Undeniably Yours Page 7

  Strange. In the four years he’d worked here, he’d almost never seen a child at Whispering Creek.

  He heard someone approaching and turned, hoping—

  A short elderly woman with glasses and white hair in a classic puffy old-lady style entered. She came to a stop at the sight of him, her expression pleasant. “Hello.”

  “Hi. I’m Bo Porter.”

  “The gentleman who runs the Thoroughbred farm?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Ah! I’m Sadie Jo Greene.” After they shook, she kept hold of his hand and patted it a few times before releasing it. “I was Meg’s nanny when she was little. Now I’m just a friend of the family.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. Meg mentioned you to me.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I never had any children of my own, so thank goodness for Meg. She’s mine for keeps.”

  Another of the maids arrived, and they all helped to move bowls of food to the table and pour iced tea. The whole time, Sadie Jo asked Bo questions about himself, his family, his work.

  “I find you so impressive,” she said, gazing up—way up—at him with clear affection.

  Had Sadie Jo taken a shine to him in particular, or did everyone have this effect on her? What a sweet lady. Meg’s nanny was every kid’s idea of the perfect grandma.

  “To have accomplished all that you have with the horses,” she continued. “My goodness. Just wonderful.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  “Outstanding. How many of your horses will be racing this season?”

  “We have—”

  Meg walked into the room and all words and thoughts dropped out of his mind.

  She spotted him right away and stilled, her brows lifting a fraction.

  Bo was deeply glad all at once—stupidly foolishly glad—that he’d taken that U-turn.

  “Are you joining us for lunch today?” she asked.

  “I thought I would, if you don’t mind . . . before I head to my office.”

  “I don’t mind at all.”

  “I’m not imposing?”

  “Not in the least. Do you typically work on Sundays?”

  “Not typically.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to join us anytime for lunch.” She turned to hug Sadie Jo. “Hello.”

  “Hello, dear. You look darling.”

  “Thanks.” Meg greeted the maids, asked them how they were and how their kids were doing. Just as one of them finished telling Meg about her child’s nut allergy, a young woman holding a baby entered the kitchen. Meg drew them forward. “Everyone, this is Amber Richardson and her son, Jayden. They’re going to be staying with us.”

  She didn’t offer any more explanation, which left Bo wondering what connection the two of them had to Meg.

  “Sorry to keep y’all waiting,” Amber said. “I had to change his diaper real quick.”

  Bo introduced himself to Amber. As the others did the same and took turns murmuring over the baby, Meg eased near him. “I worked out earlier,” she said. “That’s why I look like this. I don’t usually dress this way in public.”

  “Well, you should.”

  She peered up at him for a moment, seeming to weigh his sincerity. He stared back, letting her read his honesty, feeling the power of their eye contact all the way down to his bones.

  She had on a sweat suit that fit her the way it’d fit a Nike model. She’d done her makeup as perfectly as always, and her hair had been pulled into a ponytail, but it looked like she’d curled the ends. He guessed this outfit was as casual as it got for Meg Cole. Enough so that she felt embarrassed to be seen in it?

  Those sweat bottoms. Shoot. He’d never been into skinny women. He liked women to look like women. Meg did, and then some. He was going to be chasing away thoughts about those sweat bottoms.

  When they settled around the table, Bo managed to snag the seat next to Meg. Sadie Jo blessed the food, and they started in.

  “Oh, he’s just adorable,” Sadie Jo said to Amber. “How old is he?”

  “He’s eighteen months.”

  “Is he saying much yet?”

  “Just mama and ball.” Amber cut the pot roast and vegetables into tiny pieces and placed them on Jayden’s plate. “I think he’s supposed to be saying more by now, so I’m a little worried.”

  “No need to worry,” Sadie Jo said. “I’m sure he’ll talk more when he’s ready. Sweet angel.” She stared at Jayden with a love-struck gaze and softly ran a hand over the kid’s head. “Sweetest angel.”

  He’d wondered earlier if Sadie Jo had taken a shine to him in particular. He had his answer.

