Falling for a Father of Four

  Orren Ellis on Fatherhood:

  To my children,

  I’m so proud of you four. Each of you in your own way has a deep, instinctive understanding of love. You, Chaz, eldest and only son, understand that love is responsibility, which you so willingly and ably accept. For bright Jean Marie, love is to be tightly grasped and defended. My Yancy doll has always known that love is for happily sharing. And my sweet baby Candy Sue carries love to us all in every smile and cuddle.

  Because of you four, I’ve always had reason to count my blessings. You’ve gotten me through some tough times. You brought Mattie to us. (She says that we make her complete, but we know that she was the missing part of our family.) Never forget that it has always been and will always be you who make me what I am, a happy father of four. Maybe one day before long I’ll even be a happy father of five…or six…or…Who knows? And who can blame me for wanting more, when every one of you has brought me such joy?

  I will always love you. Chaz. Jean Marie. Yancy. Candy Sue. Wherever you eventually go, whatever you may or may not do, whomever you will become, I will always love you. Always.

  Daddy

  ARLENE JAMES

  Falling for a Father of Four

  ARLENE JAMES

  says, “Camp meetings, mission work and church attendance 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 has blessed me in countless ways, one of which is a second marriage so loving and romantic it still feels like courtship!”

  The author of more than sixty novels, Arlene James now resides outside Fort Worth, Texas, with her beloved husband. Her need to write is greater than ever, a fact that frankly amazes her, as she’s been at it since the eighth grade! She loves to hear from readers, and can be reached at 1301 E. Debbie Lane, Suite 102, Box 117, Mansfield, Texas 76063, or via her Web site at www.arlenejames.com.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter One

  “Get down, you big baby, and get outta my way!”

  Jean Marie shoved at her younger sister, not hard enough to really send her over the edge of the counter and crashing to the floor, but hard enough to let her know that she meant business. Sitting at the kitchen table, Orren covered the mouthpiece of the telephone receiver and counted to ten, striving for patience as four-year-old Yancy Kay wailed and called for her “bubby,” Chaz. All of eight, Chaz was the family hero, and Orren knew that he depended on his son too much, but wasn’t he doing everything in his power to try to take some of the weight off of those slender shoulders? Not, however, at the moment. He nodded at Chaz, who disgustedly reached past Yancy’s tormentor, their six-year-old sister Jean Marie, and heaved Yancy off the counter, against which Jean Marie had pushed a chair in order to prepare her specialty of buttered crackers for an afternoon snack.

  “You don’t have to be such a meanie,” Chaz scolded in a low mutter.

  Deeply offended, Jean Marie threw the knife with which she was working into the sink, where it clattered noisily among the other dishes. Yancy yowled, and Orren’s caller hung up. He couldn’t blame her. No woman in her right mind would willingly walk into this lion’s den. Orren put his head in his hands and sighed. “Well, that’s another one we can forget about.”

  Repentant, Yancy stuck her thumb in her mouth and laid her tousled golden-blond head on Chaz’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Dad,” the boy said. Then he turned his attention to the four-year-old wrapped around him. “You shouldn’t have climbed up on the counter, Yancy. The apples are all gone, anyway.”

  “I’ll get some more when I go to the store,” Orren promised tiredly, getting up to hang up the phone. Trying to sound reasonable, he turned a look at redheaded Jean Marie. “You shouldn’t talk so ugly to your baby sister, Red.”

  “She ain’t the baby,” Jean Marie retorted unconcernedly, taking another clean knife from the drawer. “She just acts like it.”

  She was right. Three-year-old Sweetums, otherwise known as Candy Sue, was still enjoying her afternoon nap, her curly, pale blond head lying on his pillow even as they spoke, but that wasn’t the point. “You still shouldn’t be so cross with her. She just wanted an apple.”

  “We ain’t got any apples,” Jean Marie said, “and she was gonna fall on her durned fool head.”

