Their Wander Canyon Wish Page 3

  “If Wander’s so bad,” she challenged, “how come you never left?”

  She definitely had some fight left in her. You try getting out from underneath Old Man Walker and see how far you get. He didn’t have the luxury of some well-heeled city tycoon sweeping her out of here to go tend to some tasteful three-car garage house at the end of a quiet Denver cul-de-sac. He met her glare for a long moment before saying “Reasons,” with a little more hiss than he ought to. “Look, you only need an oil change and I can do that easy. But if I don’t rank high enough on the integrity scale for you, feel free to head on over to the dealership twenty miles east of here and let him charge you forty dollars more for inferior oil. It won’t bother me none.”

  She hoisted her handbag higher up on her defiant shoulder and turned toward the door. “Well, when you put it that way...”

  What was the matter with him? Picking fights with customers? Manny would kill him for starters, and he liked to think of himself as capable of more charm than that. “Wait. Stop.”

  She did, which surprised him.

  “Look, I was out of line.” He ran a hand down his face. “I’m just a little down on Wander at the moment. People are getting on me about the carousel and all. No reason to take it out on you and your tidy little ride there.”

  “I get it.” She actually looked like she did. When you spent lot of time at the end of your rope, it wasn’t hard to see it in other people. Somehow, at that moment, he could see that Marilyn wasn’t home by choice. He wasn’t quite sure how he didn’t see that yesterday—maybe she put up a good front for her daughters—but her eyes broadcast it now loud and clear.

  He walked over to her. “I’ll be glad to change the oil for you. And write up what ought to come next and when, if that’ll help. Least I can do for jumping down your throat like that.”

  She shrugged. “It wasn’t very fair of me to ask you why you hadn’t left. Everybody’s got reasons.”

  Those last three words hinted at a lot. What were hers?

  Chapter Three

  Marilyn stood in the middle of the sidewalk, half fuming and half stumped. Wyatt had told her to come back in an hour and a half, and Mom had taken the kids to the grocery store with her.

  She now had time to herself. Taking in a deep breath, Marilyn looked up and down Main Street, surprisingly stumped as to where to go next. Wander was the kind of small town people would call quaint, with a classic Main Street lined with mom-and-pop businesses, the kind of restaurants where everyone knew your name, and was generally blessed with clear sunny days perfect for meandering. The morning ought to feel like a holiday, the peaceful, blissful stretch of time she’d often dreamed of in Denver’s hustle and rush.

  Now, thanks to Wyatt Walker, she couldn’t quite figure out what to do with it.

  The man unnerved her. How did anyone get away with not caring what anyone thought of him the way he did? In a small town like this—actually, even in a big city like Denver—that seemed impossible to her. You couldn’t indulge in that kind of disregard. Good, upstanding people had to care about their reputation. Community standing still meant something, didn’t it? Her parents had taught her that. She was still trying to hang on to that belief. Of all the things Landon had taken from her, she wasn’t going to let integrity be one of them.

  Wyatt Walker declared himself “honest.” She believed him to be—blatantly, even tactlessly forthright. Honest was one thing, but Wyatt was also defiant and more than a bit reckless. Truth be told, if the messy state of the garage was any indication, he was also rather disorganized. If she clung to anything in life, it was organization.

  So why did she care even one whit about how messy the man kept his garage? It wasn’t as if he needed efficiency to recommend his work. He had been—and clearly still was—handsome enough to get away with just about anything he wanted. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had more female customers than male. After all, he wielded that dashing smile like he knew exactly the effect it had...on other women.

  Well, it wasn’t going to have any effect on her. Marilyn wasn’t even the slightest bit interested in romantic relationships. Especially with men in possession of dashing smiles. Even if she found some perfect man here in Wander Canyon—which was unlikely at best—people might talk. Small-town vistas always looked quaint, but small-town tongues could be cruel. She guessed a year—if not more—would need to pass before any date she might go on wouldn’t immediately be labeled as too soon. The fact she was such a young widow wouldn’t matter.

