“Can we take a piece of pie to him?”

Kerri asked.

“Him who?” Quincee teased her daughter. She knew it was natural for a little girl to get a sudden crush on a father figure, but the idea of Judge Hamilton Paxton filling that role for Kerri struck her as hilarious.

Kerri rolled her eyes. “You know, him.”

“Oh, that him. Sure, honey, why not. But after supper, okay?”

Quincee wondered whether he’d be home, but sure enough, the kids said later that he was, and that he’d handed her back a thank-you note.

Why didn’t the blasted man have a Saturday-night date? He was young enough and handsome. And she secretly thought he had the best pair of male eyes in the city….

RUTH SCOFIELD

became serious about writing after she’d raised her children. Until then, she’d concentrated her life on being a June Cleaver-type wife and mother, spent years as a Bible student and teacher for teens and young adults and led a weekly women’s prayer group. When she’d made a final wedding dress and her last child had left the nest, she declared to one and all that it was her turn to activate a dream. Thankfully, her husband applauded her decision.

Ruth began school in an old-fashioned rural two-room schoolhouse and grew up in the days before television, giving substance to her notion that she still has one foot in the nineteenth century. However, active involvement with six rambunctious grandchildren has her eagerly looking forward to what this new millennium will bring. After living on the East Coast for years, Ruth and her husband now live in Missouri.

Loving Thy Neighbor
Ruth Scofield

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The second [commandment] is this:

“Love your neighbor as yourself.”

There is no greater commandment than this.

—Mark 12:31

A joyful heart is good medicine.

—Proverbs 17:22a

I can do all things through Him

who gives me strength.

(New International Version)

I can do all things through Christ

who strengthens me.

(Scofield Reference Bible)

—Philippians 4:13

To Charles—my own neighborhood boy,

the love of my life.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Letter to Reader

Prologue

She was in deep muck. Just her luck, lately. Getting another citation for a moving violation, which put more points on her driver’s license, came as an impossible complication to her overstretched life just at this time. She hated traffic court. And of all people, now she had to face Judge Hamilton Paxton!

Again.

Those deep eyes of his, his steely gaze had stayed in her memory for days after the last time.

Breathing deeply while she waited, Quincee Davis mentally chanted her motto. I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me. I can do all things through Christ….

Traffic court was a three-day headache no matter which way you cut it. She fervently wished she could simply snap her fingers and make this all go away, but there had been nothing she could do to postpone it.

The court clerk called her name, Quincee J. Davis.

Quincee rose to take her place in front of the bench, keeping her hands still by folding them firmly at her waist, and waited, trying to look alert and interested. After what seemed a very long moment, Judge Paxton turned from his court clerk as he silently accepted her folder. Then he turned his cool gaze toward her.

Recognition flashed in those gray depths with all the warmth of an ice shard in January.

“Miss Davis,” he intoned, his voice deeper than the Grand Canyon.

“Yes sir? Er, your honor.”

“You were driving sixty-eight miles in a fifty-five mile zone.”

“Yes, sir, I was, but—”

“And this is your second speeding violation in less than two months.”

“Yes, sir, I know, but you see,” she said, imploring for mercy. “I had an emergency.”

“An emergency? It seems that I recall you had an emergency the last time you faced me, Miss Davis. Something about taking care of children, wasn’t it? Most people arrange their child care without mixing it with constant speeding. You really need to arrange your time better.”

“Sir, it really was an emergency. I couldn’t leave school on time, and I had to pick up my—”

“Yes, I’ve heard it before, Miss Davis,” the judge interrupted with a bored nod. “Would you offer that same excuse for these parking tickets you have stacked up?”

“Um, well, the parking tickets, while not exactly an emergency, were necessary. You see, one time I had to unload a heavy box, and then my sister—”

“You were halfway into a fire zone, Miss Davis. And did you consider the inconvenience you caused the restaurant by leaving your car in their drive for nearly forty minutes, thereby blocking their vehicles from leaving? Or the neighbors in the apartments whose parking space you repeatedly used without prior authorization?”

Quincee shifted from one foot to the other. She hadn’t realized those complaints had caught up with her. Staring at the judge, she noted his well brushed dark hair, flat against his temples. Heavy brows almost met across his brow as he concentrated; his solidly squared chin could hammer with the best of nutcrackers, she thought.

Was it possible to reach a sympathetic soul past those gray depths that were his eyes?

“Your honor, there was a reason for that.” Quincee put a lot of feeling into her explanation, honest feeling. Heaven knew she had enough of it left over from the last three months. “My sister—”

“That’s enough, Miss Davis.” Judge Paxton’s firm tone put an end to her hopes of reaching him on a human level. “I’m sure,” he continued, “you have enough excuses to fill a stadium. But I’ve heard one too many. Your irresponsible actions have become a hazard, and you don’t appear to have improved your attitude toward getting along with your neighbors in regards to considering their rights and needs as important as your own. Perhaps thirty days without your driving privileges will improve your approach.”

Thirty days!

“That’s all, Miss Davis.”

Impossible! Quincee opened her mouth to protest, her heart beating high in her throat. She couldn’t do without her car for thirty days. She had to have the freedom to drive. There was too much to do within the next week, even. She had too many directions to run. Why, she and the kids were moving, for Pete’s sake!

“Judge Paxton, I have children to care for. I can’t do without my car.”

“Then you should think of your children the next time you’re speeding, Miss Davis.”

“But I must—”

Judge Paxton’s glinting expression dared her to make one more protest. He was heartless. She closed her mouth, fighting the flashing anger that wanted to erupt. It was all just too much.

I can do all things through Christ… she began. It had been her hope and promise for the last year. But she didn’t feel very capable at the moment. How could she have allowed herself to get those speeding tickets? What was she to do without her driving license?

The court clerk called the next name on his list. Quincee had no option but to turn and give the clerk all the information he asked for and leave. That or face a contempt of court charge, she supposed.

Judge Paxton had already moved to his next case.

Chapter One

“Quincee…”

The plaintive call came from five-year-old Kerri beyond the opened kitchen door. She and seven-year-old Kyle were in the backyard exploring their new surroundings.

The screen door slammed after Kerri as the child entered the kitchen. “Quincee, you gotta come.”

“What is it, Kerri bear?” High on a stepladder, Quincee wiped out the top cupboard. The ancient, once white cupboards hadn’t been cleaned in a dog’s age, the house sitting empty for the past year after its former occupant had…gone to live elsewhere.

Out of concern for the children, she’d chosen to use that explanation instead of telling them of another death. They were still dealing with the grief of losing their mother.

Quincee had bought the tiny house in this old Independence, Missouri, neighborhood, looking for a measure of security for her and the kids. They’d moved in yesterday. It had cost her every dime of her savings and a borrowed thousand from her friend Laura for closing costs, but it was worth it. Although most of its citizens were older, of grandparenting age, the neighborhood was solid and peaceful.

The house was old, too, built sometime in the early twenties, she thought, and in great need of repair. Too small, really, with only two bedrooms. She and Kerri were sharing. But none of that mattered now. They’d be happy here. She’d see to it.

“That man wants to see you.” Kerri’s tone was edged. Everything was dramatic to Kerri.

“What man?” She stretched to reach the back top corners, scrubbing vigorously. It might take her the whole morning to get the built-up gunk out, but by gum, she’d have it done and their things put away by lunchtime.

“By the hedge,” Kerri said.

Their neighbor, no doubt. The big dusty-blue Victorian on the other side of the hedge, with the long wraparound front porch, had appeared very quiet all last week as she’d come and gone. But most people were home on a Saturday.

“Did he say what he wants?”

“Um, uh, I think Kyle…”

Quincee turned to glance down at her niece. The June sunlight streaming through the door highlighted the moonlight curls around Kerri’s face, framing her delicate, vulnerable features. Kerri’s wide blue eyes shone with worry. Something really troubled her.

