breads and pastries. Myla closed her eyes briefly, almost smelling the aroma of a lovely, home-cooked holiday meal. She’d miss that this Christmas. But next year…
Nick watched her in amazement. Under the surreal lights of the truck stop, she’d looked pale and drawn. But here in the bright track lights, Myla seemed to glow. She was tall, almost gaunt in her thinness. Her hair was long and thick, a mass of red, endearing curls that clung to her neck and shoulders. Even in her plain clothes, this woman exuded a grace and charm that few women would possess dressed in furs and diamonds. Obviously, she hadn’t always been homeless. Her clothes and the children’s looked to be of good quality and in fair shape. Not too threadbare; wrinkled, but clean.
Mentally shaking himself out of his curious stupor, Nick watched her closely, noticing the dreamy expression falling across her freckled face. Then it hit him. “You’re probably hungry.”
His statement changed Myla’s dreamy expression to a blushing halt. “I’m sorry…this is such a beautiful kitchen…I got carried away looking at it.” Nodding at the expectant faces of her children, she pushed them forward. “The children need something to eat. We had breakfast at a rest stop—donuts and milk.”
The implication that they hadn’t eaten since this morning caused Nick to lift his head, but he turned away before she could see the sympathy in his eyes. “Well, don’t worry. Our housekeeper, Henrietta Clark, has been with the family for most of my life. She always stays with a friend down the street when I’m away, so she’s not here tonight. But she cooks a lot, way too much for my sister and me. We usually wind up giving half of it away—”
“It’s all right, Mr. Rudolph,” Myla said to ease his discomfort. “We’ll be glad to take some of your leftovers off your hands, right, kids?”
She was being cheerful for the children’s sake, Nick realized. Relaxing a little, he dashed over to the gleaming refrigerator. “Let’s just see what we’ve got. We’ll have ourselves a feast.”
Patrick hopped up on a wooden stool, yanking his fleece jacket off with a flourish. “My mom’s the best cook, Mr. Nick. She can make just about anything, but her bestest is bread—and cookies.”
“Oh, really?” Nick glanced over at Myla. “Well, come on over here, Mom. I could use an expert hand. I’m not very good in the kitchen.”
Eyeing Jesse and unsure what to do with her, he lifted the quiet little girl up on the stool next to Patrick. With an unsteady smile, he registered that she felt warm, almost too warm, but then he wasn’t a doctor or a daddy. What did he know about little girls?
Myla stepped forward, then took off her threadbare wool coat. “Anything I can do to help?”
Nick watched as she hovered beside him, as if waiting for him to issue an order. Tired and unsure what to do himself, he unceremoniously loosened the red-patterned tie at his neck, then yanked off the tailored wool suit jacket he’d worn all day. Tossing the jacket across a chair, he watched as Myla straightened it and hung it over the back of the chair, her hands automatically smoothing the wrinkles out.
“Thank you,” he said.
He watched as a flush bathed her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Force of habit. My husband liked everything in its place.”
Nick nodded, then wondered about her marriage. Had it been a happy one? Not that it was any of his business, but the sad, almost evasive look in her eyes made him curious. Did she miss her husband? Of course, she probably did, especially now when she was struggling so much.
“How about a roast beef sandwich?” he asked as he lifted the heavy pan of meat out of the refrigerator. “Henny cooked this for Sunday supper, but I didn’t get back into town to enjoy it.”
“That’s a shame.”
“No, that’s the life of an oilman. Lots of trips, lots of leftovers.” Searching through a drawer, he found a large carving knife. “I say, let’s cut into this thing.”
“Yeah, let’s cut into that thing,” Patrick echoed, clapping his hands. “My mouth’s watering.”
Jesse smiled, then coughed.
“Are you hungry, Jesse?” Worry darkened Myla’s eyes. “She has allergies and she’s fighting a nasty cold.”
A spark of warmth curled in Nick’s heart. “Maybe some good food will perk her up.” He offered Jesse a glass of orange juice.
Nick found the bread, then poured huge glasses of milk for the children. Myla located the coffeemaker and started a fresh brew. She sliced tomato and lettuce, then made some thick roast beef sandwiches. Soon all four of them were sitting around the butcher block counter. Nick picked up his sandwich for a hefty bite, but held it in midair as Myla and her children clasped hands and bowed their heads.
Seeing his openmouthed pose, Myla said quietly, “We always say grace before our meals. I hope you don’t mind.”
Nick dropped his sandwich as if it were on fire. “No, of course not.”
When Myla extended her hand to his, something went all soft and quiet in his ninety-mile-an-hour mind. When was the last time he’d said a prayer of any kind? He listened now to Myla’s soft, caressing voice.
“Thank you, Lord, for this day and this food. Thank you for our safety and for the warmth you have provided. Thank you for sending us help when we needed it most. We ask that you bless each of us, and this house. Amen.”
Stunned, Nick wasn’t so sure he wanted his house blessed. He felt awkward as he lifted his hand away from the warmth of Myla’s. To hide his discomfort, he said, “Let’s eat.”
Patrick didn’t have to be told twice. He attacked one half of his sandwich with gusto. Nick flipped on a nearby television to entertain the children, but mostly to stifle the awkward tension permeating the room.
He watched them eat, hoping Lydia would call soon. Patrick wolfed his food down in record time, while Jesse nibbled at hers between fits of dry coughing. Their mother broke off little bits of her sandwich, as if forcing herself to eat, her eyes darting here and there in