Blessings of the Heart (5 page)

And it had also been one of the best, he added with chagrin. When he'd been at the end of his rope, at the end of his endurance with nowhere to
turn, he'd looked to God for strength and answers. He shuddered to think what would have become of him if he hadn't decided to trust the Lord then. There had been times when he'd doubted, sure, but over time he'd come to realize that things really were going to work out for the best.

Maybe not the way he'd imagined. Maybe not as fast as he'd have wanted, either. But they had worked out. He and the boys were together. Life was good. From here on out, it could only get better.

D
istant, shrill yapping woke Brianne at dawn. Talk about a short night! Between listening to the awful storm and worrying about her houseguests, she doubted she'd gotten three hours rest.

She rubbed sleep out of her eyes, padded barefoot to her bedroom window and gazed at the wide expanse of lawn. Thankfully, the rain had stopped. Mitch and Ryan were romping on the damp grass with their dog.

Good thing somebody had remembered to let that little monster out, Bree thought. She'd been so distracted by her late-night encounter with Mitch Fowler she'd forgotten all about Barney. She hoped the guest bathroom wasn't going to have to be redecorated after serving as a temporary kennel.

Brianne dressed quickly, concerned that Bud was also awake and might be running around the house unsupervised. By the time she reached the head of the stairs, however, she realized she needn't have worried. The children's bed was empty, and laughter was drifting up from the first floor. Above the giggles she could hear the musical sound of television cartoons.

Already planning breakfast in her head, Bree went directly to the kitchen and began assembling the basic ingredients for pancakes. Thankfully, the instructions were written on the box of mix, or she'd have been lost.

She'd rarely cooked for anyone but herself, nor had she ventured beyond the most simple fare. If she wanted a more elaborate meal she waited until one of Emma's regular visits and had the accomplished housekeeper fix a big dinner with plenty of leftovers that would last for several days. Not only did it simplify Brianne's daily chores, it gave her nutritious food to fall back on if, as often happened, she got so engrossed in her writing that she forgot to defrost anything.

Now, however, she was faced with feeding a full-grown man who looked like he could easily consume three times the amount she usually did, and two boys who were so fussy they might refuse to
eat anything at all. Given those considerations, she hoped plain pancakes were going to be satisfactory.

She had the batter mixed and was heating the griddle when Mitch and Ryan returned from exercising the dog.

“Smells great,” Mitch said with enthusiasm.

“I'm not cooking anything yet.”

“You will be.” His grin warmed her from head to toe. “How's your hand this morning? Any soreness?”

“No. I'd forgotten all about it.”

“Good. Can I help you do anything?”

The offer took Bree aback. So did his dazzling smile. “Oh, well… I suppose you could set the table. My everyday dishes are in that cupboard over there.”

“Gotcha. I'll find 'em.” He handed Barney off to his eldest son. “Go put the dog in the bathroom and wash your hands while you're in there. Then get your brother.”

To Bree's surprise, Ryan didn't argue. She arched a brow as she watched him quickly leave the kitchen. “That was easy.”

Mitch chuckled. “We'll see. He hasn't followed my directions yet. I need to wash, too, so I'll go check on him. Be right back.”

Her instinctive, unspoken retort was, Don't hurry. It was hard enough to concentrate on cooking
when she was alone. Having Mitch underfoot made it a hundred times harder. That was one of the reasons she'd chosen to make pancakes. They were simple. You just fried them and stacked them up. No sweat.

She spread a thin coating of oil on the griddle, then poured four circles of batter. So far, so good. Maybe she wasn't going to botch breakfast after all. Hurrah!

It had occurred to her to wonder briefly why she was so concerned about making a favorable impression. Her guests had arrived looking and acting like shipwreck survivors. Under those circumstances they could hardly find fault with her hospitality, even if she didn't feed them anything fancy. So cooking was not her forte. So what? As far as she was concerned it was far better to provide well-prepared, simple fare than to try to make something complicated and chance failure.

The stack of cooked pancakes had grown so tall by the time Mitch and the boys returned, Brianne had put one plate on the table and started to fill another. Mitch immediately went to work setting the table and assigning seats.

“The syrup is in the pantry,” she told him. “It's that room over there. Where I hit my finger last night.”

