Читать книгу One Bride Delivered - Jeanne Allan, Jeanne Allan - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

Need wife to take kare of a little kid. Has to bake cookys, read storys and smile a lot. No hitting. Room 301, the St. Christopher Hotel, Aspen, Colorado.

THE advertisement leaped out at Cheyenne Lassiter as she sat at the breakfast table, and her spoon clattered down. Grabbing the newspaper with both hands, she reread the ad. The cantaloupe in her mouth lost all flavor. Cheyenne pushed the newspaper across the table to her younger sister. “Read this.”

Allie scanned the ad. “A unique way to meet women.”

“You think that’s what it is?” Cheyenne hesitated. “It doesn’t read to you as if a child had written it?”

Allie read the ad again. “Maybe. You’re worried about the ‘no hitting’ part, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Cheyenne took back the paper. “I know you all think I see a child-abusing parent on every corner, but...” Her voice died away.

“Michael is safe now,” Allie reminded her. “Safe and happy living with his aunt and uncle.”

“How could I have blindly ignored the way he’d never look me in the eye when he’d mumble he’d fallen down stairs or run into a door? But his mother volunteered in my classroom, and Mr. Karper showed such interest in his stepson’s progress.” Cheyenne stared at the ad with unseeing eyes. “I’ll always wonder if I would have guessed the truth earlier if Michael had been poor and dirty.”

“No one suspected Michael’s stepdad knocked the poor kid around. Quit beating yourself over the head with it. The minute you suspected what was going on, you went to the authorities. If it weren’t for you, Michael might still be living with his mother and her husband. Or dead.”

“Michael must have despaired of being helped.” Cheyenne rolled up the newspaper section. “I promised myself I’d never again shut my eyes to something right in front of me.” Her gaze slid past her sister. “I don’t meet the Brownings until ten.”

“Which means you think you have time to check out what’s going on in Room 301 at St. Chris’s.” Allie tore a hunk from her bagel and handed it to the greyhound standing expectantly beside the table. “No one appointed you to save the world.”

“You’re not supposed to feed the dogs at the table.” Cheyenne pushed back her chair, carefully avoiding Allie’s three-legged cat.

Allie tore off another hunk of bagel. “One of these days you’re going to stick your nose into someone else’s business and get it bit off.”

“All I’m doing is dropping by the hotel to say hi. If there’s a problem, I’ll notify the proper authorities. I have no intention of getting personally involved.”

“If I’m disturbed by one more female pounding on my door, I’m going to fire the entire staff.” Thomas Steele slammed down the telephone receiver in the middle of the hotel manager’s stammered apology.

The first woman had banged on the door of his hotel suite shortly after 6:00 a.m. Groggy with sleep, Thomas had snarled at her and the plastic bag of cookies he assumed she was selling. Before he could summon the manager for an explanation on exactly why solicitation was allowed to take place in a Steele-owned hotel, another woman had knocked on the door, followed by a procession of women, all shapes, sizes and ages, most bearing cookies, and all grinning like Cheshire cats.

Thomas rubbed a hand over his unshaven chin and considered the possibility that getting into his suite was part of a twisted game of scavenger hunt. McCall, the hotel’s manager, claimed he knew nothing. One woman had garbled something about a newspaper. Thomas should have demanded an explanation before shutting the door in her face, but he wasn’t at his best before coffee in the morning.

Slight stirrings came from an adjoining room. The boy was awake, but he wouldn’t get out of bed until Thomas told him to. His nephew tiptoed around, obviously fearing the sky would fall if he even looked at his uncle. Thomas ran his fingers through his hair, knowing he’d brought this on himself. For a second, back in New York, he’d looked at the boy and seen someone else, and before he knew it, he heard himself saying he’d take the boy to Aspen. Now he was damned if he knew what to do with him. Thomas Steele, CEO of a chain of exclusive hotels, buffaloed by a six-year-old boy.

Picking up the phone, he ordered their breakfasts. He wasn’t sure the boy actually liked oatmeal. When asked, the boy had shrugged, but oatmeal was the only breakfast food he’d eaten. Thomas made a mental note of the need for more child-friendly items on the menu.