  The fact that her marriage to Landon had grown cold couldn’t matter, because she couldn’t let that come to light. Not even her mother knew how the love had somehow drained out of her marriage to Landon. She couldn’t bear for anyone to know how powerless she was to stop Landon’s growing disregard. Oh, they looked happy from the outside—Landon always made sure of that. Marital strife was unacceptable for Denver’s next promising candidate for the state Senate. He’d made it quite clear that her role was to smile, look happy and tout him as promising and successful. There were days Marilyn felt she was married to a resume, not a loving father and husband. It had become a lonely way to live, and his death simply deepened the emptiness.

  Nope, she told herself. None of that. The very last thing she needed on this glorious morning alone was to give in to any kind of pity party. These days had to be about looking forward, and getting herself and the girls settled.

  Marilyn sat for a moment on one of the rough-hewn log benches that dotted Wander’s Main Street. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and fell back into the ritual that had gotten her through the months since Landon’s fatal car accident. Three things I’m glad for, Lord, and three things I need. How many times had she stopped wherever she was and taken a moment to thank God for three little blessings in her life and ask Him for three small needs? There had been scores of dark and panicked moments since that somber-looking pair of police officers had arrived at her door. How many times had those blessings and that dose of provision pulled her back from the brink?

  I’m thankful to have found an honest mechanic.

  I’m thankful to have a morning to myself.

  I’m thankful the girls are excited about starting school here.

  I need to feel like I have a plan—or even just the start of one.

  I need a job. Or maybe even just an interview.

  I need a friend.

  Right there was perhaps the reason Wyatt Walker had unnerved her so. He was being friendly, and she desperately needed a friend. Of course, one could never count on Wyatt’s friendliness as just that. Did the man even know how to be friends with a woman? Even a definitely not-in-the-market widow with children in tow? The absurdity of that thought almost made her laugh.

  A plan. This morning’s solitude was exactly what she needed to get started on one. Opening her eyes, Marilyn chose her next step. Lunch and planning. She rose resolutely off the bench and began walking away from the garage and the unnerving Wyatt Walker and toward The Depot. The little railroad car diner that sat next to the carousel felt like the perfect place to ponder her next steps. A quiet lunch where she didn’t have to cut the crusts off anyone’s sandwich seemed as good a place to start as any.

  She ordered a lovely, grown-up salad and iced tea, and reached into her handbag for the notebook she always kept with her. Marilyn had just uncapped her pen when she noticed a woman standing beside her table.

  “Mari?” A vaguely familiar face popped into view. The bright-eyed, curvy woman in a brightly colored scarf peered down at her, a to-go container balanced in one hand with an enormous cup of soda in the other. “Is that you?”

  Marilyn was surprised and grateful the woman’s name popped up out of her memory. “Tessa?”

  “It is you. I heard someone at church say you were back.” Tessa Kennedy glanced at the empty place setting opposite Marilyn at the small table. “You all by you
rself here? Want some company?”

  She did. Desperately. “Oh, I don’t want to keep you.”

  Tessa sat down immediately, as if it were no big deal. “You’re not. I keep telling myself not to eat at my desk anyway.”

  God’s little provisions. They never failed, did they?

  Tessa flipped open the cardboard container to reveal a heap of deliciously rich-looking macaroni and cheese. With a generous portion of barbecued pork piled on top. The delectable smell suddenly made Marilyn’s salad look far too sensible.

  Tessa smirked and leaned in. “The fast-breaking news at the Wander Gazette really isn’t that fast-breaking, if you know what I mean.”

  “That’s right, you were a journalism major.” Marilyn hadn’t known Tessa that well in high school, but they’d kept up a bit over the years. She’d always been friendly, and clearly that hadn’t changed.

