I picked up my copy of the paperwork and pivoted toward the door. Sam took an exaggerated step back, hands behind his back. I opened the door and then let it slam behind me as I stomped to my car. I slid into the driver’s seat and went to jam the key into the ignition before I realized they were already in there ... and what I had in my hand were the keys to the crappy little Chevette.
“Damn, damn and double damn.” I blew out a breath and wished I could pound my forehead into the steering wheel without drawing too much attention. Instead I climbed out, and gritting my teeth, went back inside. Sam was leaning over the counter, talking to Boomer, and both men turned in surprise at the sound of the bell over the door.
I marched over and dropped the keys onto the counter. “Sorry. I forgot to return the keys to the loaner. It’s parked outside. Thanks again for that.”
I felt Sam’s eyes drilling into my back as I flung open the door again. I didn’t bother to acknowledge Boomer’s call of thanks behind me. I got into my car, locked the doors and pointed it toward Savannah.
I BANGED OPEN THE kitchen door and stamped through it, dropping the paper bag with my spark plugs onto the table. The sack tipped over and hit the salt shaker, spilling small white crystals all over the checked tablecloth.
“Sam! What the hell?” Ali turned around from the stove and glared at me. “Don’t put your crap all over the table. Can’t you see it’s already set for dinner?”
I bit back the smartass reply I wanted to make and instead picked up the bag. “Where am I supposed to put it, then? So much shit all over every surface here. I don’t have any place to put anything down before you’re griping at me to move it.”
She stepped toward me and tugged open a large drawer at the bottom of the built-in roll top desk that flanked the long kitchen table. “Here. Put it in the drawer, and feel free to leave any of your precious junk in there. I promise I won’t touch it.”
I grunted and tossed the bag inside, feeling just a touch of guilt for taking my lousy mood out on Ali. It wasn’t her fault I’d had a run-in with the party girl from Savannah when I’d stopped in town, but she made a handy target. Not that I was going to bother to explain it to her; she wouldn’t understand why the pretty redhead with the huge green eyes stepped on my every last nerve. Hell, I wasn’t sure I even understood it.
“Go get washed up, okay? The chicken’s done, and I’m about to pull out the potatoes. Oh, and will you yell for Bridget, too? She’s upstairs doing homework.”
Without answering her, I headed for the tiny washroom just off the kitchen. I stopped at the bottom of the staircase that sat to the left of the front door and called.
“Hey, Bridge! Supper.”
Before I turned all the way around, I heard the sound of footsteps running down the hallway. The wooden floors in this house were original, built and put down by my great-great-grandfather, and they were beautiful. But they sure didn’t do much to keep the noise level down.
I washed my hands and dried them on the rag Ali kept on a hook at the back of the door. I hated her little frou-frou towels, the ones that hung on the side of the antique wooden wash stand, and she hated trying to get grease or dirt out of them after I used them. So by mutual consent, she made sure I had a rag and I made sure I used it.
Bridget was sitting in her seat at the table when I came back into the kitchen. Her dark hair was tied back in one long braid, and her brown eyes, so much like mine, were sparkling. She held a large sheet of white paper in her hand.
“Hey, Uncle Sam! Lookit what I drew.” She held it out to me, and I took the paper, studying it closely.
I squinted at the figure. “Is that Poker?” It was definitely a horse, and by the way she’d drawn it, I could see that it was one that belonged to our neighbor, Fred. The proportions were close to being right, and the setting was definitely our own farm. I made out our barn in the background.
“Wow, squirt, look at this. It’s da—dang good. Ali, did you see what your kid drew?”
My sister set a bowl of steaming green beans on the table and leaned to glance over my shoulder. “Nice job, baby. Why’s that horse on our land, though? I think your picture puts him right in Uncle Sam’s melon patch. Probably not a good idea.”
Bridget took the paper from her mother and trotted to the fridge, where she added it to her other masterpieces. “That’s what it would look like if Poker came to live at our house.” She flashed me a brilliant grin, showing off her missing front tooth.
“Poker would be lonely if he came to live here.” Ali scooped potatoes onto her daughter’s plate. “He’d miss his friends Rummy, Gin and Solitaire over at Mr. Fred’s. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”