  “I just remembered.” Sadie Jo reached into her purse and brought out a small stuffed dog. “I brought this for him. Is it all right if I give it to him after he’s done eating?”

  “Sure,” Amber answered. “Thank you.”

  “As soon as I told Sadie Jo about Jayden, she had to meet him,” Meg said to everyone at the table. “She loves children, obviously.”

  Sadie Jo continued to croon to Jayden, clearly far more intrigued with him than with the meal.

  “Where are you from?” one of the maids asked Amber.

  “I’m from Sanderson, Texas. Have y’all heard of it?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “It’s a small west Texas town. I’ve been living in Lubbock, though, for several years.”

  “What brought you to Lubbock?” the maid asked.

  Amber dabbed at her lips with her napkin. She seemed to find it hard to look anyone directly in the face. “I followed my high school boyfriend there when he went to Texas Tech. We broke up, but I stayed anyway.”

  He’d just met Amber, but based on her appearance, her accent, and the information she’d already given, Bo felt like he knew her. He’d grown up in Holley with a bunch of girls just like her. Poor small-town girls without much education who’d had babies too early. A lot of them were good-hearted. But a lot of them would take the shirt off your back, drink all your beer, and leave you for your best friend if he got a better-paying job.

  It concerned him some that Meg had taken Amber in. He didn’t want to see Meg taken advantage of or hurt.

  “Did you bring all your things with you from Lubbock when you arrived last night?” Sadie Jo asked Amber.

  “No, I didn’t. I wasn’t planning to stay.”

  “Well, you’re going to need to go and get the rest of your clothing and Jayden’s things.”

  The kid started fussing.

  “Oh dear.” Sadie Jo frowned with worry. “Do you think he has a wet diaper?”

  “I don’t think so,” Amber answered. “I mean, he might, but I just changed him. Maybe he wants his sippy.” She handed him his cup, and Jayden grabbed it with both hands and tilted his face to the ceiling to take some deep sips.

  “I can rent you a U-Haul truck,” Meg said. “So that you can drive to Lubbock to get your things. How large of a truck do you think you’ll need?”

  “Not big at all. Most of the stuff isn’t worth keeping.”

  “I can send Mr. Son with you, or maybe Bo has someone on staff who could help. . . .”

  “You bet,” he said.

  “No, no. There’s really not much,” Amber answered. “My friend Tammy and her boyfriend can, like, help me load up my stuff.”

  “How long is the drive to Lubbock?” Sadie Jo asked.

  “About five and a half hours.”

  “Too long for this darling one here.” Sadie Jo clucked her tongue. “Meg, you’ve hardly touched your pot roast! C’mon now, dear. You’ll waste away. Eat something.”

  Meg leaned toward Amber. “If you’re comfortable leaving Jayden at Whispering Creek, I can watch him for you while you drive to Lubbock.”

  “What a lovely idea!” Sadie Jo said.

  The women went back and forth over it for a while—Amber seeming uncertain, Meg and Sadie Jo reassuring her. Bo didn’t guess that any single mother managed to
raise a child without sometimes leaving that child in the care of trustworthy people. Meg and Sadie Jo were, at least to him, clearly trustworthy.

  Amber looked back and forth between the two women. “Well, if you really wouldn’t mind, I guess I’ll take you up on it. Jayden hates car trips. I think he’d be much happier here.”

  “Then it’s settled!” Sadie Jo gave Jayden a smooch on his cheek.

  “I have to be at work all day tomorrow,” Meg said, “but I could get off early on Tuesday afternoon to take care of Jayden. Maybe you could drive to Lubbock then, spend the night, and drive home on Wednesday.”

  “Works for me,” Amber said.

  “Lynn and I will keep him for you on Wednesday,” Sadie Jo said. “To tell the truth, I wish I could help Meg baby-sit him on Tuesday afternoon, too, but I’m hosting bridge at my house that day.”

  “I’ll help Meg on Tuesday,” Bo heard himself say.

  The five women at the table looked at him with surprise.