Ryan jumped to his feet. “I'll go get it!”

“No. You sit. I'll get it as soon as I pour your milk,” his father said.

“Aw.”

Flipping the pancakes that were sizzling on the grill, Bree had to chuckle to herself. That sounded more like the Ryan Fowler she knew. The kid was a study in defiance. Attached to his personality, the word
stubborn
took on a much more intense meaning.

“I made a pot of coffee, too,” Bree told Mitch. “I didn't know if you liked it or not, but I do.”

“Me, too.”

His voice seemed farther away and muffled. She glanced over her shoulder. The pantry door stood open, and he was nowhere to be seen.

A second later, he stuck his head out. “Where did you say the syrup was?”

“It's in there somewhere. I'm not sure exactly. I don't eat pancakes that often.”

Mitch disappeared again. “I don't see it. But I did run across the flashlight we were looking for last night. It's on the shelf just to the left of the door, about shoulder height, in case you want it.”

“I want syrup,” Ryan whined.

Frustrated, Bree left the stove and hurried across the kitchen. “I know the bottle's in there. It has to be.”

“Okay.” With a shrug, Mitch stepped aside. “Show me.”

It didn't help that the pantry was barely big enough to accommodate them both. Bree sidled past him, rapidly scanning the shelves and wondering why the room temperature had suddenly risen dramatically.

She brushed her hand across her damp forehead to push back her bangs and made a sound of disgust. “This can't be. Syrup bottles don't just walk off.” In the background she could hear Ryan complaining. Mitch, however, seemed amused at her predicament.

“We can always eat them with butter and sugar,” he suggested. “That should taste good.”

Brianne rolled her eyes. “I have regular maple syrup. Somewhere. All I have to do is figure out where.”

“Hey, Dad,” Ryan shouted.

Mitch answered, “In a minute. We're still looking.”

“Dad!”

“Not now, Ryan.”

“But, Dad…”

“Ryan, if you don't…”

Mitch stuck his head out the door for emphasis, then bolted from the pantry with a guttural noise that reminded Bree of his attitude the first time he'd
banged on her door. That was when she smelled the smoke.

Her first thought was that the boys had set her kitchen on fire. One quick peek, however, told her that the error was hers.

Black smoke was billowing from the griddle and what was left of the pancakes she'd temporarily forgotten to tend. Mitch had grabbed a towel and wrapped it around the handle so he could move the flat pan off the stove and into the sink without getting burned. If the ventilating fan hadn't already been turned on to clear the air as she cooked, they probably wouldn't have been able to see across the room.

So much for the perfect breakfast. Disappointed, Bree stood there and shook her head. Bedlam reigned. Ryan was screeching. Bud was sobbing. Mitch was muttering to himself and running cold water over the steaming, smoking mess as well as using the stream to cool his smarting fingers.

It was in the midst of all the distraction that Bree remembered where she'd last seen the syrup bottle. In the refrigerator. With a sigh she retrieved it and set it in the middle of the table.

“Leave that for later,” she told Mitch. “I found the syrup. Come and eat.”

He turned with a scowl. “Where was it?”

“In the fridge.”

“Terrific.”

“My sentiments, exactly. It probably won't surprise you to hear that I don't cook often.”

“No kidding.”

“You don't have to rub it in.”

“Sorry.” A smile began to lift one corner of his mouth. “Are you through cooking for now, or shall I go get the garden hose and bring it inside just in case?”

“I'm through.” She put on a mock pout.

“In that case, I guess it's safe for me to sit down.” Taking the only empty chair, Mitch proceeded to serve the boys, then pass a platter to Bree.

She took two cakes and handed it back to him. “Can I get you some coffee? I made plenty.”

“Thanks. I take it black.”

“Coming up.”

She'd poured Mitch's cup and was about to add a dash of cream to her own when she saw Ryan reach for more syrup and tip over his glass of milk. He let out a screech that sounded like a deranged owl caught under a lawnmower.

The white puddle spread rapidly across the table, pooled around the bases of glasses and disappeared under the plates.

Mitch immediately jumped to his feet, juggling the boys' breakfasts to rescue them and glaring at his son.

Bree grabbed a handful of paper towels and rushed to the source of the mess. She righted the empty tumbler and dabbed at the milk.

