âYouâre relentless.â
She took the plate of cheesecake he was waving under her nose.
âWhen I need to be.â He dug in to his own helping. âMurphy and the twins are checking out some puppies at the horse barn.â
âMurphy knows we canât afford a dog.â
âYou didnât have any pets when you were a kid?â
âA few of the families I lived with had a dog or a cat.â
âFamilies. As in foster families?â
She nodded. âThis is really good,â she managed around an enormous bite.
âAnd you donât want to talk about it,â he guessed. âThe foster families, I mean.â
She caught a fleck of crust from the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue. âDo you think your grandmother would give me the recipe?â
He smiled slightly. It was no easy task squelching the urge to kiss away the tiny golden crumb sheâd missed. âShe will if she figures youâre gonna give me a piece, too.â
It was the yelling that got her attention.
Murphy. It was so easy to recognize his voice. Particularly when he was yelling at a few million decibels.
Her stomach sinking like a lead balloon, Isabella Lockhart instantly dropped her cleaning rag on the lunch counter at Rubyâs Café and raced for the door.
Locked.
Of course it was locked. Sheâd locked it herself just thirty minutes earlier. She darted back for the keys that Tabby Taggart had entrusted her with, finally spotting them on the stainless-steel work counter in the kitchen, where sheâd left them after locking up the rear door.
She rushed back to the front entrance, fumbled with the lock, then burst out the glass door. Not only had the yelling continued, it was angrier than ever.
And it was all occurring smack-dab in the middle of Main Street, right there in front of the café, where a large, dusty blue pickup truck was parked.
Murphy, please donât get into more trouble.
The whispered prayer was much, much too familiar. Moving here to Weaver had been supposed to change that.
She ran toward the truck, toward the yelling, then nearly skidded to a halt at the sight of the thin boy glaring up at a tall, broad man who was glaring right back at him.
What concerned her most, however, was the baseball bat clenched in Murphyâs white-knuckled fists. If he took the bat to one more thingâ¦
She couldnât bear to think about it.
âYou damn well did know what you were doing!â The manâs deep voice was furious.
âIt was an accident!â Murphy yelled back. âI told you that a hunnert times!â
âMurphy!â Isabella dashed between the two males, grabbing the bat as Murphy raised it. At eleven, he already topped five feet, and only the fact that she was wearing a bit of a wedge heel kept his eyes from being at a level with her own. She tugged on the bat hard, pressing her hand flat against his heaving chest, but his grip was equally tight. âLet it go!â
His mutinous brown eyesâso like his fatherâs that at first it had been a physical ache to see them each and every dayâmet hers and his knuckles turned even whiter around the wood. âNo!â
She heard the man behind her mutter something, and then a large, tanned hand closed over the bat just above hers. âGive me that damn thing before you hurt someone,â the man snapped, and yanked it directly out of both her and Murphyâs battling grips. Then he tossed it into the cab of his truck and slammed the door shut.
Murphyâs voice went up half an octave as he unleashed a fresh round of curses that made her pale. âDude! Thatâs my bat. You canât just take my bat!â
âI just did, dude,â the man returned flatly. He closed his hand over Murphyâs thin shoulder and forcibly moved him away from Isabella. âStay,â he spit.
Isabella rounded on the man, gaping at him. He was wearing a faded brown ball cap and aviator sunglasses that hid his eyes. âTake your hand off him!â Whatever the cause of Murphyâs latest altercation, this man had no right to put a hand on him. âWho do you think you are?â
âThe man your boy took aim at with his blasted baseball.â His jaw was sharp and shadowed by brown stubble and his lips were thinned.
âI did not!â Murphy shouted, right into Isabellaâs ear.
She winced, giving him a fierce look. âGo sit down.â She pointed at the wooden bench on the sidewalk in front of the café. Her head was pounding and she had to control her own urge to add to the screaming.