“What is it, sweetie?”

“Um, Kyle and me picked some cherries in that tree back there.” Kerri pointed to an unseen spot beyond the visible. “We didn’t know we couldn’t.”

“In the neighbor’s yard?”

A slight tremble of Kerri’s bottom lip told Quincee what she needed to know.

Quincee climbed down and tossed her dishcloth into the sudsy sink. If the children had done something wrong, she’d apologize and hope to make a friend. She needed all the friends she could get these days.

“All right, let’s go,” she said calmly. Grabbing a towel to dry her hands, she followed Kerri outside. Whatever this was about, they’d get it straightened out. She planned to build a solid home here, and a good relationship with the neighbors was very much a part of her plan.

Hands shoved into his pockets, Kyle stood against the tall hedge looking fierce. Quincee recognized that look. Kyle always hid his worries and upsets behind a deep frown.

He and Kerri had suffered too many of them this last year.

The ancient privet hedge topped her by half a foot, marking the boundary line between the small property she now owned from the huge yard next door. She surmised it had been planted thirty years before, at least.

Not very tall, Quincee couldn’t see over, but she spotted the back of a man’s dark head. At the hedge’s base, child-size gaps between the old plants positively invited a peek into the world beyond. It wasn’t hard for her to imagine the children crawling through, wanting to explore.

She gave Kyle’s shoulder a reassuring pat.

“Hello?” she said in her friendliest voice, the one she used to welcome her fifth-grade classroom on a new week of school. “I understand the children have—”

The neighbor turned, his square chin practically sitting on top of the neatly clipped hedge. Quincee stopped speaking abruptly. For the briefest moment, she thought she was hallucinating. Surely, it couldn’t be. But it was.

Although unshaven, his dark hair unruly, the man had cool, unforgettable gray eyes.

“Judge Paxton!” Her voice nearly strangled in her throat.

Her first thought was that he looked much younger than he did in his judge’s robes. Her second thought was that she was in trouble yet again. She nearly groaned aloud. His scowl expressed a decided unhappiness over a situation she was only now beginning to understand might be a major infraction.

And he had no heart.

His straight brows lowered another quarter of an inch, his nod of recognition a reactionary one. “Miss…Fluff…er, Miss…”

Miss Fluff? He thought of her as Miss Fluff?

Had it been her looks, then, with her strawberry-red hair curling around her face like feathers, or that she’d worn a bright lipstick the day she’d gone to court? Or the misfortune of her driving record?

The resentment from that day in court rose in her chest like a flood.

Quincee straightened and stood as tall as her five feet would let her. She may be small of stature, but she wasn’t quite without an authority of her own. Of sorts. At least with children.

She cleared her throat. “Quincee Davis, Judge Paxton.”

“Ah, yes. Quincee Davis.” He blinked before his face melted into a cool demeanor. “Are you by any chance in charge of these children?”

“Yep.” She gathered her forces to answer with in-your-face pride. She would not allow an intimidation of his position to rob her or the children of her protective shield. Whatever they’d done, they were good kids. They didn’t normally get into trouble. “They belong to me. This is Kerri and Kyle.”

“I see. What are you doing here, may I ask?”

“We just moved into this house.”

His jaw tightened as he stared at her in disbelief. “The Denby house?”

“Yes, I bought it. We couldn’t move until school was out. I’m a teacher, you see, and though we closed on the house last month, there were too many things to clear up before we could make the move.”

She prayed he wouldn’t ask her how the move had taken place without her driving here. Or, until she could get around to clearing out the decrepit garage at the rear of the property, who had driven her car, which clearly could be seen parked in the drive.

Hoping to divert that direction of thought, she asked, “Do you live there?”

Actually, she’d been blessed in her move. A number of her teacher friends from school had pitched in to truck hers and the children’s few belongings from the old apartment to the house. Although she’d driven her car, as well, piled high with boxes, they’d done it in one clean sweep.

But she’d counted on running errands this afternoon, and buying groceries. What could she do now? She still had three weeks before regaining her driving privileges.

“Yes,” the judge answered, his gaze riveted on her. “We includes you, the children and…?”

“Just us.” She glanced at Kyle. He hadn’t dealt well with his mother’s death and he wasn’t inclined to use Quincee’s softer explanations of what had happened. But Quincee knew Kerri needed the reassurance of knowing where her mother had gone, and so she’d told them what she honestly believed—that Paula now lived in Heaven.

“Yes, we’re a team. We do just fine on our own.” She finished with a firmness she didn’t always feel.

“Oh?” It sounded like a scoff. One of his pronouncements. His jaw hardened, while the gray eyes continued to study her. She almost shivered in their cool depths as he muttered, “I see.”

There was no help for it, this was going to be a difficult neighbor with which to deal. I can do all things through Him Who strengthens me….

Quincee took a deep breath and plunged. “Um, Judge Paxton, Kerri said something about picking cherries?”

“That’s right. These two were in my cherry tree. I have peach and apple trees, too, in the back corner of my yard. The pie cherries are beginning to ripen. I caught your children eating them right from the tree.”

“Kyle? Kerri?” She turned to look at the children. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

“Nobody else was there,” Kyle said, defending himself. “We didn’t know they weren’t our cherries.”

“You must have known, Kyle. They were on my side of the hedge.”

“Didn’t know it was your yard,” Kyle challenged, defiance in the lines of his stance. “We thought they were just there.”

“Well, you were trespassing the moment you crawled through the hedge. You must’ve known that was wrong.”

“What’s that?” Kyle asked, looking to Quincee for an explanation.

“Going onto someone else’s property without being invited,” she said to supply the explanation. Both the children’s jeans-clad knees were streaked with mud, evidence of their having crawled through the gap in the hedge.

The children had known their limits when they lived in the apartment. The parks she and Paula had taken them to had been open ground offering pure freedom to run as wide and satisfyingly hard as they wished. A yard of their own was new to them.

“That’s right.” Judge Paxton pursed his mouth. His steady gaze, not really unkind, Quincee noted with surprise, locked onto the boy’s before engaging Kerri’s. “And you took something that didn’t belong to you. Do either of you think that is right?”

“No, sir.” Shame came with Kyle’s solid answer, but Quincee could tell he didn’t like the embarrassment that came with it. She’d have a quiet talk with him later.

“No, sir.” Kerri’s eyes began to tear, and her lip trembled.

Quincee’s pride in the children rose. She placed her hand on Kerri’s head. They may have behaved without thought, but they didn’t lie about what they’d done. They understood what it was to tell the truth.

For the first time in her sketchy knowledge of the judge, she heard his voice soften. “Now that we have that out of the way, what do you plan to do about it?”

The children’s troubled glances turned her way.

“I’d be glad to pay you for the cherries,” Quincee offered. “If you’ll tell me what they’re worth.”

“It’s Kyle’s and Kerri’s debt, don’t you think?”

“But they’re very young. They didn’t intentionally steal the fruit.”

“They may be young, Miss Davis, but they’re not too young to learn to take responsibility for their actions. As a teacher, I’d think you would agree with that.”

“Oh, normally, I would. I do. I agree completely,” she was quick to say. “But right at this time it seems…”

His expression hardened, as though he were reminding her of her own recent irresponsibility. Easy excuses, he seemed to say, wouldn’t stand with him.

Quincee bit her bottom lip. She couldn’t pour out any of her problems to this man, not a one. This man would see any explanation as simply more excuses.

“Well, the children don’t have any money.” She wouldn’t tell him they’d spent their allowance on pizza last night to celebrate their new home. The only alternative had been peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Again.

“I don’t want their money,” Judge Paxton said firmly.

Lord, “Love thy neighbor” might take a stretch here, Quincee prayed. Want to give me some help?

“All right,” she conceded. “What will it take to, um, satisfy the debt?”