Knuckles beat a tattoo on the suite’s door bringing a mocking smile to his face. Breakfast had arrived in record time. People jumped when the boss was annoyed. He snugged the belt to his bathrobe and jerked open the door.

By the time Thomas realized the tall blond female standing in the hallway held no breakfast tray, she’d barged into the suite. About to escort her bodily back into the hall, he reconsidered. The time had come to stop this nonsense. When he finished with this woman, he’d make damned sure no one else disturbed him. Thomas slammed the door behind him and glared menacingly at her. No one could do menace the way he could.

The woman glared back.

At least she wasn’t grinning like an ape. He glanced at her hands. No cookies. Just a rolled-up newspaper she batted in irritation against a bare leg. He didn’t know why the hell she was irritated. He was the one being harassed.

Thomas allowed the silence to grow while he inspected his unwelcome visitor with insulting thoroughness. Lightly tanned legs extended forever below the bottom of ghastly khaki cuffed shorts before finally disappearing into thick white socks above sturdy walking shoes. Slowly he worked his gaze up past trim hips and a narrow waist.

And firm breasts. Undoubtedly held in check by a practical sports bra. Skin tanned to the exact shade of her legs showed in the open vee of her blue denim shirt. Thomas visualized white knit snugly cradling mounds of tanned flesh. A dull flush crawled up her neck. Apparently his visitor read minds. Giving a tiny smile of satisfaction, Thomas brought a heavy-lidded gaze to rest on her face.

Some men might consider her a beauty. If they liked tall, athletic, healthy-looking blondes. Thomas’s taste ran to sleek, exotic, dark-haired women who oozed sophistication and sex. This woman oozed indignation. Thomas raised a mocking eyebrow, a gesture he’d practiced as a teen which now came naturally to him. He’d reduced more than one errant employee to gibbering justification and contrition with that eyebrow. Her bottom lip was too full to actually thin with annoyance, but the woman did her level best.

“No cookies?” he asked smoothly. She looked perplexed for a split second before awareness deepened her gray eyes—no, not gray, but light blue with a grayish-brown run around the pupils.

“I assume that means you know all about it.”

Thomas had seen the woman before. In passing on Aspen’s pedestrian mall or—Of course. She must be an employee of the hotel. As of this second, close to being a former employee. “I know,” he said in answer to her implied question, “you’re dangerously close to never working for a Steele hotel again.”

She gave him a startled look.

He let her think about his threat while he answered the knock on the door. The room service waiter smiled at the woman Every person who worked at the St. Christopher Hotel would know to the second how long she’d been in Thomas’s suite. They’d think he’d gotten soft. They’d be wrong Once he found out what was going on, he’d deliver a tongue-lashing this particular interloper would never forget.

The door closed behind the waiter. The smell of coffee drew Thomas to the table, and pouring himself a cup, he drank deeply. The liquid scalded his mouth, but the caffeine jolted his brain into full power. Giving the woman a dark look over the rim of the cup, he sipped more deliberately.

The woman looked at the tray. “Breakfast for two.”

Warning bells clanged in Thomas’s head. As an extremely eligible bachelor, he knew the lengths to which marriage-minded women would go. Immediately he armored himself with a fictitious female companion. “Did you think I’d allow her to leave before she had breakfast?”

“I should hope not. She needs a good breakfast to start the day off right.” The woman inspected the tray. “Milk, oatmeal. I don’t see any fruit or juice. For proper nutrition, she needs two to four servings of fruit a day. Plus vegetables.”

She was nuts. “I don’t give a damn about her nutrition. All I care about is a certain level of performance. How she achieves it is her problem”

“You’re her father. You ought to care.”

“Father,” he said blankly. “I’m talking about the woman in my bed.”

“You have a wife?”

Her stunned surprise confirmed his suspicion she’d come husband-hunting. “I’m unmarried and intend to stay that way.”

“You don’t have a wife, but you do have a woman in your bed,” she said slowly. “And you can stand there and brag that all you care about is how good she is in bed? What kind of example is that for a child?”

“That’s it. I’ve run out of patience. Tell me what the hell is going on.”