  “Watch your mouth!” Orren snapped, despair sitting on him like a big mother hen brooding a chick. He’d had two calls on the ad, and both had hung up after hearing how many kids they’d be expected to sit and the unmistakable sounds of the chaos that reigned over his household. Fourteen bucks wasted and a day of work lost for nothing. What was he going to do tomorrow when he had to show up for work? He was scared to death to leave them alone, but how could he work and care for them, too?

  He looked at Chaz, sighing. “You may have to go back to the day care,” he said, and winced as both Jean Marie and Yancy screamed protests, Jean Marie with several words she shouldn’t even have known, Yancy with her usual howl. He pointed a stern finger at Jean Marie. “Go to your room, young lady. I won’t have you talking like that.”

  “I hate that old day care!” she yelled. “That Porter woman’ll call welfare on us!”

  “No, she won’t,” Chaz said resignedly. “She’s onto your tricks and lies now.”

  Orren shook his head, recalling all the ways Jean Marie had sought to get herself and her siblings barred from the day care center: the strawberry jelly rashes, the hole-riddled underwear and socks, the tall tales about deadly diseases and strange curses. He wasn’t at all certain Mrs. Porter would take them full time. After-school care had been difficult enough. But what other choice did he have now that school was out? He started planning his plea and tried not to think about what it was going to cost, especially since the hours would mean cutting back on the side jobs he took to make a little extra.

  “Get on to your room,” he said to Jean Marie as the phone rang again. She threw herself off the chair and pounded away, slamming doors in her wake. Orren sent a look to Chaz as he reached for the receiver of the wall-mounted phone near the door. “Check on the baby. If the phone doesn’t wake her, Jean Marie will.” He snatched up the receiver in the middle of a second ring. “Hello.”

  A bright voice at the other end of the line said, “Hi, my name is Matilda Kincaid.”

  Mattie hung up the phone and smiled in satisfaction. Mr. Orren Ellis sounded frankly desperate. She was welcome to come out and interview even if she wasn’t the grandmotherly type specified in his ad, and the sooner the better. Right away, in fact. They could talk about the kids and the other duties once she got there. All she had to do was hit Bois d’arc off the 81 Bypass and follow it past the old cemetery. It was the beige and white house on the right, with the For Sale sign standing up close to the road. Come to the carport door. The For Sale sign was for the acreage and not the house.

  Mattie rolled off her bed onto the floor, stabbed her feet into sandals and snatched up the hairbrush on the dressing table beneath the window. Yanking several strokes through her long dark hair, she dropped the brush into the small denim backpack that had replaced her purse during her first year of college at Oklahoma State in Stillwater. Free for the summer, she was ready for a job and the slow pace of the hot summertime in Duncan. She’d be happier still if she never had to set eyes again on the hallowed old halls of higher education, but
after only two years at the university, it was doubtful her father would hear of her leaving college.

  As if conjured by her thoughts, she jerked open her bedroom door to find Evans Kincaid standing with fist raised to knock, his tan uniform as crisp as his badge was shiny, despite a full day put in as one of Duncan’s finest. Tall and fit in his mid-forties, his inky hair trimmed close to his head, he was the quintessential police officer.

  “Hello, sweetheart! How was your day?” He bent and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Oh, fine. Amy’s out back lighting the grill.”

  “Ah. Well, I’ll run out and tell her I’m home. You, however, have company.”

  He grinned, his leaf green eyes twinkling with delight. Mattie almost groaned aloud. That look could mean anything from a new puppy to a “playmate,” all designed to delight the little girl she no longer was. Poor Dad! He just couldn’t accept that she was no longer a child. At nineteen-going-on-twenty, Mattie was far more mature than most of her contemporaries. Truth be told, she felt decades older than the young people with whom she shared classes at OSU. She supposed it had something to do with losing her mother at so young an age and stepping into the role of housekeeper during the years before her father found Amy, his sweet second wife, who used to be their next-door neighbor. She counted Amy more good friend than stepmother and loved her—if for no other reason—for making her father happy and for occasionally running interference when Evans Kincaid became too obsessively “parental.”

