A Wife Worth Waiting For

Bolton gave her a truncated bow and a smile. “Thank you, Teresa.”

Wallis Revere was seated in his wheelchair before a cold fireplace. “Close the door,” he ordered summarily.

Bolton complied. So much for the niceties of polite greetings and small talk. He walked farther into the room and let his gaze take in the old man glaring up at him with piercing eyes. Revere seemed not to have changed so much as a cell. His hair, though white, was lushly thick and meticulously groomed. His long, narrow face was scored and sunken, yet somehow vital, despite the pallor of his skin, the razor thinness of his nose and the weight of bushy white brows that seemed drawn together in a permanent scowl. Perhaps that face owed its vitality to his mouth, which was wide and full-lipped. Yes, the mouth—and the eyes, which were as bright and vibrant a green as any emerald.

Bolton took in the burgundy cardigan, the soft gray shirt and the carefully knotted tie, the starched creases of charcoal slacks, coordinated argyles and black wingtips and decided that death was not yet knocking at this particular door. Relieved, he allowed himself to relax and give rein to his curiosity. “How can I help you, Wallis?”

Revere leaned back in his chair. He was a tall, thin man with big feet and hands, now gnarled and weak but still commanding. He seemed to be trying to satisfy himself on some private point, then having done so, nodded. “Sit down, Reverend. I don’t like to ask favors of anyone I have to look up to.”

Bolton tried not to show his surprise as he crossed to a comfortable leather wing chair and folded himself into it. Favors? Since when did Wallis Revere ever ask favors of anyone? Bolton folded his hands and leaned forward, indicating his willingness to listen.

Wallis Revere grimaced. “What I wouldn’t give for arms and legs that work, as they’re supposed to,” he said, then lifted his chin. “I have a job for a man, a real man, not some nambypamby afraid of his own shadow. Mind you, I don’t want a bully, but I need a man of strong character and deep conviction. I think you’re that man.”

Bolton couldn’t have contained his surprise this time if he’d tried. “Well, thank you.”

Revere lifted a gnarled hand dismissively. “I’ve met a good many ministers in my day. Some are sensitive to the point of being effeminate and so other-worldly, they’re of no use in this one. I judge you the exception, and that’s why I’ve asked you here.”

Bolton waited, sure more was to come.

Wallis Revere smiled in a smug, self-satisfied manner and got down to it. “I have an eight-year-old grandson, soon to be nine. His father got himself killed over five years ago. Pulled a damn fool stunt on a horse and got his neck broke. In all the time since, there have been just his mother and I, for all the good I am to him. He needs the company and influence of a whole man, someone strong but respectful, someone who knows his duty and doesn’t shirk it.”

Why, the old crank was looking for a surrogate father for the boy! Bolton lifted both slender, coffee black brows, torn between amusement and offense. Clearly Revere thought him man enough for the job, but Bolton suspected Revere considered him “manageable” as well. Perhaps it was time to disabuse the old boy. “I think playing dad to a boy I’ve never even met is stretching the description of my ‘duties’ pretty thin. I’m a minister, not a foster parent.”

Revere screwed up his face in an expression of impatience. “Exactly so. You’re a minister, and I am one of your flock. You won’t refuse a call for help from one of your own. I know you better than that. Besides, the boy needs you. No one’s asking you to adopt him. Just spend time with him, let him see how you handle yourself. Now, is that too much to ask?”

Bolton frowned. It was a lot to ask, but too much? Well, he supposed that depended on what he was dealing with here. Any grandson of Wallis Revere’s was bound to be a snotty little prince—unless, of course, the good Lord had seen fit to tweak old Wallis’s pride. It was just possible the boy was somehow a disappointment to the old man. Perhaps he lacked the natural arrogance of a Revere. Maybe he was too “other-worldly” for his grandfather’s tastes. And maybe it was something else altogether. Maybe the kid just needed someone to toss a ball around with him. Bolton crossed his legs and pinched the crease of his navy slacks just above the knee, thinking. Finally he looked up. “I’ll have to meet the boy before I can make a decision,” he stated evenly.

Wallis nodded and rolled his chair backward. Reaching around the end of the fireplace, he pressed a buzzer bar fastened to the wall. Half a minute later, Teresa opened the door.

“Do you want me, Mister Wallis?”

“Bring Trent in right away.”

The woman nodded and hurriedly left them. During her absence, Wallis condescended to make small talk, commenting on the weather and the state of the economy before turning the conversation back to his grandson. The boy had just finished second grade, was an exceptional reader and a whiz at math. He was learning to play the piano and roller skate. He wrestled and held the title in his league’s weight class. Revere’s pride in the boy was evident in the careless manner in which he revealed all this. Bolton didn’t know what to expect. When the door opened a second time, he sat forward, blatantly curious.