She didn’t like being in debt to anyone. Especially, she was discovering, she didn’t want to owe this man anything. It felt too much like the court sentence that hung over her head.

“An apology will do for a start.”

“Oh. Of course.” She cleared her throat as she felt color creep up her cheeks. She’d been so put off by the fact of who her neighbor was that she’d been remiss in offering the first common decency of an apology. And after she’d thought to be neighborly and smooth away the problem. “Children?”

“I’m sorry.” Kerri spoke barely above a whisper.

“Sorry,” Kyle mumbled.

“And I apologize, as well, Judge Paxton,” Quincee said. “I’ll make sure the children…” She let her voice trail as an idea sparked her thoughts in a new direction. “Um, perhaps the children could work off their debt.”

The judge glanced at the children once more, seeming to consider the matter with as much gravity as he carried to his position on the bench. “That’s a concept. What can they do?”

“Well,” she said, glancing at the open denim collar. A few inches of tanned throat showed her he wasn’t a stranger to the sun. She wondered how many hours he spent puttering in his yard. She’d noted how neat it always appeared.

She let her gaze drop to the ground. Only the toes of grungy sneakers showed in the hedge’s gap. The man couldn’t be all poker straight and formal if he could let himself go enough to enjoy puttering in the yard.

“Perhaps they can help you with your yard chores. Say for the rest of this morning?”

The judge weighed the offer, his dark lashes flickering from her to the children. Then he commanded the children’s attention. “Kyle. Kerri. Do you agree?’

Kerri nodded eagerly, her face brightening, while Kyle, trying hard not to show any enthusiasm for the idea, spoke for them both. “S’pose so. What do we have ta do?”

It dawned on Quincee that Kyle may be in need of a man’s company. He’d been very young when his parents split, and the kids’ dad, Mac Stillman, hadn’t been seen since shortly after Kerri was born.

“I’m pruning rosebushes against my house right now,” the judge said, bringing her thoughts back to the task at hand. “You may gather the clippings for the trash can. After that, I’ll be working in the vegetable garden. You may both help with weeding.”

Before he’d finished speaking, Kerri was crawling through the gap in the hedge. Kyle scrambled to follow.

Quincee didn’t know whether to go with the children or not. They needed to learn this valued lesson, to be sure, but she knew very little about Judge Paxton’s personal life. Hamilton Paxton was still practically a stranger, though her real estate woman had told Quincee that her neighbor in the Victorian beauty next to hers lived alone, but was a very respected citizen. The woman hadn’t mentioned his name.

At the time, who would’ve guessed she’d care?

Paula hadn’t normally let the children go with someone of whom she knew so little. Neither did Quincee. Yet however much she might think him a stuffed shirt, she instinctively trusted the judge.

“You may check on the children at any time, Miss Davis,” the judge said, reading her thoughts. “We’ll be right here in plain sight for you to find.”

Quincee nodded. His unexpected thoughtfulness struck her as unusual; he certainly hadn’t cut her any slack or shown any kindness at court. “Thank you.”

Through the low woody hedge gaps, she saw their feet turn away.

“Come home by lunchtime, kids,” she called after them. “And you must follow Judge Paxton’s instructions, but don’t get in his way.”

“We will, Quincee,” Kerri returned, her voice floating behind her.

“I don’t suppose either of you have any work gloves, do you?” she heard the judge mutter. “We’ll have to see what I can dig up.”

Quincee was left to puzzle over the man’s behavior after giving a great imitation of disliking kids. He certainly didn’t have much respect for her. He thought her a fluff.

Promptly at noon, the kids came through the back door. Kerri carried a brown paper sack. “Look what I have,” she boasted.

“What’s that?” Quincee asked.

“Strawberries.” Kerri opened the sack and showed off her prize. “They came out of his garden. He said he didn’t want any more, he’d had enough. And he let me pick ’em ’cause he showed me how. You only pick just the red ones, see?”

“He gave these to you?” Quincee queried, narrowing her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh. We earned ’em,” Kyle said. He displayed more dirt than a gopher.

“And what have you been doing to earn the strawberries?” she asked. She couldn’t imagine what that stiff-necked letter-of-the-law would consider ample work worthy of these lovely strawberries.

“Chopping up dirt and taking out the rocks so the stuff in the garden can grow better,” the boy replied. “He said we grow more rocks in Missouri than grass.”

“I suppose that’s true,” she responded with a surprised chuckle. “But I think you both need baths before you grow anything interesting in all that dirt you’re sporting. Quickly now, before lunch.”

She scooted each of them in and out of a speedy dunking in the stained claw-footed tub, wishing for the efficiency of a shower. It was on her list.

But then, that was the reason she’d been able to buy the house at all, she reminded herself. It had been greatly reduced because it needed so much repair and it was so out of date. She was only surprised the heirs of the former owner hadn’t sold the old tub to an antique dealer. One day, she’d have it refinished. That was on her list, as well.

While the kids ate their peanut butter sandwiches, she gently shook the ripe berries into her sink to wash. Only heaven knew where her colander was to be found. Popping a clean berry into her mouth, she closed her eyes and savored the sweet taste.

Sighing, she wondered what to do with all of them. She’d slice a bowl of them for breakfast tomorrow, she decided. Over cereal, they’d be a grand treat. She could make either shortcake or a pie with the rest.

It would have to be a pie, she guessed. She didn’t have enough flour to make shortcake biscuits. And now she couldn’t go to the store until her friend Laura had time to take her. One day next week, she thought.

Could she find everything she needed from her boxes to make a pie? She set the children to helping as soon as lunch was over.

Kyle unearthed the baking tins and Kerri found the flour and sugar. Then while the children rested at her insistence, she made a pie crust, praying the old oven would give an even heat. A new stove was on her list, too, but by her calculations she’d have to make do with this one for at least a year.

By the time the kids were up again, the brightly glazed berries gleamed in a reasonably browned crust. She only wished she had some whipped cream to complete her masterpiece.

“Ooh, that looks yummy,” Kerri said, eyeing the treat. “Can we take a piece to him?”

“Him who?” Quincee teased. She knew it was natural for a little girl to get a sudden crush on a father figure, but the idea of Judge Paxton filling that role for Kerri struck her as hilarious.

“You know.” Kerri rolled her wide eyes. “Him.”

“Oh, that him.” Well…it was the least she could do, she supposed, to share his generosity in this form. She wasn’t about to be in his debt for a single, solitary thing. “Sure, honey, why not. But after supper, okay? And after you and Kyle empty at least three boxes of your clothes into your chests.”

About seven, Quincee carefully placed a large piece of pie in a plastic container and let Kerri and Kyle take it next door. She cautioned them to go around by way of the sidewalk. Would he be home? She couldn’t see his garage, placed on the other side of his house, to see if his car was there.

She’d included a note of thanks.

Thirty minutes later, when the children returned, they handed her back the note. At the bottom, she found one sentence added in a short masculine scrawl, telling her the pie was quite good. It was signed H.A. Paxton.

H.A. Paxton. He was a puzzle for sure.

Why didn’t the blasted man have a Saturday night date? He was young enough, and handsome.

Well…presentable, anyway. If one liked that old-fashioned kind of man. Why was he home, when most of her single acquaintances joined friends for a movie or a barbecue? Why did the blasted man have to be home when she’d hoped to sneak out and make a grocery run?

But she secretly thought he had the best pair of male eyes in the city of Independence.

Chapter Two

Two afternoons later, Quincee decided she’d made enough headway on the inside of the house. She’d done a thorough inspection of the outdated plumbing and wiring and knew that the wiring must be her first priority in repair.

She’d learn to do it herself, except there were licenses and requirements about those things. But couldn’t she do it and then have a licensed electrician inspect the work? That was a plan to ponder—but not until autumn. By autumn she’d have painted the house outside and have a bit of money put by again.

Her long list of needed repairs and updating would take her to her knees, if she let it. “I can do all things through Him Who strengths me,” she murmured for the hundredth time. “And I can barter, like Mom used to do.”