  Evans pointed her in the direction of the living room and went on out through the kitchen to kiss his wife. Mattie sighed and took herself off to greet her unknown guest. She stifled a second groan and rolled her eyes upon discovering Brick Carter studying the display of her father’s medals and awards won in the line of duty. Brick swung around, freckled face splitting in a wide grin.

  “Hey, Mat!” Brick had an annoying habit of shortening everyone’s name to a single syllable like his own. His carrot red hair had been shorn so close that the pink of his scalp shone through, and the prominence of his front teeth gave him a rabbity look. “How long you been home?”

  “Just since Wednesday,” Mattie answered, as if that explained why she hadn’t seen him, when in truth she’d avoided him like the plague, even sneaking out of church early to avoid an accidental meeting. “Congratulations on your graduation.”

  Brick stuck out his thin chest, his hands jingling the change in his chino pockets. “Thanks. It sure feels good to have that sheepskin!”

  “What are you going to do now that you’ve finished university?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Take some time off, I guess. I’m kind of young to get tied down to a job already, and Mom wants me to think about grad school. I’ll probably do that. Right now, though, I just want to have some fun! Hey, how about taking in an early movie and—”

  “Sorry,” Mattie interrupted. “I was just on my way out. I have a job interview.”

  “A job interview?” This came from behind her, her father’s voice.

  She turned, masking her irritation with a smile. “That’s right, and I really have to go. Mr. Ellis is expecting me.”

  “Ellis?” Evans turned the name over in his mind. “Can’t say I know any Ellis.”

  Mattie shot a pleading look over his shoulder at her stepmother. “Must be law-abiding,” Amy quipped with a wink at Mattie.

  “What kind of job is it?” Evans wanted to know.

  “Baby-sitting,” Mattie said easily, not yet ready to reveal that it was full time.

  “Oh, well, then, that’s all right. But, honey, you really don’t have to work. You have your allowance and—”

  “Dad!” Mattie closed her eyes in humiliation. “I’m not a child. I don’t need or want an allowance. I’m perfectly capable of earning my own way. If you hadn’t insisted I come home, I could have moved into a secretarial job in Stillwater.”

  Evans waved that away with a deprecating chuckle. “You don’t want to be a secretary.”

  Mattie had to bite her tongue to keep from asking how he knew what she wanted to be when she didn’t know herself—except that the idea of working with children did hold a good deal more appeal than remaining with the real estate firm for which she’d worked part time last semester. In fact, she hoped the Ellis household contained a number of children, two or three, at least. With another pleading look at Amy, she said, “I really have to go now,” and whirled away, flipping a wave in farewell. “So long, Brick. Say hello to your sister for me. Bye, Dad.”

  “Hey, what about dinner?” Evans called after her, moving into the doorway.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me!” she called back, hurrying down the walk toward her car. “I’ll get something later. Maybe Brick will want to stay.”

  Evans frowned as she all but skipped down the walkway. He almost called her back, but his wife’s hand on his forearm stayed him. A glance in her direction told him that he was in danger of becoming the heavy-handed father again. With a sigh, he closed the door and turned back into the living room. “Well, Brick, how about it? Want to stay for dinner?”

  Brick shrugged. “Sure!” Brick’s personal theory, well known to all acquainted with him, was that he ought never to turn down a free meal. Evans smiled lamely and went to change his clothes.

  “She’s here!” Chaz announced, moving away from the kitchen sink where he’d kept watch through the window. Orren glanced up in time to see the late-model red two-door turn into the drive. It was a make with a good reputation for safety and dependability, yet had a racy look about it. A good choice for a second car, a single person more intent on value than prestige, or a teenager with particularly careful parents. He prayed it wasn’t a teenager—these kids of his would eat the average teenager alive—but he didn’t have time to watch from a distance as she got out of the car and moved toward the door. Instead, he ran across the hallway into his bedroom, where he dumped another armload of junk, kicking it out of the way as he wrestled the door closed and ran back to the living area. She knocked just as he moved on into the kitchen.