Instead of answering, the woman moved quickly to his bedroom, knocked once, waited a couple of seconds, then opened the door. Next she’d be checking his pillow for stray hairs. Not that she’d find any. The boy had definitely cramped Thomas’s social life.

After a quick survey of the empty room she headed for the boy’s room and knocked again. In answer to a muted response, the woman opened the door and peered in. “Hi,” she said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.” Closing the door, she turned. “There’s no woman here. Just your son.”

Thomas shrugged, not bothering to correct her. “Maybe she went out the window.”

“In broad daylight?”

“Stranger things than that happen in Aspen.”

“Not nearly as strange as you trying to convince me you have a woman in your bed. I’ve heard of men bragging of their sexual prowess, but you take the cake, buddy.”

“As you are well aware, my name is Thomas Steele.” When she didn’t react, he added smoothly, “One of the hotel Steeles.”

“I suppose because your family owns this hotel you’re rich and you do have a woman in your bed every night. Last night’s candidate come down with the flu? Or a case of good taste?”

Thomas slammed his cup on the table. “Look, lady—”

“My name is Cheyenne Lassiter. One of the ranching Lassiters.” She mocked his earlier self-introduction. “And I’m the ‘C’ in C & A Enterprises.”

For two cents he’d toss the impudent Ms. Cheyenne Lassiter out in the hall on her delectable bottom. Better yet, he’d toss her down on the carpet and turn the scorn in those muddy blue eyes to something else entirely. Hell, his brain had gone haywire. Served him right for trying to deal logically with a bunch of nutty women. “I have no idea why you and your friends are harassing me, Ms. Lassiter, but it stops now.” Thomas sat at the dining table. “My breakfast is getting cold, so if you’ll excuse me...”

She waved her hand regally, granting permission. “I ate hours ago. Working women can’t lay around like the idle rich.”

If her goal was to irritate the hell out of him, she’d succeeded. “Ms. Lassiter,” he said coldly, “I was asking you politely to leave.”

“Go ahead and ask.” She picked up a muffin from the tray and took a bite. “I’m not here to see you.” She nodded in the direction of the boy’s bedroom. “I came to see him.”

“Me?” Thomas’s nephew bolted from his room, his hair in spikes and his face glowing. “I’m going with you? Cool.”

“Do you know this woman?”

“She’s the happy tour lady.”

The woman laughed, a throaty, uninhibited laugh. When the women Thomas knew laughed, their high cheekbones didn’t press their eyes into thin slits. They avoided wrinkling the skin around their mouths, and they wouldn’t be caught dead showing all their teeth. Crunching down on cold, dry toast, he sent his gaze back to the boy and frowned. “Young man, I thought the rule was you are to dress before coming to the breakfast table.”

The boy hung his head and drew circles on the carpet with his big toe.

“Maybe his silk robe is in the dirty clothes hamper,” the woman said in a cool, disapproving voice.

The early-morning parade of women had thrown Thomas’s meticulous habits into total disarray. He’d completely forgotten he still wore his bathrobe. Glaring at her, he curtly ordered the boy to the table. In passing, his nephew shyly smiled up at Cheyenne Lassiter. She tousled his hair.

Thomas shoved one of the straight-backed chairs out from the table. “Sit,” he snarled at his uninvited guest.

Her attitude that of one indulging a temperamental child, she complied.

“I want you to tell me—” Thomas slowly hammered out the words “—what the hell is going on.”

The swearword won a reproving look from her, then she bounced a glance off the boy. For the first time since he’d opened the door to her, Thomas sensed uncertainty. He opened his mouth to attack.

Cheyenne Lassiter spoke first. “What’s your name, kiddo?”

“The boy’s name doesn’t concern you.”

His nephew gave Thomas a wounded glance before staring down at his bowl and muttering, “Davy.”

“Nice to meet you, Davy. I’m Cheyenne. As for you, Mr. Steele, you’d be surprised at what concerns me.”

He narrowed his eyes at the thinly-veiled animosity in her drawling voice. “Nothing about you would surprise me.”

She painstakingly smeared copious amounts of butter on the remains of her muffin. “I’m not sure if that says more about your capacity for surprise or your lack of imagination. Worth claims I give him gray hair.” Of course, her brother said that about all three of his sisters.