They would simply have to make do with fans and one window air-conditioning unit for the summer. The house was as comfortable as she could make it for now. She thought it time to see if the garage was usable.

Besides, she needed another outlet for her frustrations. She’d spent a long, fruitless hour on the phone this morning with the national aluminum siding company that employed the children’s dad. Her sister, Paula, had said he traveled from city to city with a crew of men. But the company didn’t seem to know if he was an employee or not, nor did they have any idea where he may be found. In this day of the information age, Quincee didn’t understand why finding Mac Stillman was so complicated.

Unless he didn’t choose to be found, which was probably the case. Paula hadn’t pushed the matter, though, saying it wouldn’t change anything if they knew where he was. He still would find excuses not to give her any child support.

Quincee hoped that was true; she didn’t want to give up raising the kids, and Paula had left behind a notarized letter naming Quincee as legal guardian. But she thought it only right to inform the man that her sister had died and the children were now in her care.

Sadness threatened to descend. She and the kids were still dealing with their loss, nearly four months later. But they’d found solace in each other, and her friend Laura had been a great help. And now their moods had lightened with the exciting adventure of owning a home of their own for the first time.

“I found the hammer,” Kyle said, waving the tool. That brought her thoughts back. “Can we do it now?”

“Sure, tiger. Let me change clothes.” She eyed his summer shorts. “You two put on some jeans, too. And socks and long-sleeved shirts.”

She’d expressly forbidden the children from getting into the old shambles without her supervision. Who knew what they’d find in there? The Realtor had told her the heirs of the former owner hadn’t bothered to find out, and no key for it could be found.

Five minutes later, she and the kids marched out to tackle the rusting padlock. She whammed a major whack with her lightweight hammer, but nothing happened. She tried again, setting off nothing more than a rattle.

“Let me try,” Kyle said.

“Okay. Couldn’t hurt.” Quincee handed the child the tool. Sometimes it felt satisfying to hammer at something. An inanimate object. Something that couldn’t sustain lasting damage.

“Can I try, too?” Kerri begged.

“Sure ’nuff, Kerri bear. Just be careful not to get your other hand in the way. And Kyle, you step out of her way, too.”

Quincee left the kids whacking at the lock to walk around the aging structure. A loud rattle and resounding metallic ring told her they’d hit the wooden doors, giving her a chuckle. If those old carriage-style wooden doors couldn’t take the stress, then she may as well count the garage off as a loss, anyway.

She hadn’t done more than give the structure a cursory outside look before she bought the place. Probably full of mice, she mused. Oversized, it sat against the back property line a foot from an old chain link fence.

As Quincee squeezed between the back wall and the fence, she caught a flashing sun reflection from the corner of her eye. She glanced over the fence to the tall, narrow house behind hers, spotting a stooped, thin figure with binoculars clamped to his eyes. Waving jauntily, she grinned. A moment later, the old man had disappeared from view.

Quincee chuckled. She sure did have interesting and concerned neighbors.

She continued her examination of her garage. As she traipsed around it, listening to the children’s voices float, she decided the old structure wasn’t in as bad a shape as she’d thought.

Kyle demanded that Kerri give him the hammer, and an argument ensued. Then, hearing additional grown-up voices, Quincee rounded the corner to see an older couple talking with the children.

“Oh, hello there. I’m Bette Longacre,” the woman said. “This is my husband, Gene. We live just across the street, there.” She pointed to a large brick bungalow in thirties style directly across from the judge’s. Bette had a sweet smile in a plump face and short white hair. “We came over to welcome you and your children to the neighborhood.”

“That’s nice of you,” Quincee responded, smiling in return. She swiped her hand on the back of her jeans and offered to shake while she introduced herself and the children.

The adults agreed on using first names.

“We are trying to open our garage,” Quincee explained. “We have no idea what’s in there.”

“Oh, I can tell you what some of it is,” Bette said. “Old furniture. Magazines. Bottles. Junk and more junk. Denby never threw away anything in his life if he could help it.”

“Any toys?” Kerri asked hopefully.

“Possible. Never knew with Denby,” Gene answered, rubbing his chin. His gaze was speculative behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “He could be a peculiar man sometimes.”

“Somethin’ going on here?” asked a new arrival. The man who strolled toward them tucked a folded newspaper under his arm as he hitched his baggy shorts over a rounded belly. He had a thick fringe of nondescript hair around his shiny dome of a head.

“Oh, ’lo, Randolf.” Bette greeted him tentatively with a quick glance at her husband. “Come meet our new neighbors, Quincee Davis and the children, Kyle and Kerri.”

The two men nodded their greetings toward each other rather like two hounds who claimed the same territory. The new arrival turned her way.

“Randolf Bader, ma’am. Saw the commotion an’ heard banging,” he said. “Thought I should see what all the ruckus was about. Don’t have many little kids on the street anymore. Big ones, though. Some of ’em can’t be trusted to stay outta trouble.”

“Randolf lives two doors down from here,” Bette explained to Quincee. “He heads our neighborhood watch program.”

“That’s good to know,” Quincee said. “Well, Mr. Bader, I’m trying to remove this padlock. There doesn’t seem to be a key to it, and anyway, it has rusted and corroded until it’s completely sealed. So far, a hammer against it hasn’t broken it.”

“A saw might do it,” Gene said.

“I think you should get aholt of one of those tools like giant pliers,” said Mr. Bader.

“Don’t think so, Randolf,” Gene contradicted. “Wouldn’t cut it. Besides, those things take a lot of muscle power.”

“That let’s you out then,” Mr. Bader said.

Gene pursed his lips. “And I suppose you could do it?”

“Wasn’t saying that, now, was I?”

“You may have to call in a locksmith,” Bette said hastily. “They know about these things.”

“What’s going on?” said the deep voice behind her. Quincee would recognize that voice from only a syllable spoken.

Hearing it certainly caused her tummy to dip. She hadn’t heard his approach.

They all turned his way in unison, as though his presence commanded the highest respect even in the neighborhood.

Dressed in a lightweight summer suit, the charcoal shade over a stark white shirt coupled with a cranberry red tie, Judge Hamilton Paxton appeared as appropriate to the law profession as if he waved his degree like a flag.

“Hello, there, Hamilton,” Gene greeted. “Just getting acquainted with your new neighbors.”

“Is there a problem?” Hamilton asked.

“Not really. It’s—” Quincee began.

“She needs a locksmith,” Bette said.

“I’m not sure that’s necessary yet,” Quincee said as she tried again. She didn’t want to spend money on locksmith services unless she had no other choice. Her last paycheck had gone to pay for her traffic fine and for the moving expenses, and what little was left had to stretch to the first of next month.

“Old Denby hadn’t touched that lock in years,” Gene added.

“What would really do it is a sledgehammer,” Mr. Bader said. He went to investigate the lock for himself, rattling it as though to shake it off. “You got a sledgehammer in all them tools you got, Gene?”

“I don’t want to smash more than the lock,” Quincee said hastily.

“Well, I’ve a hacksaw someplace,” Gene said. “If I can find it. M’son borrowed it last winter and I’m not sure it’s been returned.”

“Please don’t bother,” Quincee said. “I’ll—”

“Never mind, Gene,” the judge said. “I have a hacksaw. I’ll see to it later for Miss Davis.”

Quincee shot a quizzical gaze toward the judge. Why was he so nice all of a sudden? Why would he offer to help her?

“Uh-oh. I just remembered the roast I have in the oven,” Bette said in a sudden flurry. “Let me know if you need us to help you with anything in that pile of junk, my dear,” she said to Quincee. She smiled at the children, who had drifted away to run about the yard, before saying, “Coming, Gene?”

“Be right there, Bette, love.” Gene turned to the judge. “Say, Hamilton, did your grandfather ever find those old snapshots he promised to go through? Was a bunch from years back when our sons were just little tykes.”