While she was mopping up Ryan's place, a rivulet of spilled milk reached the far edge of the round table and began to dribble into Bud's lap. When he saw that his resident teddy bear was getting wet he clutched it to his chest and screeched in pure anguish.

Mitch shifted both plates to one hand long enough to grab the back of the boy's chair and slide it away from the table. That helped. Milk continued to drip, but Bud was no longer directly in its path.

The paper towels Bree had started with were thoroughly saturated. She held them in place like a dam and reached her free hand to Mitch.

“Get me more towels. Quick! Before this runs all over the floor.”

“Too late,” he said, glancing at the spattered tile. “Don't worry. Ryan will clean it up.”

“It wasn't my fault the stupid milk fell over,” the boy argued.

Mitch was about to contradict him when he noticed movement below. He blinked, stared, shouted, “Hey! Who let the dog out?”

“The what?” Bree peered under the table. Her eyes widened. Barney was not only licking up the spill, he was standing directly beneath a waterfall
of milk that was splashing his head and back. “What's he doing in here?”

Ryan jumped down, dropped to his hands and knees and went into action. “No sweat, lady. I'll get him.”

“No! Don't chase him, he'll…”

The dog darted through the archway and disappeared in a blur. Ryan was in hot pursuit.

Left behind, Bree shouted, “Don't you dare let him shake!”

By this time, Bud had quieted down. He was making questionable use of his napkin, alternating between drying his bear and wiping his runny nose.

“Paper towels! Now!” Bree yelled at Mitch.

His answer didn't sound a bit amiable. “Stop screaming.”

“How else can I make myself understood with all this noise? I've never heard anything like it.”

“Hey, the kids didn't set the place on fire. You did.”

“Only because I got distracted helping you,” she argued. “I'll take care of this mess. You go help Ryan catch that blasted dog before he trails milk all over the house.”

Mitch stiffened and gave her a mock salute. “Yes, ma'am. Don't throw the extra pancakes away while I'm gone. We'll put sugar on them, roll them up and take them outside to eat.”

“I wish you'd thought of that in the first place,” Bree grumbled.

Scowling, he nodded. “Yeah. Me, too.”

 

The impromptu picnic took place half an hour later. Mitch had buttered the pancakes, warmed them in the microwave, then added sugar before rolling them up and wrapping one end in a paper napkin.

His children seemed relieved to be eating outside. He certainly was. The less time he was forced to spend inside Brianne Bailey's oh-so-perfect house, the better he'd like it. No wonder the boys couldn't seem to stay out of trouble. Hanging around the estate was like trying to live in a pristine model home without giving away your presence.

Everything was arranged artistically, from the books on the coffee table to the pots and pans hanging in the kitchen. Little wonder she lived alone. No one else would be able to put up for long with her suffocating ideals.

Mitch saw that the dog was starting to wander off toward the forest, followed closely by both boys, so he called, “Hey! Don't go too far.”

Naturally, all three ignored him. He wasn't surprised about Barney, but the other two were supposed to listen. Rather than bellow at them when
he didn't have to, he decided to follow and see what they were up to.

They'd halted at the edge of the pond Mitch had objected to when he'd met Bree. The first thing he noticed was that Ryan was teaching his brother how to pitch rocks into the void.

The second thing he noted was the void. After the storm they'd had last night, that pond should have been full, or nearly so. Instead, it was little more than a brown puddle in the bottom of a clay-walled crater.

Mitch's heart sank. The dam hadn't held. And his cabin was at the bottom of that hill. At least it had been. No wonder the water had come at them so fast and hard!

 

Brianne was still cleaning up the aftermath of the disaster in her kitchen when Mitch burst through the door. Startled by the wild look on his face, she froze in mid-motion. “What's wrong?”

“Remember that new pond? The one I was complaining about when we first met?”

“Yes.” Keeping her wet hands suspended over the sink, Brianne scowled. “What about it?”

“It's gone. Empty. Your dam's got a hole in it big enough to drive a bus through.”

“That's impossible. I hired a professional to do the grading. He came highly recommended.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, it looks like the wind knocked a big tree onto the spillway. The water backed up till it was forced out the wrong side of the dam. Without any natural vegetation to strengthen that clay bank once it started to wash, nothing could have stopped it.”