“Worth? Is he your lov...” Remembering the boy whose head flipped back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match, Thomas smoothly substituted, “Your companion?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call Worth companionable”

The crazy notion struck him that Cheyenne Lassiter wanted to goad him into losing his temper. Thomas Steele never lost his temper. The woman took a bite of muffin and chewed deliberately. He ought to kiss that damned smirk right off those damned kissable lips. She was telling the boy she’d read the morning newspaper. As if the boy cared what she read.

“Did you see my ad?”

Belatedly Thomas recalled the newspaper the woman had carried in. “Give me the paper.” He assumed she gave dead bugs the same repulsed look. “Please,” he ground out.

She handed him the newspaper. Red ink encircled an advertisement.

The boy left his place at the table and edged around to peer over Thomas’s arm. “It’s in there,” he said in an awed voice.

Thomas read the ad. Then read it again. Blood pounded at his temples. “I hope you can explain this, young man.”

The boy backed away. “Sandy said.”

Thomas recalled the elderly widow who’d seemed so sane and sensible. “Go on,” he said grimly. Too grimly. The boy shrugged. Thomas rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. Served him right for impulsively bringing the boy to Aspen. Thomas wasn’t in the habit of giving in to impulse.

Cheyenne Lassiter butted in. “What did Sandy say?”

“We was watching this TV program and she said it was too bad I couldn’t put a ad in the paper for a mom. I asked her how and she laughed and said Uncle Thomas oughta put one in for a wife and I could live with him. So I asked Tiffany and she said you had to write something and give it to a newspaper. Grandmother gave me money to buy stuff and I asked Paula to take me to the newspaper place.”

Thomas couldn’t believe the flow of information. He’d been lucky to pull more than two words at a time from the boy.

“He’s-not your father?”

“No.” The boy looked down at his plate and muttered, “He’s Uncle Thomas.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t his father?”

Trying to recall who, of the horde of females he’d hired to take the boy off his hands, Tiffany was, Thomas merely scowled at her. Paula was the sweet, if not too bright, sister of one of the women at the front desk. Tiffany must be the college student home for the summer.

He eyed his nephew. “I can’t believe the newspaper took it without checking with me.”

“I said it was a surprise.” The boy slid back into his chair. “For your birthday,” he added in a barely audible voice.

“My birthday is in April.”

The boy dragged his spoon through his oatmeal. “My birthday is in August. Yours coulda been.”

Suspicion clawed at Thomas’s midsection. “When in August?”

Cheyenne Lassiter glared at him in outrage. “You don’t know when your own nephew’s birthday is?”

He ignored her, waiting for the boy’s answer.

The boy flicked him a look. “August 21. I’m seven.”

Three days ago. Thomas clenched his back teeth. Leave it to his mother to neglect to mention the small matter of her only grandson’s upcoming birthday. “Finish your breakfast and get dressed.”

Thomas stood. “As for you, Ms. Lassiter, despite that ridiculous ad which any halfway intelligent individual would reason was written by a child, I am not seeking a wife.” He couldn’t throw her bodily out. Not in front of the boy. “I expect you to be gone by the time I finish dressing.”

“You didn’t eat your breakfast,” she pointed out.

“You’ll be happy to know you have destroyed my appetite.” He stalked across the carpet to his bedroom.

“Then you won’t mind if I eat this last muffin. Even Mom’s muffins don’t compare with St. Chris’s. Oh, and Thomas...”

Her low voice invested his name with all kinds of sensual possibilities. He turned. And wished he hadn’t.

She studied his legs, then in an exact duplication of his earlier insulting appraisal of her, slowly eyed her way up the length of his body. When at last her gaze reached his face, she gave him a smoldering look from under outrageously long, dark lashes. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and a satisfied smile crawled across her mouth. “I’m not looking for a husband, but if I were, you’d be perfectly safe. Knobby knees really turn me off.”

Thomas slammed the bedroom door behind him, catching his bathrobe. A low gurgle of laughter came from the other side of the door. He wanted to rip free the silk garment and shred it into a million pieces. Instead he calmly shrugged out of the robe and let it drop to the floor.