  Tessa stirred ice in her drink. Mari remembered she drank vats of diet cola in school, and evidently that hadn’t changed, either. “Yes, well, it’d be a stretch to call me a journalist now. Small-town reporter struggling my way through single parenthood of a teenage boy comes a bit closer.” She paused to let Marilyn’s memory catch up while she tackled the mound of food with her fork. “Nick and I split a year after Gregory was born. Mr. Right hasn’t shown up yet, so it’s just me.” Her hand stilled and her face changed. “Oops. Me and my mouth. It’s just you now with your girls—twins, isn’t it?—I’m so sorry.”

  “Landon’s been gone nine months.”

  “I remember reading about that accident. We ran a story on it, seeing as how you were from here and everything. He seemed like a great man and a huge loss.”

  She never knew how to respond to statements like that. To lots of people, Landon was a great man. For her, he’d stopped being that well before he died, and that never seemed like the kind of thing to say out loud, ever. “Yes,” she replied.

  “The single-mom thing. No easy road, is it? At least you’ve got cute little girls. Teenage boys defy explanation, let me tell you.”

  “The girls are a terrific comfort to me.” It sounded corny and poetic, but it was true. Maddie and Margie were absolute lifelines to her right now. “A real blessing.”

  Tess grinned. “I try to remember that Greg’s a blessing. Some days it’s harder than others. Where are your girls?”

  “Mom took the girls to the grocery store and shopping for school backpacks so I could bring the car in for service and have a morning to myself. They start first grade here in the fall.”

  “Little pink backpacks,” Tess practically mewled. “They probably have sparkles and kittens on them, huh?”

  “Margie’s never been the pink sparkly type. Maddie will come home with something girlie, but Margie is just as likely to pick out camo.”

  Tessa’s laugh was warm and welcoming. “Hey, I’ve seen pink-and-purple camo.”

  Marilyn thought of the bedspread from home Margie insisted come to Grandma and Grandpa’s with them. “Oh, believe me, so have I.”

  Tessa’s face lit up with a thought. “Hey, you should come to Solos. It’s the single-moms Bible study at our church. Decent baked goods—Yvonne over at the bakery donates them, and that woman knows her stuff—and free babysitting. Spiritual fulfillment aside, it’s the cheapest girls’ night out in town. You free Tuesday evening?”

  Marilyn was nothing but free. Her calendar held more open space than all of Colorado’s state parks combined. “As a matter of fact I am.”

  “Well—” Tessa dug back into her meal “—that settles that.” She lifted a heaping forkful of the incredible-smelling dish. “I’ll never finish this. I shouldn’t finish this. Want to share?”

  Marilyn felt a little of the weight slide off her shoulders. “Sure.”

  * * *

  Wyatt gripped the phone handset, ready to hurl it through the garage wall. “No, I don’t want to hold, I want you to ship me the right part now and...” He fought the urge to growl as he heard the telltale click, then syrupy instrumental music echoed from the other end of the line. Not again.

  He stared at the parts catalog page and back to the packing slip inside the box he’d just opened. Why didn’t anyone use plain English for these things? Car parts, truck parts, even carousel motor parts—why use such a complicated code of letters and numbers? Why couldn’t a six-inch pinion gear be a “six-inch pinion gear” instead of Part #XH770? All that nonsense made it hard to tell parts apart—and almost impossible to make sure the part you wanted was the one that showed up in the shipping box.

  Case in point? The much-needed gear he’d ordered for the carousel. The one that was too small. Again.

  “I just need the next size up!” he grumbled uselessly into the receiver, fully aware that the awful music meant no one was on the other end of the line to hear him.

  Wyatt considered banging his head on the workbench. The road to eternal torment was surely paved with tedious paperwork. When did life become such a mountain of irritating correspondence? Dad used to say he could smooth-talk a snow sale to a penguin, but fill out an order form? Wyatt would happily live in a world where no one ever had to fill out forms.

  He pulled the receiver away from his ear, scowled at it and punched the zero on the keypad half a dozen times. Give me a human, not a phone tree.