“I don’t know that he ever did, Gene. There’s a dozen boxes of old stuff he had in the attic that you’re welcome to look through if you’d like.”

“Now, Hamilton,” Bette protested with humor as she edged toward the street. The others followed. “Don’t get Gene started on your old stuff. We have enough of our own that we need to do something with. We’re all getting too old to hang on to these leftovers, and our children don’t want any of it.”

“Why don’t you have a garage sale?” Quincee threw the idea into the pot, strolling along.

“Thought about it,” Mr. Bader said. “Daughter-in-law’s got her eye on my coin collection, but she don’t want nothing else of mine.”

“A yard sale has come to mind,” Bette said, seeming to forget her urgency to tend to dinner. “But Gene doesn’t want to mess with one.”

“Too much work,” Gene said. “And too many people pawing through things, making a wreck of it.”

“If it’s done well, that can be directed and controlled,” Quincee suggested.

“How do you mean?” Bette asked.

“You could combine your sales and efforts into one location. Have a neighborhood block sale. They’re always popular. And if you combine your forces, there would be several of you on hand to help people with purchases while one person takes the money. That would give you more control.”

Quincee stopped near the sidewalk. Dandelions sprouted around her ankles in all their golden beauty. Almost marking the property line, healthy grass from the judge’s yard warred with her spotty weeds.

“I don’t like the idea,” the judge said. “It would disturb the neighborhood.”

“Combining efforts into a group sale sounds wonderful to me,” Bette said. “But, oh my, that takes a lot of work to organize such an event. I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

“I could do it,” Quincee said. She’d never handled one before, but she’d headed the committee for the school fair last year. “I’m very good at organization.”

Hamilton gave her a pointed stare. She bit her lip and tried to ignore him. Why was he so skeptical? She was an organized person.

“Oh, but my dear,” Bette protested. “You’ve just moved in here, and have so much of your own work to take care of.”

“That’s for sure,” she replied. “But the kids and I have the whole summer to see to our own things. And I can organize the sale and still paint my house this month.”

Providing her one credit card would stretch to cover the paint and supplies. And there was always the hope she might sell some things in the sale herself. A few dollars extra this month could be a lifesaver. Her enthusiasm for the sale suddenly became personal.

I can do all things through Him Who gives me strength, she mentally quoted.

“It really isn’t a good plan,” Hamilton insisted. “It would bring too many strangers around.”

“Say, young lady,” Mr. Bader said. “What would you charge to do a thing like that? Ten percent?”

“Randolf, you’re behind the times.” Gene crowed at scoring one on Bader. “Nobody does anything for only ten percent anymore. It’s fifteen now.”

“You’re both wrong,” Bette said. “It’s twenty percent or more in these things. Estate sales and all that.”

“More?” Aghast, Mr. Bader shoved his hand over his bald head and scratched an ear.

“I’d be quite happy to settle for ten percent,” Quincee interjected quickly. “As a favor to the neighborhood.”

“I’m really not in favor of garage sales. They’re a hazard on neighborhood streets and they leave a mess behind. Who will be in charge to see that it’s all cleaned up afterward? And there’s no way to know if you’ll make any money from one by the time all expenses are in,” Hamilton insisted. “It may be better to simply pay someone to come and cart your unwanted goods away. That way you’d deal with a reputable flea market business, and all the risks are the dealer’s.”

“But you’d make more money with a yard sale of your own,” Quincee said. “And they can be fun. Bringing several families together on the block to work the day can be almost a party. Perhaps we could make a trade for my services?”

“Trade?” asked Mr. Bader. “Like how? Trade what?”

“Like bartering. I’ll take care of this garage sale, the organization, the preparations and the cleanup, in exchange for something you can do for me. That way no money is exchanged.”

“Say, that’s a dandy idea,” Mr. Bader exclaimed. “What will you take?”

Bette’s face lit with interest. “Bartering?”

“Well, if we barter, my fee will increase to the equivalent of fifteen percent or…even trade. What do you do?” Quincee asked. “Or have that I may want?”

The old man looked at Kyle, then at Quincee. “Got some fishing poles I don’t use much anymore. My grandchildren don’t live close enough to use ’em, and their parents don’t like fishing.”

“That’ll do for a start,” Quincee said. “Anything else?”

“Got an old upright piano. Needs repair. Nobody plays it anymore.”

“Now that’s a thought to keep!” Quincee let her smile spread with enthusiasm as her heart leaped. A piano!

“Your house is too tiny to hold a piano,” Hamilton muttered. “You’d have to haul it, anyway.”

Quincee ignored his frown and pronounced, “I’ll find a way.”

“Beverly Kinney, down on the corner, gives piano lessons,” Bette said in thoughtful tones. “I’ll bet she’d give the children lessons in exchange for coming into the sale.”

“That’s the spirit. It’s easy to barter once you get the hang of it,” Quincee said.

“Quincee, it’s lovely having a young family across from us,” Bette said. “You put new life on the street. I really have to go attend my roast now. But come along for coffee later this week, and we’ll get started on this garage sale.”

“I really wish you’d give more thought to this, folks.” The judge’s protest grew stronger.

“Not now, Hamilton, dear,” Bette said as she hurried across the street. “Later.”

Hamilton watched the neighbors stroll away with consternation written on his features. He turned to Quincee and grumbled, “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“Done what? What have I done now?”

“Offered to organize a yard sale.”

“Why not? It’s a great idea.”

“No. It isn’t. It’ll create a pain in the—”

“That’s only your opinion, Hap.” As a neighbor, that was all he was entitled to, an opinion. She suddenly gave him a sassy smile, feeling liberated from the restraints that he seemed to have imposed on her, when in reality only her driving had been restricted.

“Hap?”

“You.”

He stiffened. “I prefer to be called by my given name, please.”

“Those are your given initials. HAP. Hap sure is a sight easier to say than Hamilton Paxton. Surely you don’t expect to be called Judge all the time? By the way, what does the A stand for?”

“Adam. That’s beside the point, Miss Davis.”

“It might as well be Quincee. We’re not in the courtroom now, Hap. Er, Hamilton.”

“Would you please listen?” His exasperation was growing like those dandelions, she mused. She almost chuckled aloud, only surprised he hadn’t ordered her to immediately root them out because they were spreading into his perfectly kept yard.

“This is a peaceful, quiet neighborhood. A yard sale isn’t what we’re about,” he continued, stepping closer to stand face-to-face.

Quincee lost her amusement.

With no hedge between them and no mammoth court furniture to set him apart, he towered over her by a full head. She had to tip hers back to look into his eyes. A tiny scar sat just beneath his left brow, and she spotted a hint of silver threaded with the dark hair at his temples. But more than anything, she noted the animation leaping from those cool depths of gray irises. It excited a tiny kick in response as she realized the vitality of the male she faced.

My, my, my… Where had the judge gone?

“Garage sales are a pure nuisance,” he continued his argument. She hadn’t heard much of what he’d said in the last five minutes, but she responded.

“You don’t have to join us if you don’t wish. No one is forcing you into it.”

“I don’t plan to.”

“Fine.” She took a deep breath, feeling as though she had to have a fresh one to clear her thinking. “But a garage sale will benefit the ones who want to do it. Actually, I think we can have a bit of fun with it as well as make a little money.”

“These folks don’t need the money,” he argued hotly. “They’d be better off following my suggestion of having a reputable dealer come and take care of any items they no longer use. Or give it all to charity.”

Quincee tipped her head and softened her tone. “Is that your problem, Hap? You’re too used to being the center of attention and having your way on the bench that you can’t stand the thought of your neighbors ignoring your suggestions?”

Hap stepped back as though she’d hit him. His features seemed to go bland while he retreated behind his cool gaze. “Don’t be offensive, Miss Davis. You’re way over the line.”