The impassive face on the naked man in the mirror across the room mocked him. His mother had no doubt deliberately neglected to mention the boy’s birthday. She’d deny it, of course, turning the blame for not knowing back on him. Damn her.

And damn him for not knowing. Thomas felt like smashing the mirror with his bare fists. Damn. He’d thought he was beyond feeling. Had his family taught him nothing? Damn him for caring. He didn’t want to care. Not about the boy. Not about anyone.

A murmur of voices came from the other room. He certainly didn’t care that his unwanted visitor despised him. He’d never see her again.

Cheyenne drew open the gold and crimson brocade drapes and brushed aside sheer lace curtains. Through the window’s metal mullions, the sight of the gondolas parading up Aspen Mountain reminded her of Thomas Steele. An automated, unfeeling machine.

A machine who’d brought his nephew with him to Aspen.

In her experience, adults who disliked children tried to hide their dislike. Even Harold Karper had publicly pretended a fondness for his stepson.

Thomas Steele demonstrated a total lack of affection for Davy, yet Cheyenne could have sworn he’d been perturbed to learn he’d missed his nephew’s birthday. A disconcerting thought crept into her mind, chilling her in spite of the warm, sunny morning. Had Thomas Steele been perturbed, or had she allowed a handsome face to influence her judgment?

Her father had used good looks and a facile charm to sabotage her mother’s judgment. Mary Lassiter had paid the price, raising four children by herself while her husband lived a bachelor’s life on the rodeo circuit. Calling Beau Lassiter an absentee father overstated his role. Absent, yes. A father, no.

Cheyenne had not been without a loving family. Her mother and grandfather more than made up for Beau’s negligence, and Worth and her two sisters would always be there for her.

Davy’s parents had died, leaving the poor kid with no one who cared about him. Cheyenne had delicately probed as he ate his breakfast, and the child’s artless answers convinced her he wasn’t physically battered. The question settled, she should have left when Davy went to his room to dress but the sad lonely picture he painted of an unwanted child, relegated to the periphery of his relatives’ lives made her heart ache. She couldn’t leave. Not yet.

Cheyenne rubbed the gleaming old oak windowsill. Davy needed a loving family. Someone ought to shake Thomas Steele until his head snapped. Someone ought to explain to him little boys were more important than hotels and women friends and making money. Her fingernails bit into the sill. She was the only someone around.

“What does a person have to do to get nd of you, Ms. Lassiter? Call security?”

Cheyenne hadn’t heard him return. To let him know she considered him quite insignificant, she waited a few seconds before turning to face him. And again felt the impact of his striking dark good looks. If it weren’t for the disdain in gray eyes and the cool self-assurance slightly curling the corners of his sensuous mouth, she might have found him attractive. She didn’t. Sneering, arrogant males didn’t interest her. No matter how tall they were.

She refused to be intimidated by a voice colder than the top of the mountain in February. Even if his beautifully tailored charcoal suit and white-collared dark blue shirt and maroon silk tie made her feel like a slightly grubby adolescent. He looked like a walking advertisement for what the sophisticated businessman should wear if he wanted to radiate power and confidence. And sex appeal.

Thomas Steele straightened a French cuff and lifted an eyebrow, a gesture clearly meant to make her feel like an errant schoolgirl. Cheyenne thrust from her mind any thoughts of his sex appeal. If ever the man existed who needed a few home truths, that man was Thomas Steele.

“I’ll leave when I’ve had my say,” she said.

“I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”

“Or in Davy or anything he has to say.”

“The boy is my business.”

“Davy isn’t business. He’s a little boy. What kind of uncle are you? His parents are dead—yes, he told me. I sat with him while he finished breakfast. You should have. He said he has to stay with you until his grandparents return from a trip. He wanted to go to camp, but you wouldn’t let him.”

“Six years old is too young for camp.”

“He’s seven. He had a birthday three days ago, or have you already forgotten again?” If she hadn’t been watching closely, she wouldn’t have seen the infinitesimal stiffening of his body.

“My family’s never put much stock in birthdays.”