  He shrugged. “Tuesday afternoons are usually slow out at the farm.” Big lie. Tuesday afternoons were just as busy as the rest of the week. What was he doing? He’d only planned to allow himself this one lunch with Meg.

  “Do you have children of your own?” Amber asked him.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Have you spent time around kids?”

  “Not much.”

  Amber smiled. “You’re brave, then. He can be a handful.”

  Bo glanced at Meg, who was peering up at him. Spending an entire afternoon with her—very bad idea. And yet, he’d have dug ditches for the chance to do just that. He looked at Jayden, who was smearing potato into his hair. “How hard can it be?”

  Chapter Six

  They say that cats deign to let their humans care for them. It was kind of like that between Meg and Mr. Son. He deigned to let her employ him.

  On Monday morning before work, Meg introduced Amber and Jayden to the weekday indoor staff, then took them to Mr. Son’s gardening room, a climate-controlled greenhouse connected to the six-car garage.

  When they entered the moist, mulchy-smelling space, Mr. Son straightened from one of his long tables of plants. “Meg.”

  “Mr. Son.”

  He took off his gardening gloves.

  “This is Amber Richardson and her son, Jayden. They’ll be staying here at Whispering Creek, and I wanted them to meet you.”

  “Hmm.” His dark eyes surveyed Amber and Jayden.

  “Amber, this is Mr. Son. He’s our landscaping genius.”

  “No, not genius.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No.”

  Meg’s lips twitched. “All right.”

  “Are you surprised,” he asked Amber, “that I’m a landscaper and not a computer guy or doctor or scientist?”

  “Um,” Amber said, “no, sir.”

  “Because Asians are supposed to be computer guys or doctors or scientists, right?”

  Amber’s expression looked like that of a raccoon about to be run over by a semi. “I . . . I don’t think that.”

  “No?” Mr. Son asked her.

  “No,” she vowed.

  Seemingly mollified, Mr. Son released Amber from his scrutiny and moved it over to Jayden. “Who do we have here?”

  “This is my son.”

  “How old?”

  “He’s eighteen months.”

  Mr. Son gazed down the length of his nose at Jayden.

  Jayden returned his regard with interest while sucking on several of his fingers.

  “Young man,” Mr. Son said, “it’s time to get to work.”

  Amber just stood, fish-mouthed, frozen. Jayden extracted his fingers from his mouth with a wet popping sound.

  “Mr. Son often let me help him with the plants when I was a kid.” Meg hadn’t forgotten those afternoons after school, and the comfort that the shy, introverted girl she’d been had found in gardening and in Mr. Son’s stoic, dependable presence.

  “Come.” Mr. Son led them to a ruthlessly organized cupboard and brought out a small apron, a pair of little gloves, and a kid-sized spade. He handed them to Amber. “We work,” he said to Jayden in an authoritative tone of voice.

  By the time Meg left, Mr. Son had Jayden standing on a tall step stool next to him at the table of plants, garbed in the apron and gloves, using his spade to fill pots with soil. Amber kept trying to help Jayden, and Jayden kept pushing her hand away.

  Jayden spilled more than he managed to get into the pots, but Mr. Son didn’t appear to notice. He treated Jayden with dignity and expectation, as if the kid were eighteen years old instead of eighteen months.

  Meg smiled. Mr. Son might not look like a traditional baby whisperer. But he had a way—a stiff, prickly, and unusual way—with children.

  Just like with his acres of flowers, he could coax them to bloom.

  On Tuesday afternoon, Meg left the Cole Oil building in time to drive home, change, and prepare herself to spend the afternoon doing something highly unusual for her: baby-sitting a little male with the help of a big one.

  She waded into her walk-in closet and flicked through her clothes, looking for an outfit that would strike the right tone. On her museum salary, she wouldn’t have been able to afford this wardrobe. But her father, never interested in actually taking the time to shop for something unique for her, had given her jewelry chosen by a store employee every Christmas and a hefty gift card to Neiman’s every birthday. Almost every item of clothing she’d bought in the last five years, she’d purchased with one of those gift cards.

