An Old-Fashioned Love

“Blast!” The boy put on a mulish face at his father’s raised eyebrow, and defended his language. “She says it all the time!”

“Does she now?” said Wyatt, giving the boy another firm push. Reluctantly Rex moved off, and Wyatt Gilley turned his attention to Traci, who was staring at the grimy fingers with which she’d almost combed her hair. He grinned. “Do you say Blast!’ all the time?” he asked.

Traci grimaced. “I guess I do,” she admitted, and Wyatt Gilley’s grin widened.

“Well, it’s quite an improvement over what usually comes out of that kid’s mouth. I wonder what other improvements you’ve managed.”

“Not many, I’m afraid,” she said. “Mr. Gilley, I’m—”

“Wyatt,” he interrupted smoothly.

“Huh? Oh. Right. As I was saying, Wyatt, I’m afraid this isn’t working out as well as I’d hoped.”

He nodded, a smile stretching his mouth. “I knew you were going to need me sooner or later,” he said, “but you’re stubborn, Traci Temple. You should have asked for my help sooner.”

Asked for his help? “But I wasn’t…” she began, only to realize that she was speaking to his back as he strode after Rex. Blast the man! He was as exasperating as his sons. Quickly she went after him. By the time she caught up, he had reached the storage building, which Rex and Max were supposed to be cleaning out so she could install shelves. Only a glance was required to see that Rex had not taken his father’s instructions to heart. Both boys were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shed, giggling over the most recent havoc they’d managed to wreak. Wyatt reached down and grasped the back of a striped T-shirt in each hand.

“Up and at it!” he commanded, hauling them to their feet. “Hop to it, and make it snappy.” Rex opened his mouth to complain, but Wyatt shook a finger in his face. “The first one to say a word will give me twenty-five push-ups—on his toes! The second one will pull fifty!” The boys groaned but didn’t utter so much as a syllable as they turned to their work. “That’s more like it,” Wyatt said heartily. He stepped back and folded his arms. “Now, Traci, I’m curious about that grease on your hands.”

She blinked, trying to follow. The man switched gears faster than she could. “Grease. Yes.” She licked her lips. “It’s the display case. The refrigeration’s on the fritz.”

“Ah. Well, I’ll take a look at it. Just give me a minute to get my tools out of the car.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. He owed her, after all, for saddling her with these two hooligans of his, if nothing else. In any case, he was already moving away from her and across the side deck toward the front of the building and the street. She turned her attention to the boys, who were working reluctantly but steadily. The work would go faster, she decided, with six hands than four. She waded in and got after it.

The jumble inside the storage shed was almost all transferred outside when Wyatt Gilley stuck his head out the back door and called her name. “Traci?”

She stopped what she was doing and wiped a forearm across her brow, miffed by his casual use of her given name. “Yes?”

“Could you help me a minute? I need you to hold a fitting while I tighten the coupling.”

That sounded promising. Perhaps he had found the problem. She wiped her hands on her bottom. “Coming.”

His head withdrew. Seconds later she had picked her way through the jumble on the ground and was stepping up into the shop. She passed through the back pantry and around the end of the display case to find Wyatt Gilley lying on his back upon the floor, his head and shoulders skewed into the motor compartment of the case. She walked behind him and crouched down.

“Where do you need me?”

“In here.” He eased himself back until his shoulders rested fully upon the floor. His head was lying on the lip of the door that slid open to reveal the motor compartment, and his hands were suspended above him, holding a narrow copper line and a wrench fixed to a tiny nut. Its slightly smaller twin rested at an odd angle above it. “I need you to reach that top fitting, push it down and hold it there until I can tighten the bottom one to keep it in place.”

Traci widened her eyes. Just how, she wondered, was she supposed to get in there with him lying in the way? “Can’t you manage it alone?” she asked in a small voice.

The wrench clattered to the floor, and Wyatt Gilley lifted himself up on his elbows, blue eyes glaring. “If I could manage it alone, I wouldn’t have called you in here. What’s the problem anyway? All you have to do is hold down that top fitting.”

“The problem,” she snapped, “is getting to it, as you very well know.”

He gave her a withering look. “Do you want this thing fixed or not?”

“Of course I want it fixed.”

“Then get down here and hold the blasted fitting!”

“You don’t have to yell at me!”

He seemed to gulp back an angry retort, then closed his eyes. She could have sworn he was counting to himself. He lifted his gaze once more. “Excuse me,” he said silkily. “Now do you think you can get your pretty little hand on that darned fitting?”

Pretty little hand, indeed! She pushed out an agitated breath, then bit her bottom lip, thinking. Maybe if she lay on top of the slanting metal doors on the ice-cream compartment and let her head hang down over the side she could see into the motor compartment. Yes, that might work. Carefully she crawled atop the case, oblivious to the rolling of electric blue eyes. It was not as easy as it looked. The slope on those metal doors was so severe that she very nearly slid right back down again. Only by grasping the top of the viewing glass could she maintain her position. So with one hand she held herself in place, and with the other she reached into the motor compartment.

“I think I can get it now,” she said, peering upside down at the fitting in question. With some effort, she finally got a hand on it and got it down into proper position.

“Here we go,” Wyatt said, his tone somewhat doubtful. He worked the wrench, but the fitting between her fingers slid up the copper tube again.

“Blast!” she murmured, only to hear a muffled chuckle from below. She lifted her head slightly to look at Wyatt. “What?”

He lifted his eyebrows in parody of an innocent shrug. “Oh, nothing.”

She frowned and lowered her head again, once more grasping the fitting and working it back into place. “Try again.”

“Push against the wrench this time,” he said, beginning to turn the wrench. “Almost Keep pushing. A little more. A little more. I said a little more!”

That did it. “I’m pushing as hard as I can!”

“Excu-use me! I’m only trying to fix the most important piece of equipment you own!” Once again the wrench clattered to the floor.

“What now?” she demanded

“I’m resting my arms, if you don’t mind.”

Her own arm, the one holding her in place atop the freezer case, was beginning to weaken as well, not to mention the fingers hooked over the metal rim fitting one glass panel to another. “This isn’t going to work,” she muttered and swung her feet to the floor.

“Ow!”

She had stepped on his leg. Quickly she hopped over it and onto the other.

“Yow! What’re you trying to do, cripple me?” He yanked up his knees and rolled into a sitting position, while she hopped and skipped, trying to avoid him.

“Be still!”

“Whoa!” he exclaimed, his hands fastening on her ankles to hold them in place. Already in motion, her upper body pitched forward She overcompensated, throwing herself backward and sat down hard on the plank floor, his hands still fastened about her ankles.

“Oh!” She found herself suddenly eye-to-eye with him, and they stared at each other in shock.

It was then that he began to laugh, great, rumbling syllables rolling up out his chest and shaking him.

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Her whole face was flaming now. Angrily, she kicked free of his hold, only to have him drape an arm companionably about her shoulders, his big frame still shuddering with barely suppressed laughter.

She folded her arms and shrugged without visible result, grumbling, “Very funny. I almost break my neck—” He erupted in fresh guffaws, that arm locked about her almost as if he were protecting her from further harm.