Nora

“You little heathen!” the boy’s mother cried, drawing everyone’s attention to Bruce. “You shouldn’t be allowed in decent company! The child of a divorced man!” she added with pure venom as she pulled her soaked, weeping child out of the water and began to comfort him.

Langhorn heard. He got to his feet and joined his son, who looked torn between tears and embarrassment.

“I tried to stop him,” Melly said, her eyes eloquent as they looked up at the tall man.

He didn’t look at her, or seem to hear. He put his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “He’s as good as your boy, Mrs. Sanders,” he told the flustered mother. “Of course, he does act like a little boy instead of a little statue sometimes.”

Mrs. Sanders’s red face went redder. “He hardly has a moral example to follow, Mr. Langhorn.”

Langhorn just stared at her. “I thought this was a church party, where Christian people got together to have a good time.”

The woman froze, and suddenly became aware of people staring at her, and not very approvingly.

“It seems to me,” Nora inserted with exquisite poise, “that none of us is so perfect that he can sit in judgment on others. Or is that not what church is supposed to teach us?” she added with a cool smile.

Mrs. Sanders bit almost through her lower lip. “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Langhorn. I was frightened for Timmy….”

Langhorn’s eyes spoke for him. He turned Bruce away. “You find some other little kid to play with,” he said loudly. “I want you around boys who aren’t made of glass.”

Timmy wiped his eyes on his sleeve and jerked away from his mother with a furious glare.

Melly smothered a grin and followed Nora back to their picnic area.

It wasn’t long before Langhorn and Bruce joined them. Both were grinning, and Melly was more flustered than Nora had ever seen her.

“You’re a haughty one,” Langhorn told Nora with pursed lips. “I don’t know that I like being defended by eastern aristocrats with toffee noses.”

Nora liked him at once. She grinned at him. “I don’t know that I want to associate with a heathen,” she returned.

His eyebrows went up and he looked at Melly, who colored prettily.

“I can see that my reputation has preceded me,” he said heavily. He sat down on their cloth and lounged on his side. His dark eyes smiled at Nora and then slid reluctantly to Melly, who was trying to dish up chicken and rolls. “Am I invited to dinner?” he asked her softly.

Melly’s hands shook. “If you like,” she stammered. “There’s plenty.”

It was nothing tangible, but Nora felt herself wondering at the tension between this man and her cousin. She had told Nora that he wasn’t interested in her, but he looked at Melly just a little too long for politeness, and she was shaken—more than shaken—by just his presence. He was attracted to her, but obviously he wasn’t going to let her get any closer than this.

“Me, too, Melly,” Bruce pleaded. He grinned at her. “Were you gonna stop me? I saw you running my way.”

“I wasn’t quick enough,” she muttered. “You’re just impossible, Bruce. Really…!”

“Timmy pushed me in last time we went on a picnic,” Bruce explained. “I was just going to get even, that’s all. His mom didn’t say a word when it was me dripping wet.” He glowered. “I don’t like her. She says I’m not good enough to play with Timmy.”

“Like hell you aren’t,” Langhorn said easily. “Pardon my language,” he added politely to the ladies. He looked back at his son. “You don’t judge people by their kin.”

“You shouldn’t,” Nora corrected. “Unfortunately, people do.”

Langhorn studied Melly carefully as he accepted a plate from her unsteady hands and nodded his thanks. “You came to Bruce’s rescue like an avenging angel. Thanks.”

Melly shrugged. “Mrs. Sanders is…a bit overbearing at times. She’s overprotective, too. Timmy is going to wish she hadn’t been, one day.”

He smiled. “Maybe not. Your parents have protected you. It hasn’t hurt you.”

“Hasn’t it?” Melly asked without looking at him. She felt bitter, fiercely bitter, because if her parents hadn’t smothered her with concern, she might have had some hope of a life with Langhorn. But that was in the past. He thought her too young, and perhaps she was.

Mrs. Terrell came sidling up a minute after Langhorn finished his chicken, smiling from under her lacy parasol. “I do hate to disturb you, Jacob, but I’m feeling just a bit faint. Would you mind very much driving me home?”

“But we only got here,” Bruce wailed. “And I haven’t got to play with the other kids. There’s a sack race…!”

“He can stay with us and we’ll drive him to your place on the way home,” Melly offered, angry at the widow—who was obviously jealous—and hurt for Bruce. “Oh, do let him stay,” she pleaded when he hesitated.

He looked at his son quietly. “You mind her.”

“Yes, sir!” Bruce beamed.

Langhorn glanced at Melly with an unreadable expression and bent to pick up his weather-beaten hat. “I’ll expect him home before dark,” he told Melly. “You have no business driving around the country in the dark.”

“Yes, sir,” Melly murmured demurely, peering up at him impishly.

His face froze, as if her teasing had an unwanted effect on him. He whirled on his heel, taking Mrs. Terrell’s arm bruisingly to herd her down the path.

“Thanks, Melly!” Bruce said enthusiastically, grabbing for a slice of fresh-baked apple pie. “You’re swell! That’s twice you saved my life. Honestly, isn’t Mrs. Terrell a hoot? She wants Dad to marry her, but he doesn’t like her that way. I heard him talking to himself about her.”

Melly smiled to herself. It was nice to know something so intimate about Jacob Langhorn, even if it was only that he talked to himself. She glanced at Nora and sighed at the sympathy and caring in those deep blue eyes. She smiled at her cousin and shrugged.

The rest of the picnic was fun. Melly and Nora cheered Bruce in the sack races and watched him beat the others in the egg carry. There were horse races between the men, which Bruce said his dad was sure going to hate having missed, and music as well, because a couple of the men brought their guitars.

If Cal Barton had been around, Nora would have thought the picnic perfect. She wondered what he was doing, on his mysterious weekend absence.

DOWN NEAR BEAUMONT, TEXAS, a grimy Cal Barton was helping his drill foreman put the final touches on their newest rig while his brother Alan looked on. Immaculate in his suit and tie, Alan wasn’t about to get himself dirty. Irritably Cal thought that the snooty Miss Marlowe would have found Alan just her cup of tea.

“That should do it. Let’s get started,” Cal told the other man, climbing down to join his brother on solid ground.

“You hit a dry hole first time,” Alan reminded him. “Don’t get too optimistic.”

“It’s my money, son,” Cal reminded him with a cool smile. “Aunt Grace’s money, actually, but I was her favorite and she had a passion for oil. That’s why you and King were left out. She thought I had the touch.”

“Maybe you do. I hope you don’t run out of money before you hit the big one.”

“That geologist said the oil is here,” Cal reminded him. “I’d have come three years ago if I’d had the backing, but none of you believed I knew what I was doing. Least of all King. He made his opinion of foolish ventures crystal clear before I left home.”

“King has mellowed just recently, thanks to Amelia,” Alan mused. “You really will have to come home long enough to meet her. She’s quite a girl.”

“She must have a backbone of solid steel to cope with our brother,” he said flatly.

“She threw a carafe at him.”

Cal’s eyes widened. “At King?”