That was not insane. Was it?
She would not think of insanity or the clinic. She would pray instead, though she didn’t really know how. Her aunt had always prayed silently with bowed head and folded hands, but the TV preachers sometimes stood with arms upraised, crying out. Surely something in between would work, as well.
Taking a deep breath, Cara whispered, “Dear God, please help me. For Ace. Please help me be what he needs, give him what he needs. Let Eden be just that for us. Amen.”
Feeling no calmer but somehow stronger, she sat up a little straighter, looked into the rearview mirror and shifted the transmission into gear. Guiding the little car out onto the rain-washed street, she fixed her gaze on the road ahead.
Toward Eden and home.
Holt clicked the mouse and watched a new page open on the computer screen before dropping his gaze back to the ledger on the desktop. His grandfather was right. With the occupancy rate continuing high, the motel seemed to be doing well financially. Should they be forced to sell, and provided Holt could bring himself to ask that of his grandfather, they ought to be able to get a good price for it.
The Heavenly Arms had been Hap Jefford’s livelihood, not to mention his home, for longer than the thirty-six years that Holt had been breathing. Hap had sunk his life savings into the place and often remarked that the hospitality industry offered the best of all worlds to a man with, as he put it, “the friendly gene.” It also offered a great deal of work, most of which Holt’s sister Charlotte had managed until Thanksgiving of this year.
Now, at the very end of December, Holt felt like pulling out his hair in frustration. When he and his brother Ryan had encouraged their sister to follow her heart, which meant relocating to Dallas with the man she loved, they had vastly overestimated their ability to handle the added responsibilities here, or even to hire help. Not a single person had replied to the employment ads they’d placed in area newspapers.
Holt pushed a hand through his sandy brown hair, aware that he needed a haircut, but when was he supposed to find time for that? His brother Ryan, a teacher, coach and assistant principal at the local high school, could not be as available as Holt, who was self-employed as an oil driller. Ryan’s many duties at the school meant that Holt had to shoulder the lion’s share of the work around here. Motel issues now consumed his days, and his own business interests languished as a result.
He’d intended to have a couple new mineral leases signed before the end of the year so he could keep his crews busy exploring for oil, but New Year’s Eve had arrived and he still hadn’t moved on either one. Heartily sick of changing beds, he told himself that something had to give, and soon. They—he— had to have help.
Sighing, he dropped his head into his hands and silently went to the one source that had never failed him.
Lord, I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place here. I don’t even know where to look next. There’s got to be someone out there who wants this job. Even in this small town, there’s got to be someone. Whoever it is, Lord, could You please hurry them along?
A chime accompanied the sound of the front door opening. Holt quickly finished his prayer and moved from the inner office out into the lobby area.
“Hello,” said a breathy female voice as he walked through the door behind the counter.
A pretty little blonde in a closely fitted denim jacket worn over a figure-hugging double layer of yellow and white T-shirts stood before him with a baby on her hip, her golden hair curving in a saucy flip just above her shoulders. Deeply set eyes of a soft, cloudy gray regarded him solemnly from beneath gently arched, light brown brows. A pert nose, apple cheeks and a perfectly proportioned, peach-pink mouth in an oval face completed the picture.
Holt walked to the counter and looked down, far down. She stood more than a foot shorter than his six feet and three-and-one-half inches. Hitching the child, a blond, chubby-faced boy, higher on her hip, she shifted her weight slightly and offered a tentative smile.
“Hello,” she repeated, dipping her head.
Holt mentally slapped himself, jarring his brain into sluggish activity. “Uh, hello. Uh, looking for a room?”
They had plenty to spare at the moment because of the holiday. The oil field workers who occupied most of the kitchenettes had all gone home to their families, and the truckers who usually filled the smaller units were off the road for the same reason. As a result, only a half-dozen of the twelve units currently held occupants, four by month-to-month renters and two others by out-of-towners visiting friends or family in Eden.
“Umm.” The blonde nodded slightly and licked her lips.
“No parties,” Holt warned. This being New Year’s Eve, he wasn’t taking any chances, though something told him he need not be concerned. For one thing, she had a baby with her. For another, she seemed rather shy. He watched her gather her courage.
“Actually, I’m more interested in that Help Wanted sign out there,” she said.
Holt rocked back on his heels. He’d never experienced instantaneous answer to prayer before. It almost felt unreal.
So perhaps it was.
He narrowed his eyes while she hurried on in a soft voice.
“I—I’m looking for work, preferably something that would let me bring my boy along. Would this job, maybe, let me do that? I have a baby backpack, and he’s used to being carried that way. He’s quiet most of the time and…” She swallowed. “Look, I learn fast, and I’ll work hard.”
Holt didn’t know whether to smile or scowl. Two minutes ago he’d prayed for help, and now here stood this strange woman, with a child, no less, and obviously desperate. He felt torn between sending her on her way and hiring her on the spot, a sign of his own desperation. As a man of faith, he couldn’t discount the very real possibility that God might have sent her here, however. He stroked his chin, knowing that he had to interview her.
“Okay. First things first, I guess.” He reached a hand across the counter. “Name’s Holt Jefford.”
She ducked her head and slid her tiny hand in and out of his so quickly that it barely registered. Holt took a job application from a cubbyhole beneath the counter. Placing the paper on the counter, he reached for a pen, then realized that the woman couldn’t fill in the blanks while holding the boy. He turned the paper to face himself.
“Name?”
“Cara Jane Wynne.”
He quickly wrote it out. “Birth date?”
“September first, 1983.”
That made her just twenty-five.
“Address?”
She looked away. “The last would be in Oregon, b-but I used to live in Duncan.” She slid a sad smile over him. “After my husband died, Oklahoma just seemed a happier place to be.”
Widowed and homeless, Holt thought, jolted. Well, Lord, I knew someone had to need this job. “Let’s use those addresses then.”
She rattled them off, and he wrote them down.
“And how long did you live there?”
“Oh, uh, in Oregon, like seven years, I guess, and in Duncan until I was thirteen. Almost fourteen.”
He made the appropriate notes, then looked up, but the instant their eyes met, she looked away again. “Job experience?”
Those soft gray eyes came back to his, pleading silently. “I haven’t worked since I was in high school,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “My husband didn’t want me to.”
“You must have married young,” Holt said, without quite meaning to.
She