“Sorry about that, Hap.” She did feel sorry to have chased him back into his cold reserve. “But you’re the only one yet who seems to dislike the prospect of a block yard sale. Get used to it. This event is going to happen. And I can use the work.”

“You’ll have to pay taxes on your fee, you know.”

“Not if everything is simply an exchange of favors with no money exchanged. I love bartering. It has a set of rules all its own and it answers many problems. Why, we solved our little problem the other day when the children worked off their debt, didn’t we? That’s barter. A bargain for me, as well, Hap. You gave us those beautiful strawberries, which the children and I enjoyed very much. In turn, I shared my labor of making the pie. It’s as simple as that.”

“Not quite, when taken to a larger scale,” he insisted. “Bartering still demands taxes be paid on the equivalent of what that service is worth.”

“Fine. I’ll declare it and pay the taxes if I must,” she said, fuming. “But our society loves a bargain. And bartering is based on a long forgotten simpler exchange of goods and services, in my opinion. As I’m a schoolteacher, my salary has to be supplemented some way, and this works for me.” She raised an expressive brow. “Believe me, I’m willing to bargain for anything and everything I can.”

With that, she turned on her heel and marched toward her front door. Behind her, Hap remained silent. She guessed he wasn’t used to losing the privilege of having the last word on anything. He wouldn’t subject his dignity to calling out to her retreating back.

By the time she strolled through the door, her smile had stretched into a grin.

Chapter Three

“Another fine June morning,” Quincee said to herself not long after dawn on Sunday. She quietly pulled on cut-off denims and a light blue T-shirt printed with her school logo, and headed for the kitchen. The kids weren’t out of bed yet. She didn’t see any rush to wake them.

She made a cup of instant coffee and took her mug out to the backyard, wishing she had a Sunday newspaper to read. Her folks always had a Sunday paper when she and Paula were growing up. They’d fight over who got the cartoons first while Mom read the ads and Dad read the front page. Later they’d go to church and then spend the afternoon with Mom’s sister, Aunt Beth, or their grandparents.

That was long ago, she mused. Her parents had died young, leaving Paula and her to cling to each other, and Aunt Beth and her family had moved to Colorado. Life had moved on. But Quincee recalled those days with fond nostalgia, and she intended to give Kyle and Kerri as much home life and stability as she could make for them.

Strolling over to the old wooden bench under a slender oak tree, she wondered if she’d gain a splinter if she sat on it. But it looked inviting, so she sank down and stretched out her bare legs.

She lifted her face to the sun. She felt lazy. It was a lovely way to start a Sunday morning, even without a Sunday paper. Sundays should always have a special identity, meaningful and different from other days, she decided.

She and the children would let any work on the house go for today. They’d find something new to do, something to take them out of the daily routine. Didn’t the Bible say the seventh day should be a day of rest?

“That’s it,” she murmured. “We’ll go to church. It’s just what we need.”

Although her faith in God had never waned, she’d been lax in finding a church home these last few years. She and Paula had been raised with church attendance as part of their weekly routine, Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings in prayer service, and she suddenly realized how much she missed it. She certainly could benefit from hearing God’s word spoken aloud, of singing her worship. What did the scripture say? Forsake not the gathering together?

She’d have to look up the exact Scripture, she supposed, but she understood the gist of it. It was past time to see that the children had biblical studies.

Quincee wiggled her toes in a clump of dandelions, thinking about it. Could she sneak the car out?

Nah…she’d better not try to defy her restriction. Surely she could find a church within walking distance.

Happy with her plan, Quincee sipped her coffee. Still lazily enjoying the early sun rays, she set her cup on the ground beside her, swung her feet up and leaned back on folded arms behind her head. Humming a tune, she stared at the sky for long moments, mentally going over her list of things to do for the coming week.

Meet with Bette again about the neighborhood yard sale—they’d already sketched out early plans. Call the newspapers about placing an ad. Make flyers to distribute. Talk to Mr. Bader to see if she could inspect the piano he offered her. And finish scraping and sanding her house.

She’d spent the majority of her week handscraping four layers of old paint from three sides of her house; she had only one side left to complete. Laura promised to run her to the hardware store to buy paint. She’d already done a preliminary pricing by phone and knew just where to shop for the best bargain.

“Quincee?” She heard Kyle from the open back door.

The boy was another early riser. She often thought of the first hour of the day as their time, since they frequently discussed things that he was interested in without Kerri’s bid for her attention to interrupt them.

“Out here, Kyle.”

In turning to sit up, something caused her to glance over at the house next door. A flutter at the corner of her eye brought her attention to a second-story window. A bare-chested man appeared between the lace curtains, hair tousled and leaning on strong arms against the windowsill. She saw his chest expand and contract. Hamilton Adam Paxton, the Third, liked to greet the morning by breathing deeply in an open window, did he? Who could’ve guessed he’d be a fitness freak?

Across the distance, he seemed to be watching her. How long had he been there? Flashing an emphatic grin, she gave a saucy wave.

He disappeared behind the curtains, and his window slammed closed. Quincee folded her mouth, smothering a chuckle. Obviously, he wasn’t amused. Had she invaded his space? Had he lost his sense of privacy on this side of his house? Her house had been empty so long, he might think it.

Kyle came out carrying a glass of juice and perched on the bench beside her.

“Hi, tiger. It’s a beautiful morning,” she said. “How about if we begin our day with a nice walk after breakfast?”

Several hours later, the three of them approached a large stone church building that had been a part of Independence since 1872. She’d called to find out the times of worship and found a map to tell her just how far they’d have to walk. A mile and six-tenths sounded just about the right amount to enjoy, she told the children. By the time they arrived, they’d welcome a chance to sit quietly and listen to God’s word.

Quincee smoothed a hand over her long blue print skirt and ran an inspecting gaze over Kyle’s clean jeans and white open-neck dress shirt. His short hair lay close to his head, and his face appeared shiny clean.

Kerri looked fetching in the yellow sundress Quincee had hurriedly dug out from the bottom of a drawer for the child to wear. A simple white knit T-shirt under the printed straps dressed it up a bit.

Actually, the dress was too short for the child, but Quincee hadn’t had time to buy any new clothes for the children.

Who was she kidding? She hadn’t had any extra money to buy new clothes for any of them. Well, the old sewing machine would have to come out of storage, she decided. Attaching a ruffle onto the dress’s hem would solve that problem, and she could do some other long-needed mending while she was at it.

They climbed the concrete steps to the huge open front doors.

An older man, graying and with a limp, greeted them at the door with a handshake for her and a word for the children. “Good morning there, folks. How are you this fine morning? Welcome to God’s house, young man. And young missy. Nice of you to join us. Go right on in and find a place to sit. There’s an empty spot about halfway down this morning.”

Another greeter welcomed them inside the foyer and handed Quincee a program.

The church sanctuary, already about three-quarters full, was filling quickly. Quincee guided the children toward the center as directed. They slid into a pew. Surprisingly, Kerri was subdued enough to remain silent as she busily looked around her. Kyle asked whispered questions about who the people on the stage might be and excitedly pointed out that several had instruments. Were they going to play?

Before she could answer, a tap on her shoulder caused Quincee to glance backward. Bette and Gene Longacre sat just behind them.

“Why, hello there, Quincee,” Bette greeted with a smiling welcome. “And Kyle and Kerri.”

Gene nodded at the children, murmuring, “How spiffy you look this morning.”

Quincee felt warmed and unexpectedly at home.

“So nice to have you here to worship with us this morning,” Bette said. “Oh, Quincee. I have three other people who are eager to join the yard sale. One lives a block down, and she said she’d be glad to help set up such an event, and they all love your idea of barter. Can we get together tomorrow?”

Bette ended on a whisper as the musicians began the opening song.

“Oh, sure,” Quincee returned, also whispering. “Certainly.”

She then riveted her attention on the opening of the worship service, silently praying to have a listening heart.