“Your family doesn’t put much stock in family. Davy thinks if he bothers you, you’ll lock him in a hotel room by himself.”

The barest tightening of his mouth acknowledged her words. “He has too much imagination.”

“Does he? I can see he’s afraid of you.”

“He’s afraid of everything. His own shadow, for all I know.”

“For all you know. Which isn’t very much, is it? He’s a little boy, in a strange place, with strange people, and an uncle who does nothing to reassure him. Would it hurt you to sit with him while he eats, talk to him, give him a hug, read him a bedtime story, hear his prayers?”

“It’s time he learned there’s no such thing as fairy tales, and praying is for those too weak and lazy to stand on their own two feet.”

“He’s only seven and his parents are dead,” Cheyenne said, torn between anger and horror. “He misses them terribly.”

“The boy was eight months old when they died. He doesn’t remember them.”

The quickly vanquished glimmer of pain in his eyes and the tightly controlled voice gave Cheyenne pause. Was Thomas Steele still grieving? Or denying his grief? She chose her words carefully. “Davy said his father was your brother. I’m sorry. It must be awful to lose a brother.”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“Is sympathy for the weak and lazy, too?” The sharp look he gave her should have slashed her to ribbons. Cheyenne ignored it. “If it doesn’t hurt you to talk about your brother, you—”

“It doesn’t hurt,” he snapped.

“Then why haven’t you told Davy about his parents? He knows almost nothing. He said your mother won’t talk about them.”

Cheyenne wondered what Thomas Steele meant by the harsh laugh he uttered. When he said nothing, she persevered. He doesn’t even have a picture of his mother.”

“The two of you were certainly chatty.”

It would take more than a forbidding, sarcastic voice to chase her away. “He’s lonely. The baby-sitters you’ve hired tell him to go play or sit quietly and watch TV with them. Do you think that’s what his parents would have wanted?”

“I have no idea. My brother and I went our separate ways when he married.”

“Didn’t you like his wife?”

“I never met her. David didn’t want me to. He was raised to runSteele hotels, not marry one of the maids. He dropped out of college and out of the family.”

“But if he loved her and was happy...”

“Love. Happy.” He turned the words into a curse. “Steeles don’t many for love or happiness. They marry for control, power, passion, sex, money and any one of a hundred other reasons, but never for love and happiness.” Turning, he walked over to a huge black-lacquered chinoiserie armoire and opened its doors to disclose a fax machine. Ripping off the long ribbon of white hanging from the machine, he began to read.

Actions meant to dismiss her. Cheyenne marched across acres of black floral carpet and sat on the curvaceous purple velvet sofa. “You’re a Steele. Is that what you want from marriage?”

“Disappointed?” Looking up from his papers, his grin mocked her. “Did you think I’d take one look at your frizzy bleached hair and muddy blue eyes and fall hopelessly in love? Forget it Steeles don’t love.”

“Not even little boys?”

“Davy gets fed, clothed and schooled. He’ll survive. I did.”

He’d said the last two words as if they were a badge of honor instead of extremely sad. If they were true. Studies proved people needed love to survive. Thomas Steele had done more than survive. He’d thrived. How convenient to forget those who had loved him, rather than be inconvenienced by his nephew. “Davy needs love and attention,” she said firmly.

Thomas Steele heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Look, Ms. Lassiter, lay off the lectures. Bringing the boy was a mistake. Unfortunately I’m stuck with him until his grandparents return.”

Cheyenne traced the patterns in the cut velvet upholstery. “You cared enough about Davy to worry about him being too young for camp.”

“Don’t read anything into that. You want the brutal truth, Ms. Lassiter? If my brother hadn’t gotten the hots for a pretty face, we wouldn’t have to figure out what the hell to do with the boy he left behind. Steeles raise hotels, they don’t raise children. Davy would have been better off dying in the plane crash with his parents.”

The sound of a closing door came on the heels of Cheyenne’s horrified gasp. Thomas Steele instantly spun around. Jamming his clenched fists into his pockets, he stared at the closed door to Davy’s room. Only the slightest twitch at the corner of one eye disturbed his stone-carved countenance. Then he ground out a swearword and turned away, delivering a swift kick to the nearest chair.

