Maverick Christmas

But unlike everyone else who’d tried lately, she seemed quite capable of managing his sons. He’d checked on them several times this afternoon, and their complaints had assured him they were being well cared for.

Danny had said Mrs. Atwater was bossy and made him practice his reading. And Davy had whined that she made him wear his snow pants when he went outside to play and gave him fruit for his afternoon snack instead of the candy and soda he’d wanted.

Even more impressive, Chrysie had sounded calm on the telephone when he’d asked her about the boys. That in itself put her in a whole new class as far as his experience with sitters was concerned.

Not that the sexy Mrs. Atwater was perfect. Last night’s tree-falling incident had proved that the woman was wound a tad too tightly for Josh’s liking. But what the hell. Josh was desperate for someone to watch the boys on a daily basis, and she might be the ideal solution.

That is, if she checked out. Before he could ascertain that, he’d need to find out exactly what had brought her to Aohkii, Montana.

THE AFTERNOON HAD been every bit as stressful as Chrysie had expected. The boys were incorrigible, constantly pushing the limits. It was clear they’d never been disciplined appropriately. She’d love to point out to Josh McCain all the ways he was failing his sons, but she didn’t dare. The less interaction she had with the sheriff, the better.

She glanced at the clock above the kitchen counter. Six-thirty, and he wasn’t back yet. For the minute, both Davy and Danny were under control, wolfing down sloppy joes as though they hadn’t eaten in weeks. Jenny and Mandy were taking their usual small bites and dawdling between each mouthful.

“Can I have more?” Danny asked.

“You surely can.”

“Me, too,” Davy said, shoving the rest of his food into his mouth. “Daddy’s sloppy joes aren’t this good.”

“Sloppy joes, floppy joes, up your nose,” Danny said as she refilled his plate.

Mandy giggled as if he’d said something remarkably witty. Jenny ignored him. At five, she was not nearly as impressed with the boys’ antics as her three-year-old sister.

“Davy kicked me under the table,” Jenny complained.

“Did not.”

“Did so.”

“I was just swinging my foot and your leg got in the way.”

“Stop swinging your foot at the table,” Chrysie ordered.

“My dad lets me.”

“I’m not your dad,” she said, glancing out the window as she heard an approaching vehicle. She all but shouted her relief when she saw it was the sheriff’s black pickup truck.

A minute later Chrysie opened the back door, and both boys jumped from their chairs as if shot from cannons and raced to smother their father in hugs. She wasn’t sure if that was their usual greeting or if they were just thrilled to be rescued from her.

The sheriff removed his black Stetson and raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair, smoothing the strands the hat had mussed. “Something smells good.”

“Yeah, Mrs. Atwater made sloppy joes. And they’re really good. She doesn’t put those yucky onions in them like you do, Daddy.”

“Guess I’ll have to get her recipe.”

Davy climbed back in his chair. “Can my daddy have some, too?”

“If he’d like. There’s plenty,” Chrysie said. She didn’t consider that much of an invitation, but apparently it was all the sheriff needed. He shrugged out of his parka and hung it on one of the coat hooks near the door.

He was not the kind of man a woman could just ignore, she admitted as she felt his dark, piercing gaze follow her as she grabbed an extra plate from the cupboard.

He took the only available spot—the chair at the end of the table opposite hers. She filled the plate and set it in front of him. “You can have water, milk or coffee,” she said. “I’m afraid that’s all I can offer.”

“Milk sounds good.”

She poured him a glass, then joined them at the table, though her appetite had vanished. Apprehension did that to her, and there was no way she could not be anxious as long as a man with a badge was in her house.

Jenny ran the fork around her plate, using the prongs to make a design in the sauce, before looking at Chrysie with pleading eyes.

“May I be excused?”

Chrysie stared at her daughter’s half-full plate. “You didn’t eat much.”

“I’m full.”

“Me, too,” Mandy said.

“Okay, you can take your plates to the sink. But it’s a long time until breakfast.”

Both girls wiped their faces and hands on their napkins, then cleared their dishes from the table. With them gone, the boys clamored all the louder for Josh’s attention, both talking at once, trying to top each other’s stories. They thrived on his attention, devouring it the way they’d gulped down their food.

That need for approval and affirmation could well be at the root of much of their truculent behavior, especially if they’d been neglected or had experienced a major emotional trauma in their past.

“Sounds as if you guys had a busy afternoon,” Josh said.

“Yeah, but we didn’t have any fun,” Danny complained. “Too many rules.”

“Yeah, too many rules,” Davy agreed, mimicking as always.

Danny cleaned his plate for the second time, then jumped down from his chair and started back to the living room, where the girls were. Davy followed him.

“Whoa!” Josh said. “You heard Mrs. Atwater. Take your plates to the sink. Rules of the house.”

Danny turned and stared at his dad as if he’d asked him to grow wings. “We don’t have to do that at home.”

“We might just start it.”

The boys muttered under their breaths but surprisingly complied without more argument. Once the plates were deposited, Danny shoved Davy and ran from the kitchen. Davy took off after him for payback.

Josh shook his head. “Guess I need to work on their manners.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Chrysie agreed.

“I really appreciate your helping out with them. I could have canceled the meeting today if it came to that, but the D.A. wouldn’t have been too happy about it. He really wants to nail old Jake Mahoney.”

She nodded but didn’t respond, hoping that would put an end to the conversation.

Josh cleaned his plate, then gulped down the rest of his milk. Apparently the boys got their appetite from him.