They all rose to join the first lively song of joy and thanksgiving. The children, wide-eyed with curiosity, gazed around them when a family with several children squeezed into the pew on their other side. Kerri stretched to her toes trying to see the song leader.

The morning went quickly. Quincee, drawn into the sermon of God’s redeeming love, of His promises, felt lifted and filled with more peace than she’d had in months. Since before her sister’s illness, she thought. She hadn’t realized how hungry she’d been to hear it again. Closing her eyes, she silently thanked God for leading her to this church this morning.

Just before the close of the service, the minister announced a need to see the deacons for a few moments immediately following the service. He dismissed the congregation with the admonition, “Go home, go forth and share God’s love throughout the week, and love one another.”

Quincee and the children joined the sudden crush in the aisle. People greeted each other, someone mentioning the Royals’ latest baseball score, another replying. A child begged to go swimming as soon as they returned home. Behind her, Bette repeated her promise to call tomorrow. Looking over her shoulder, Quincee responded with a nod.

Someone pushed down the aisle against the tide, and Kerri suddenly called, “Hap. Hap, here we are.”

Quincee’s head snapped around. Almost face-to-face, Hamilton stared at her, his eyes darkening in mild shock. A fleeting image of his earlier appearance in his window crossed her mind. Something told her he was thinking of that same moment. Heat rose in her cheeks. She felt trapped in the eddy of flowing humanity, while hung up in his gaze.

He recovered more quickly than she and switched his attention to the children. Kerri had already grabbed his hand and looked at him adoringly. “I didn’t know you were at church, Hap.”

Hearing the nickname, a portly man glanced at them curiously as he came out of a pew nearby, his gaze finally leveling on Hamilton. His mouth curved in what Quincee could only call a smirk. “Five minutes, Judge,” the man said, and shoved his way down the aisle.

Irritation flickered across Hamilton’s face, but it was gone by the time he answered Kerri. “I didn’t know you were here, either, Kerri. Did you and Kyle find new friends at Bible class?”

“We didn’t go to Bible class,” Kyle told him. “We just came to church.”

“Come early enough for the children’s Bible study next week, children. You’d like it.” Then flashing Quincee a suspicious gaze, he asked, “How did you come today?”

“We walked,” Kerri informed him with pride. “We walked a hundred blocks.”

The crowd around them thinned. Hamilton glanced at the small knot of men gathering at the front, his expression indicating he was hoping for a quick exit. Quincee followed his gaze and noted the pastor watching them expectantly.

“Sorry, but I must go,” he said. “Deacon’s meeting. But if you wait around for about ten minutes, I’ll drive you home.”

Quincee dropped her gaze. Really? He was a deacon at this church? Oh, great! Why didn’t that surprise her? Of all her luck, she’d found a church she liked on the first try, and the judge was a deacon there. Was this a conspiracy to keep her under his watchful eye or something?

“That’s kind of you, but not this time, thank you.” She took Kerri’s hand. “Come on, kids. Let’s be on our way.”

“See you later, Hap,” Kerri said, letting go her hold on the judge. A tiny dimple appeared beside her mouth, worthy of Shirley Temple. “Can we come over and help in your garden today?”

“Um, I suppose so.” His lightning glance surveyed Quincee’s face. “Sure,” he said with more force. “I’ll, um, probably be out this afternoon. Just wait, all right?”

They were halfway home when Hamilton’s sleek, dark sedan rolled to a stop at the curb beside them. “Why didn’t you wait? Get in, I’ll take you the rest of the way home.”

“Thank you, but we’re fine.” Quincee kept a firm hand on Kerri and continued walking. Kyle marched a few yards ahead, dragging a large stick he’d picked up along the way. He dodged to the right, bounding at an overhanging limb.

“Kyle,” she protested.

Kyle pretended he didn’t hear her. Instead, he grabbed hold and swung in a Tarzan leap, landing miraculously on both feet. Quincee let out a sigh.

“I can have you home in three minutes,” Hap said. “It’s already hot out here.”

“No, thank you.” She tried to avoid raising her nose into the air or sounding self-sacrificingly superior or anything, but she just thought he needn’t have any further chances to oversee her life.

She didn’t want to be owing him any favors, either. Not unless they had a firm understanding about a barter exchange. Beside, it didn’t hurt for the judge to realize how doing without a car changed one’s daily perspective. She only wished he could experience it firsthand rather than by observation. “We are enjoying the walk.”

“Suit yourself.” He pulled away, his expression set.

Now she’d really insulted him, Quincee supposed. She hadn’t intended to offend him—well, only a little. But she had wanted to exert her independence.

Hamilton drove home determined he’d be wasting his time to offer any further assistance to that obstinate bit of fluff living next door. What in the world had he been thinking to even try? Hadn’t his position taught him that doing the Good Samaritan routine was wasted on most people these days? But her stubborn little chin and huge blue eyes somehow stirred his emotions.

Careful, Hamilton! She’s a single mother with no evidence of having more sense than God gave a goose. She’ll suck you in with saucy smiles and empty promises if you’re not prudent, and spit you out like an unwanted core.

He hadn’t much patience with the women of his generation. Like his late grandfather, he thought too many were irresponsible and careless in the extreme, never far from disaster because they acted without much care for the future. His mother had been one of those flibbertigibbets. But in all honesty, he couldn’t say much for his father, either.

Uncomfortable with where those thoughts always took him, Hamilton forced his hands to relax on the wheel.

Quincee Davis seemed to fit that box of foolish woman to perfection. How could she have moved into that shambles of a house next door expecting to raise two children there alone? With all the work it needed to make it truly livable? It could have been bulldozed to the ground for all he cared. The neighborhood would look much neater without it.

Furthermore, he’d noticed that the young woman expected to do everything herself. He didn’t exactly approve of single women declaring they didn’t need a man. He was old-fashioned, he supposed, but it took two people to make those children, and although he’d been raised by his grandfather alone, he really thought children should have two parents if at all possible. Where was the children’s father, anyway?

Hamilton parked his car, pulling it into his detached oversize garage with its neat workbench in the rear. His grandfather’s old dark blue sedan still occupied the second half. He supposed it was time to sell it. His granddad had been gone nearly two years.

He’d returned to this house after years in an inner city apartment with all the mixed emotions of any inheritance, he supposed. After the age of five, he’d been raised in this house. He missed his grandfather, and the longer he continued to live here, the more he felt it was his rightful place. He was a man born too late for his time, he supposed.

But what had he ever done to deserve Quincee Davis as a neighbor? He was still figuring that out. Her refusal of a ride wasn’t the end of the world, but he couldn’t help feeling ruffled over the woman’s insistence of having the last word in their conversations. Each and every time.

Stubborn woman! She liked having her own way and she certainly learned her lessons the hard way.

Thinking about her made his shoulders twitch. Quincee was one sassy woman. Her strawberry hair fit her. In his opinion, she needed far more help than she’d admit. Yes, she certainly was obstinate enough to learn her lessons the hard way.

And he’d just let her, by gum. He just would. Whatever compassion he’d been tempted to feel on the children’s behalf was best kept to his side of the hedge.

He’d find it convenient to work outdoors for a time this afternoon. The tykes weren’t nearly as annoying as he’d first thought them. They only needed a firm hand, and for some reason they liked him. The legal work he’d brought home to study could wait until evening.

He shut his car door firmly, and then his garage, before unlocking the back door of his silent house. Only the muted sounds of a slight breeze welcomed him home.

Quincee, on her side of the hedge, filled her afternoon with sorting through the last of the summer clothes they’d hurriedly stuffed into chests when unpacking. She flattened and hauled the last cardboard boxes to the trash bin, then cast a half-envious gaze over the side yard. She hadn’t been invited to join the garden party, but there was no reason she couldn’t wander over to see how the three of them were doing, was there?