  Motioning for Chaz to get out of the way, Orren crossed to the door, where he paused and pulled a deep, calming breath, drying his sweating palms on his jeaned thighs. He opened the door to a petite cutie with enormous green eyes and dark hair falling down her back in a sleek sheet. She wore a gauzy yellow blouse over a white tank top and a faded denim miniskirt, yellow sandals on her small, bare feet. She had that firm, fit look of the well-endowed teenager, but something about her face hinted that she might be older. Perhaps it was the carefully applied lipstick in a sensible shade of peach or the hint of blush across her high cheekbones. Whatever it was, it gave him a glimmer of hope.

  “Mr. Ellis?” she asked. “I’m Matilda Kincaid.”

  Nodding, he backed out of the doorway. “Miss Kincaid. Won’t you come in?”

  She stepped up into the house and shrugged off the backpack she carried slung over one shoulder. Looking around in blatant curiosity, she spied Chaz and moved in his direction, hand extended. “Hello. I’m Mattie.”

  “This is my son, Chaz,” Orren said, proudly dropping his hands onto Chaz’s stout shoulders as Chaz stiffly placed his hand in Mattie’s.

  “Pleased to meet you, Chaz.” She smiled and lifted her gaze to Orren’s, the shock of those emerald eyes rocking him back a little. “Are there others? Children, I mean.”

  She sounded almost eager, but Orren wasn’t taking any chances. She was young, but she handled herself with a certain maturity. He wouldn’t count her out until they’d talked—and he wasn’t about to scare her off, either. He nodded smoothly and smiled down at Chaz. “Son, why don’t you go and get Sweetums?”

  Chaz’s pale blue eyes signaled his approval of this particular maneuver. Few females could resist the curly-headed little moppet with eyes the color of a summer sky. They’d spring Yancy and Jean Marie on her later, if things got that far. As Chaz went off to fetch his baby sister, Orren pulled out a chair from t
he kitchen table.

  “Won’t you sit down, Miss Kincaid?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She hung her backpack on the back of the chair and gracefully lowered herself onto the seat, tucking her little skirt around her legs. Nice legs, Orren noticed, for a girl her age, that was. And perhaps finding out her exact age ought to be the first order of business. Counselling himself to patience, Orren doggedly observed the niceties.

  “Can I get you anything? A cup of tea, maybe?”

  “Oh, no, thank you. And please call me Mattie.” Her smile was slightly mocking as she added, “Miss Kincaid is my father’s maiden aunt.”

  He felt himself smiling in response. “Well, you’re obviously no old maid, so Mattie it is. My name’s Orren, by the way. We can save Mr. Ellis for the fellows down at the shop. The mister is a way of reminding them who’s boss.”

  “You’re young to be anyone’s boss, aren’t you?” she said smoothly.

  He was shocked, and not just because he felt a hundred most days, but because she had so neatly turned the tables on him. He knew what it was like to be young and struggling. The world was full of folks who thought you had to be skimming forty to do anything worthwhile, and woe to the man who set out to prove himself capable before then. He just hadn’t expected the question from this little slip of a female. He pulled out a chair and dropped into it, saying defensively, “I’m twenty-eight.”

  Her dark, slender brows rose in tandem. “My goodness, you were awful young when Chaz was born, then, weren’t you? What is he, nine or ten?”

  “Eight.” Orren retorted. “Chaz is eight. He won’t be nine until November.”

  “Ah. Then you were an expectant father at my age,” she announced, beaming at him.

  Orren blinked, wondering how he’d lost control of this interview. The same way he’d lost control of his life, apparently—without even realizing it. A hushed squabble in the hallway alerted him to more trouble in the making. “Excuse me,” he said, rising and edging that way. Before he could get there, though, Jean Marie slithered through the open doorway, evading Chaz’s grasp. She glared at him mulishly, pushing her blazing red hair out of her face. He’d told her pointedly to brush it, but she seemed to think that taming her hair was the height of indignity. She targeted Mattie Kincaid with a frown that abruptly upended itself. This was no old meanie. This was a pliable, hoodwinkable youngster! Jean Marie beamed and headed for her. Orren caught her about the shoulders and redirected her toward the tattered brown tweed couch, saying, “This is Jean Marie. We call her Red, for obvious reasons.”