  She chose a long and breezy pink top and black leggings, then moved on to her shoe collection.

  Running into Bo on Sunday at lunch had been a very lucky coincidence, because his presence had once again—amazingly!—settled her anxiety. During the hour she’d sat next to him, she’d felt like someone who could cope with life. Calm. Normal. She’d been able to enjoy her meal, the company, the conversation. And again, when she’d gone to bed that night after seeing him, she’d slept straight through until morning without so much as a twitch.

  Good sleep equals a closer approximation of sanity.

  She considered Bo a newfound . . . friend. Maybe? He treated her kindly, had even volunteered to help her today with Jayden, despite the sad fate she’d guaranteed his farm. It could be, couldn’t it, that he might simply be what he appeared to be: good? Safe? I mean, there had to be a few decent men left in the world.

  Meg slipped on a pair of silver sandals studded with clunky gray, black, and white gems, then made a bathroom stop to brush her hair and fix her makeup.

  When the doorbell sounded, she answered the door to find Bo standing a few steps below. On this eighty-plus-degree day, he’d chosen a plain white T-shirt untucked over jeans and boots. He smiled at her, the shade from his straw Stetson casting his eyes in shadow. The peace he brought with him unfurled into Meg, settling her spirit, relaxing her shoulder muscles.

  “Come on in,” she said.

  “Thanks.” He followed her inside, doffing his hat as he moved over the threshold. As he did so, his shirt rode up his bicep, giving her an intriguing glimpse of a tattoo that ringed his upper arm. Linear and perhaps Celtic. She’d never thought of herself as a tattoo-loving girl. But on him . . .

  She wished she’d gotten a better look.

  “Where’s Jayden?” he asked.

  “He’s not here yet, but Amber should be dropping him off any minute.” Meg crossed into the kitchen, putting the short strip of bar between them, trying to hold on to her Bo-buzz while shoving flustering thoughts of that hot-looking tattoo out of her mind. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “I’m fine. Just confused.”

  “About what?”

  “I guess I was under the impression that you lived there.” He motioned his thumb toward the big house. “But when I showed up there, Lynn sent me here.”

  “I see.”

  “You are William Cole’s daughter.” Humor laced hi
s words.

  “Yes.”

  “And you did grow up over there.”

  “I did.”

  “And you do own that house.”

  “I do.”

  He looked at her, waiting for her to elaborate.

  “I don’t really like the big house,” she said.

  “How come?”

  “I . . .” was unbearably lonely there. “It’s too big for me.”

  “Hmm,” he said, as if he knew she’d dodged his question. “Mind if I look around your place?”

  “Go ahead.” While he walked into her bedroom, bathroom, and guest bedroom, she busied her hands making a tall glass of iced tea that she had no intention of drinking.

  He eventually came to a stop at the living room bookshelves, hands in his back pockets. “You have a big collection of biographies.”

  “I do.”

  “About half of them look like they’re about artists.”

  “I’ve always been interested in art. I worked at a museum before moving back here.”

  He left the bookshelves behind and returned to her. “Your house reminds me a little bit of my own.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I also have two bedrooms and one bathroom. So I guess that means we have one thing in common, you and me.”

  “It’s official, then. We have exactly one thing in common.”

  “One thing,” he agreed. “That’s more than I was hoping for, so I’m pretty happy.”

  She laughed.

  “I can see why you like it here.” He fingered the edge of a lamp that dripped pink tassels. “It suits you. It’s really girly.”

  “Yeah. I’m girly.”

  “Who’s this?” He indicated Cashew, who’d curled into a loop in the exact center of her only sofa.

  “That would be Cashew.” The cat raised her face, lowered her brow over her eyes, and scowled at Bo.

  “Friendly,” Bo said.

  “Territorial of that sofa.” Sadly, Cashew didn’t even have beauty to recommend her. She’d been a stray Meg had been too tenderhearted not to take in. “You’re welcome to sit in the chair.”