Cheyenne waited until it was apparent Thomas Steele had no intention of going to his nephew before she went to Davy’s door and knocked. She didn’t wait for permission to enter.

Davy sat on the extreme edge of his bed, his thin shoulders hunched over. Cheyenne sat beside him on the frilly mauve bedspread. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks, answering the question of how much he’d understood of his uncle’s words.

When she wrapped an arm around him, Davy tried to pull away, but she held him tighter. With her other hand she reached for a box of tissues and held it out to him. “He didn’t mean it.” Davy’s anguish drew the lie from her. Cheyenne didn’t know what Thomas Steele had meant.

“I didn’t want to go to camp. There are bears in the woods and I didn’t know anybody and I couldn’t sleep with my sniffer.”

“What’s a sniffer?”

Davy hung his head lower. “Grandmother threw Bear away because he had holes and stuff was coming out and she said he smelled bad and I was too old to take him to bed. I saved a little piece that come off I keep it under my pillow. It’s a secret. Pearl knows, but she won’t tell.”

“Who’s Pearl? A friend?”

“She works for Grandmother at the hotel.”

“You live in a hotel?”

Davy nodded. Taking a tissue, he noisily blew his nose. “I think Uncle Thomas knows about my sniffer. That’s why he don’t like me. Pearl said he does, but he don’t.”

The sad little voice tore at Cheyenne’s heart, and she wanted to hit Davy’s uncle. Thomas Steele definitely had a problem, and what that problem was, she had no idea, but he had no right to make a little boy so unhappy. Or himself so unhappy. The unbidden thought gave her pause, but Davy came first. Gently squeezing him, she forced lightness into her voice. “Somebody probably took your uncle Thomas’s sniffer away from him when he was a little boy and that’s why he’s so cranky.”

Davy gave her a doubtful look. “I don’t think he had a sniffer. Grandmother says he’s mean and bossy. She told Grandfather she got the wrong baby when she got Uncle Thomas from the hospital. I asked Pearl what Grandmother meant and she laughed and said Uncle Thomas spits like Grandfather and all the Steeles. I never seen Grandfather spit.” He paused. “I thought Uncle Thomas wanted me to come so he could teach me to spit. I’m a Steele, too.”

Cheyenne needed a second to interpret Davy’s words. “Pearl must have meant your uncle Thomas is the spitting image of your grandfather. That means they look alike. People say my sister Allie and I are the spitting images of each other.”

“I wish I had a brother to play with.”

Cheyenne saw an opportunity to perhaps repair some damage. “Sisters aren’t always so great. Last week Allie let Moonie, one of her dogs, get a hold of my new sweater and Moonie chewed a big hole in it. I told Allie I couldn’t decide whether to kill her or Moonie.”

Davy gave her a wide-eyed look. “You wanted to kill your sister?”

“Of course not. People say stupid things without meaning what they say. Maybe they are unhappy or in a bad mood. Your uncle’s probably in a bad mood because he’s hungry.” She rubbed Davy’s back. “He should have eaten his breakfast.”

“Grandmother says I’m a nuisance. When I’m eight she’s gonna send me away to school and have a party.”

“Your grandmother is teasing you.” Inwardly Cheyenne raged. What kind of people were these Steeles?

“He’s not,” the boy mumbled. “He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.” Cheyenne searched for words to explain Thomas Steele’s behavior. How could she explain what she herself didn’t understand? Why would a man reject his nephew?

She thought of her own family. Her mother had refused to judge Beau, explaining people had to be taught how to love. Cheyenne had been much older than seven before she understood what Mary Lassiter meant. It wasn’t the kind of answer Davy needed now. Feeling her way, Cheyenne said, “You know how it hurts when you fall and cut your knee? Maybe inside, your uncle hurts like that because he misses your father.”

“I forgot to feed my goldfish and he died. Grandmother told me I was bad. She flushed Goldie down the toilet.” Davy gave Cheyenne a miserable look. “I think I was bad when I was a baby. That’s why my mother and father died. That’s why Uncle Thomas hates me.”

Cheyenne jerked around at a sound behind her. Thomas Steele stood just inside the room.