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“The boys miss their mother,” Wyatt told her. “It’s that feminine perspective. Kids need that softness, that gentleness, that…comfort.”
He slid a little closer to Traci. “The twins just don’t have anyone like that anymore. I’ve no family to speak of.”
“Are you an only child?” she asked.
He sighed. “That’s me. The lone wolf.”
Wolf was right, Traci mused. Feminine perspective, indeed. She would like to give him a new slant on the feminine perspective—if only being close to him didn’t do such odd things to her.
Traci stood and moved to the window, as if freshly concerned about the storm, which she had somehow all but forgotten. No sooner was she on her feet, however, when the allclear siren blew. She whirled, giving Wyatt a relieved look—and caught him staring at her. He flashed her an innocent grin.
“Guess those prayers of yours worked,” he said, smiling brightly.
Traci pursed her lips to cover her surprise. “Prayers usually do.” And noted that her reply made his smile fade.
ARLENE JAMES
“Camp meetings, mission work, and the church where my parents and grandparents were prominent members permeate my Oklahoma childhood memories. It was a golden time which sustains me yet. However, only as a young, widowed mother did I truly begin growing in my personal relationship with the Lord. Through adversity, He blessed me in countless ways, one of which is a second marriage so loving and romantic, it still feels like courtship!”
The author of over forty novels, Arlene James now resides outside of Dallas, Texas, with her husband. As she sends her youngest child off to college, Arlene says, “The rewards of motherhood have indeed been extraordinary for me. Yet I’ve looked forward to this new stage of my life.” Her need to write is greater than ever, a fact that frankly amazes her as she’s been at it since the eighth grade!
An Old-Fashioned Love
Arlene James
“The just man walketh in his integrity: his children are blessed after him.”
—Proverbs 20:7
Wyatt clutched the paper in his fist and shook it at his two sons, each in turn.
“All right, now let’s have the truth.” Neither expression changed by so much as a glimmer. He took a deep breath and targeted the oldest twin. “Rex, what do you have to say about this?”
Freckled lids drooped over ice blue eyes, and one brow lifted sardonically. “She’s nuts.”
“Nuts enough to sue us for something that didn’t happen?” Wyatt demanded.
Rex hunched a small shoulder forward then back. “Guess so.”
Wyatt mentally shook his head, a feeling of cold dread settling in the pit of his belly like a lead weight. Perhaps this Miss Traci Temple was mistaken, but nuts? He pictured the woman in his mind. Small, spirited and fetching, with wheat blond hair and bright flashing green eyes, she had firmly but succinctly stated her case. “My building materials have been disappearing, and those two redheads have been seen around my shop a number of times.” He had told her, of course, that being seen near the scene of the crime did not prove they were thieves, and their careful denials and innocent, freckled faces had convinced him that he was right. But Traci Temple had just looked at him with implacable green eyes that had threatened to steal his breath away and informed him that he had not heard the last of this.
He clutched the paper tightly enough to permanently crease it. The attractive Miss Temple had been right about that, and he had the awful feeling she was right about his sons’ thievery, as well.
Automatically the old military bearing took hold. He straightened his spine, shoulders back, stomach in, buttocks tightened. Deftly he pivoted toward the younger son, younger by some six minutes. Rex was the dominant one, the stronger one. Hard as nails, he never gave in unless defeat was certain. Max was gentler, softer, more the little boy and less the tenyear-old tyrant. Wyatt shifted his eyes and glared down his long, noble nose at Max, and Max gulped.
“The truth now, boy,” he said sternly, and pale blue eyes slid toward identical pale blue eyes. “Don’t look at your brother!” Wyatt barked. “Look at me!” Guilty eyes zipped back to his face. Wyatt brought his hands to his waist and leaned forward slightly, well aware that he was frightening the boy. He hated to do it, had hated doing it ever since the night that Rex had belligerently informed him that they were his sons, not his recruits, but what other choice did he have? Mentally, he steeled himself against the emotion of regret. He was their father. Fathers, no matter how deficient, sometimes had to take the tough stance. He schooled his voice into that of the commanding officer—cool, efficient, selfconfident in the extreme. “Permission to speak, mister. Now!”
True to form, Max spilled his guts. “We thought it was junk!