The judge’s vegetable garden took up a huge section of his backyard opposite the property line they shared. She half crawled through the hedge opening the children used, and went to find them.

“Now see this?” Hamilton spoke as she came around the corner. Three rounded backs huddled over a row of leaf lettuce. “That pesky rabbit has eaten more than his share of my lettuce. So we’ll just place this fence around the edges of the garden like this.”

He picked up a section of meshed wire with long stake wires and pushed it into the soft earth.

“When will the lettuce be ready for people?” Kyle asked.

“Actually, this is the last of it for this year. I’ve had many salads from this crop already, so I’d be happy to share the rest. Would you like to have some?”

“I guess so,” Kyle replied in a dubious tone.

“The last of these snap peas should be good, too. If we leave them any longer, they’ll be tough. Why don’t you fill that old bucket with them and take them home?”

“Peas? Ugh.” Kyle let his opinion of that particular vegetable be known as he squinted at Hamilton.

“I like peas,” Kerri declared.

Quincee caught her breath on a spurt of laughter. Kerri hated peas, but obviously Hap’s approval meant a lot to her.

“That’s good. I’ll wager you’ll like these, Kyle. They’re fresh and they taste much better than when canned or even frozen.”

The thought of fresh lettuce and peas made Quincee’s mouth water, but she was proud of Kyle when he asked, “Did we earn it?”

“You bet. Hand weeding takes special care. You two are really getting the hang of it.”

This was the first time Quincee had been to Hamilton’s garden, and she cast an assessing study over the entire space. Its neat rows and healthy plants could grace the cover of any home and garden magazine. She’d like to meet that outrageously bold rabbit who dared invade Hamilton’s territory. They just might become friends.

She cleared her throat to let them know she was there. “It’s time the two of you thank Hamilton for allowing you to play on his side of the hedge. But you should come home now. Laura is coming to visit later.”

“Are we cooking hamburgers?” Kerri asked. “Can Hap come, too?”

“Um, sure, why not?” Quincee tipped her head. “Want to join us for a cookout?”

He gave her a quick, impatient glance. “Thank you, but I have work I must get done. I’d better decline.”

So were they even now, Quincee wondered?

“Suit yourself.” She let a smile curve as she stalked toward her yard.

“By the way, Miss Davis,” he called after her. “I didn’t forget that I promised to take that lock off your garage. I’ll take care of it later, just as soon as I put away my garden tools.”

“Thanks, Hap. Whenever.”

She felt his gaze boring into her back, right between her shoulder blades. She was about to turn the corner and disappear from his view when he muttered, “If you must, call me Hamilton.”

“Sure, Hamilton,” she replied under her breath.

Chapter Four

“You mean you still don’t know what’s in that garage?” Laura asked, her jaw slack with amazement. Her brown-eyed gaze followed Hamilton’s progress as he retreated to his own yard, leaving few words behind him. He’d come over long enough to remove the lock, then left immediately, politely refusing a glass of lemonade.

The sun hung low on the horizon, still hot but beginning to lose its heat. Quincee and Laura lounged on a patch quilt thrown under the tree, the remains of their cookout and tall glasses of iced lemonade neatly stacked on the wooden bench, while Kyle and Kerri played tag, running circles around the house.

A huge feeling of gratitude always filled Quincee for her friend’s generosity. They’d been fellow teachers at school from the first day Quincee had arrived, nearly five years before. Laura, older by ten years and more experienced, had been her mentor. Hers had been the shoulder soggy from Quincee’s tears when Paula died. Recently, Quincee had cheered the loudest when Laura became the principle in an Independence school. Laura had assured Quincee a teacher’s position there, one of the reasons she’d been excited to find a house on this street.

“Nope,” Quincee replied. “Had other things to do. Other priorities. We’re going to tackle it first thing in the morning, though. Want to come by and help?”

“How can you wait that long? I’d be chomping to get to it.” Laura lowered her voice, tipping her head toward where she could see Hamilton between the hedge gaps as he strode toward his house. “Whew! That’s the judge, huh? And he’s the one who jerked your license?”

“Yep. He’s the one.”

“Has he said anything, referred to it at all?”

“Not a word. Guess he leaves his work behind when he leaves the courthouse.”

“Is he always that stuffy?”

“Always,” Quincee continued, barely above a whisper. “Though sometimes, when he doesn’t know anyone is looking, he can become quite human. I think he’s rather lonely.”

“Well, it seems to me he’ll make a problematical neighbor. I wouldn’t want to live next door to him.”

Quincee grinned. “Weelll, actually…I think he’s kinda cute, if you’re into serious men. It’s just so much fun to tease him. He fumes in an interesting manner. And strangely, the kids have really taken to him.”

“They need a father figure, I suppose.”

“Mmm,” Quincee agreed.

“But Quincee, you’d better watch it. One day your odd sense of humor will get you into trouble, for sure.” Laura’s gaze roamed over the big house looming over Quincee’s tiny one. “But you know, I think you’re right. He is cute in a brooding, Rochester kind of way. Are you sure you can handle him?”

“Not at all.” Quincee let her tone grow serious. “I don’t think anyone handles Hamilton Adam Paxton, Three. He’s too upright, too ingrained in old-fashioned philosophies for me. Really, Laura, don’t worry about me falling for Hamilton. At this point in my life, I’m only hoping to make friends.”

But he still had the finest of masculine eyes, Quincee thought. Perhaps the finest in the county.

“If you say so,” Laura said, her tone dry. “Now we still have a couple of hours left of daylight. Are you really going to wait till tomorrow to see what’s in that garage?”

“Nah. Let’s have at it!” Quincee couldn’t keep her irrepressible eagerness hidden a moment longer. “But I think we’d better wear gloves. Wait a moment and I’ll find some.”

She could find only one pair, though, and she offered these to Laura.

“Hap has gloves,” Kerri said.

“Yeah, he wears ’em all the time when he works outside,” Kyle added.

“I’ll go ask if we can use ’em,” Kerri said.

“No, don’t, Kerri,” Quincee commanded. “Don’t bother him again. We’ve pestered him enough for one day. But do put on shoes, please.” The children had run through the hose sprinkler to cool off and were still barefoot. “No telling what creepy crawlers we’ll find in there.”

“Ready, set, go!” Kyle called when they all were in place.

They made a great production of sliding back the old doors, one adult and one child wielding a door together. The huge panels creaked and groaned, bucking stubbornly along the rusted track until at last they stood wide. Stale air and shock waves of heat rushed out, making Quincee blink and Kerri cough.

Daylight reached only the middle of the structure, leaving the back corners in deep shadow.

True to Bette and Gene’s declaration, stacks of cardboard boxes filled half the space nearly to the ceiling on one side. What looked to be a number of old bicycles in various states of wholeness and parts hung from wall hooks. Bundles of newspapers, yellowed and brown, a couple of barrel crates holding unknown items, worn-out tires and several pieces of outdated furniture haphazardly occupied a near corner.

The four of them stood in wonder for long moments. “And this is only what we see without stirring a finger,” Laura muttered in awe.

“Bicycles,” Kyle squealed.

“Looks like your luck is in, sport,” Laura said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Yours, too, Kerri bear. But it may take a day or two to find one that’s all together and still works. What say you, Quincee? Is there treasure enough here for you?”

“I scarcely believe it! Would you look at that?”

“What?”

“That rocker.” Quincee moved forward and tentatively removed a box from atop a rattan rocking chair. She touched it to set it in motion, but too many other items jammed its path. She shoved at a tall piece of furniture, covered with torn freighting blankets. It proved to be too heavy and wouldn’t budge.

“And there.” She turned as something else caught her gaze. “Look at this old Formica kitchen table. What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s way out of style?” Laura suggested dryly. “And it has one leg short. See?” She pointed to a block of wood under one leg.

“Yeah, but it might be just the thing for Kerri and Kyle’s art projects.”

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