An Ideal Father. Elaine GrantЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Where’s your little boy?”
Cimarron turned to a corner of the kitchen and paled when he saw the cubbyhole was empty. “He was right there.”
“Maybe he slipped out the back door.”
“I would have heard him. He’s here somewhere. Wyatt?” He moved to the cubbyhole, where Wyatt’s toys were still strewn about. He squatted and let out his breath, relieved. “Here he is.”
Sarah followed Cimarron’s gaze. The child was curled into a ball on an open shelf under the counter, all but hidden from view. Cimarron stuffed the toys into a bag and gently slid Wyatt out. He hoisted the bag over one shoulder and the boy over the other.
Sarah studied the two of them. Neither was at ease with the other and she wondered why.
“You’re not very good at looking after him, are you?” she said bluntly.
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An Ideal Father
By
Elaine Grant
When Elaine Grant was five years old, she decided she wanted to be a writer who illustrated her own books. Her first short story was published in the local weekly newspaper when she was nine. There was no turning back after that! At sixteen Elaine began her first manuscript ndash; an English historical about a highwayman. That one is still in the closet. In 1998, her dream came true when her novel Roses for Chloe was published, a story combining romance with the Southern lore of ghosts and long, sultry days perfect for falling in love. An Ideal Father is the second book set in Little Lobo, Montana. Elaine loves horses, cowboys, gardening, baseball, travel and eating sushi with her son when he’s home from college. She lives in Louisiana with her husband, son, a psycho cat and a lovely Australian shepherd, and loves the food and the unique culture of the area. Visit Elaine’s website, www.elainegrant.com.
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This book is dedicated to my family and friends, all of whom enrich my life constantly.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’d like to acknowledge several people for their patience and expertise in answering my questions. They graciously gave of their time and knowledge and any misinterpretations or errors belong to me, not them.
Thanks to Bori Sunsuri for answering my questions about adoption; Billy Cocreham and Otto Buehler for their expertise on construction and restoration; Frank Stedman III for all his help on managing a restaurant; Jim Mayer, Bud Bailey and Mark Pencil for information on and demonstrations of fly-fishing; and Sandra Cahill, 63 Ranch, for answering questions on fly-fishing specific to Montana.
CHAPTER ONE
South Louisiana
June
“NOW YOU JUST STAY there for a minute. Everything will be all right.”
The low, gruff voice came from outside the construction trailer where Cimarron Cole was working at a paper-strewn desk. Frosty air from a window air conditioner blasted the side of his face and ruffled his hair, but at least it beat the stifling humidity outside. Cimarron glanced at the large clock on the opposite wall as the doorknob turned.
Cimarron’s brother, R.J., popped his head around the door, a sheepish look on his face. “Hey, little bro. Late again. Sorry.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Get to work. You’ve put the painters behind schedule already.”
“Well, see, ah…” R.J. screwed up his mouth and glanced behind him. “I’ve got a little problem.”
Cimarron waited in silence. R.J. had a lot of little problems. He was good-looking, with curly dark hair and the Cole family’s legendary doe-brown eyes that women couldn’t seem to resist. The thirty-eight-year-old still considered himself a ladies’ man. Well, at least until the past few years, when he’d been forced to slow down.
“You see, Erica ran out on me this morning. Left me. Told me to…Well, you probably can figure out what she told me.”
Cimarron grunted and made an impatient gesture with his hand. “So, what’s new? You trade girlfriends like most people trade cars. And come inside—you’re wasting energy and letting the cool air out, to boot.”
R.J. twisted around in the doorway and motioned. A five-year-old miniature R.J. stepped hesitantly into the tiny office. R.J.’s son, Wyatt. Cimarron tensed. What now? Why the hell had he caved and hired his brother on this project?
“See, she just up and left. And I ain’t got nobody to watch Wyatt, so I thought maybe he could sit here while you…”
Cimarron’s jaw clenched and he shoved his chair back and went around the desk, taking R.J. by the arm and forcing him outside onto the narrow stoop. Cimarron shut the door and they faced off with their chests almost touching.
“You think I’m going to babysit for you today? No way in hell. I have got work coming out my ears. I’ll be here till midnight as it is. I told you when you talked me into taking you on, you had to be reliable.”
R.J. pressed back against the porch rail to put another inch between himself and his brother. “Okay, okay. But I’m here now, just a few minutes—”
“Over an hour late! And dragging your kid with you.”
“Look, I’ll have a sitter by tomorrow. Hell, Erica might be back by then. He ain’t going to bother you. I swear, he’ll sit right there in that chair.”
“No. You just go home for the day. I’ll get somebody to finish painting the molding.”
“That’s not right, Cimarron. I need the money. More than ever now, if I gotta hire a sitter. Just let him stay in there while you work. I’ll hurry and look for a sitter over my lunch hour.”
Cimarron’s shoulders sank at R.J.’s imploring look. Nothing but problems. The whole family.