A little boy with light brown hair and his grandfather’s vibrant green eyes walked into the room. He was your average kid, dressed in bluejean shorts with neatly rolled cuffs and an oversize T-shirt bearing the logo of a professional basketball team. He wore a wristwatch and expensive high-top athletic shoes with black socks. His thick, straight, light brown hair had been cut in a modishly conservative style: very, very short in back, considerably longer on the top and sides. It showed signs of having once been parted but now fell forward in a thatch of bangs that covered one eyebrow. He was taller and bigger than average, more physically mature in some ways than any other eight-year-olds Bolton had known. Otherwise, he was just an average kid. His face was yet too round to display any significant bone structure. His fingernails were too short, as if they’d been bitten back. He had a nasty scrape just below one knee. Wallis beckoned to him.

“Come here, Trent, and meet Reverend Charles.”

The boy walked forward without hesitation and offered the reverend a noticeably grimy hand. Bolton swamped it with his own, pleasantly surprised by the strength in the boy’s grip. “How do you do, sir?”

“Very well, thank you. And you, Trent? I have the feeling we took you away from something interesting.”

The boy nodded engagingly. He was a very self-possessed sort and rather solemn. “I was checking my traps,” he revealed.

Wallis chuckled. “We’ve a skunk somewhere hereabouts, and I’ve given orders that it’s to be shot at first opportunity. Trent disagrees with my solution to the problem. He thinks he can trap the critter and make a friend of it.”

Bolton disciplined a smile. “Aside from the obvious problem,” he said, addressing Trent, “have you considered the possibility that the skunk could carry rabies?”

The boy’s chin went up a fraction of an inch. “I wasn’t going to let it bite me,” he said, very matter-of-fact.

Bolton regrouped quickly. “Of course not. I was thinking more of the other animals a rabid skunk could infect, like that old battle-scarred cat I met outside.”

“General,” the boy murmured, obviously thinking.

“I beg your pardon?”

Trent looked mildly confused for a moment. “Oh. His name is General. General Tom.”

“I like that,” Bolton said. “It suits him.”

“He’s not a very nice old cat,” Trent said. “If you pet him, he’ll hang his claws in you. But I like him anyway.”

“He kind of makes you respect him, doesn’t he?” Bolton commented.

The boy looked at him consideringly. He was forming an opinion. Bolton believed it would be a favorable one. Apparently, so did Wallis, and that was what seemed to matter to the old man. “You can get back to your traps now, Trent,” Wallis said dismissively.

His high-handedness suddenly irritated Bolton immensely. Before he could stop himself, he caught hold of the boy’s hands. “Not just yet. I’d like to ask you a few questions, Trent.”

The boy tensed but did not object. “What?”

“What are your favorite things to do?”

Trent shrugged. “Video games. Reading. Movies. Cartoons. I like to draw sometimes.”

All solitary amusements. “Who’s your very best friend?” Bolton asked.

Again the boy seemed confused. He thought a long time, then slid a wary glance toward his grandfather. “Denny Carter, I guess.” The old man scowled. Trent rushed on. “He’s older than me but not bigger, and he’s the only one who can beat me wrestling.”

“You like him, do you?” Bolton pressed.

Trent held his gaze for a long moment. “Like General Tom,” he said finally.

“You respect him, then,” Bolton mused. “And does he like you?”

Trent’s gaze wavered. He fortified it. “He likes being able to beat me.”

Bolton wondered what the answer would be if he asked Trent if he let Denny Carter beat him at wrestling. He glimpsed something unsettling behind that calm gaze, as if the boy was terrified that he would ask that very question. Bolton took pity on him and clapped his hand over his shoulder, putting on a smile of satisfaction. “Anybody would like you, Trent,” he said. “I certainly do.”

The kid’s relief was palpable, though not evident. “Thank you. It was very nice meeting you, sir.”

“It was very nice meeting you, too, Trent.” Bolton put his hand on the boy’s back, turned him toward the door and gave him a little shove. He fled with all the enthusiasm of every kid escaping the confusing presence of adults. When he was gone, Bolton looked at Revere. The old man was frowning, but he quickly smiled. Bolton doubted Wallis Revere had the least concern over his grandson’s lamentable lack of friends his own age, not that it mattered. “He’s a fine boy,” Bolton said. “I’ll like spending time with him.”

Triumph infused the old man with an almost physical power. “Wonderful. I’ll have my daughter-in-law bring him around tomorrow for a getacquainted session.”

Daughter-in-law. Trent’s mother. Bolton cocked his head. “I trust she approves of this arrangement.”

The old man dismissed that concern with a wave of his hand. “Why shouldn’t she?”