  A decidedly inhuman voice informed him, “You have entered an incorrect selection. Please try again.”

  Wyatt exhaled, reminded himself that his worst day at the garage was still better than his best day on the ranch and waited. After an eternity, the oh-so-polite woman returned to the line. “I appreciate your patience, Mr. Walker.”

  “Can we please just fix this? Fast?”

  “I’m doing my best, sir.”

  Wyatt hated being called sir. In his experience, no one who ever really wanted to help you called you sir. He pinched the bridge of his nose, grimly reminded that the gesture was an echo of Dad’s. “And?”

  “I have reviewed your account. The part you received is the one you ordered.”

  “No, it’s not. I need the next size up, not this one.”

  “You ordered part number XH760. The next size up is XH770.”

  Wyatt peered at the packing slip, endlessly annoyed to see she was right. He tossed the offending sheet back into the box. “Whatever happened to small, medium and large?”

  “You can exchange it, sir, but I can’t authorize expedited shipping if the error was on your part.”

  “Tell that to Margie and Maddie!” Wyatt growled into the receiver.

  “Tell what to Margie and Maddie?”

  Wyatt spun around to see Marilyn Sofitel back in his doorway. He stuffed a lid on his boiling temper, pointed to the phone receiver and gave her a “hold on a second” expression.

  “Fine. Expedite it. I’ll eat the surcharge. On this order and the one from yesterday. Are we square?”

  “Yes, sir. We appreciate your business.”

  Tell that to Manny. And the guy who owns the Jeep still waiting on the right air filter. I hate this part of the job. More than that, he hated the thought of giving Manny anything else to worry about.

  Wyatt clicked off the call. “If they call it a help line, they ought to actually help you, don’t you think?” He’d botched no less than three orders in as many weeks. Since when did car parts feel more like algebra?

  “Everything okay?”

  He slapped the parts catalog closed with more force than was necessary. “Not when they tell you it’ll be thirty extra bucks for expedited shipping. They can’t get the order right for the broken carousel part. Stupid order numbers.”

  He watched her eyes roam to the piles on the desk in the corner of the garage. He’d let the paperwork pile up.

  “Orders not coming in on time?” she asked.

  He didn’t want to admit his frustrations, especia
lly to her. “Something like that. Late or wrong. Honestly, I don’t know how Manny ever could keep track of all this stuff.”

  Before he could stop her, she was walking toward the desk. “He must have had some kind of system.”

  He did, and he’d explained it to Wyatt—twice—but the disorganized pile of papers on the desk practically advertised his inability to follow it.

  Marilyn, on the other hand, looked like the kind of person who alphabetized her spice rack. He stepped between her and the cluttered desk in an attempt to head her off, but she went right around him. “There’s that logbook there,” he called after her, pointing to a tattered blue binder sitting open on the desk. “But I don’t need to use it.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. He’d tried to use it. It just wasn’t working for him. And he sure wasn’t going to drag Manny in here to explain it a third time. I just gotta get a handle on it, that’s all.

  She ran her finger down one page and got a look on her face that was 100 percent know-it-all mom. “What goes wrong?”

  He hesitated, trying to come up with an answer that didn’t make him feel like an idiot. Eventually, her relentless gaze and his desperation cut his pride down to size. “I keep ending up with the wrong stuff,” he admitted, finding a grease spot on the garage floor to look at. “Part numbers and I...don’t exactly get along.”

  He waited for her to laugh. Or make some nasty remark.

  When she didn’t, he looked up to see soft, kind eyes. “Margie doesn’t get along with numbers, either. She says they hate her.”

  “I hear her loud and clear.” Shouldn’t she ask his permission before moving papers around like that?

  “Some people are better with their hands than with paperwork, don’t you think?” She started flicking through the stack of files. “I mean, Margie’s only just finished kindergarten but she can draw way better than I can.” She looked up at him. “Landon used to joke I could file in my sleep.”