Ellis sat for a long moment, hands on the wheel, staring at the house. Then he made himself crawl out of the truck, his back twinging. “Stay,” he told Mavis, and then headed up to the porch so he could knock on the door.
There was an older boy, maybe eleven or twelve, perched on the front porch, looking a tad like a vulture, watching him with dark eyes like holes burned in a blanket. The kid waited until he was on the porch steps before speaking. “Are you coming to interview for the job?”
Because that wasn’t creepy.
He did manage to nod, though, and not grimace. “Yep.”
“Cool. My dad says to show you in. I’m Michael.” He uncurled from his perch and held out one skinny hand. “This is my grandpa’s place.”
He shook Michael’s hand. “Yeah, I heard your grandpa was real sick. I’m sorry for your loss.”
The kid shrugged, cheeks darkening. “Yeah, me too. He was a neat guy. He was old, though. Come on in.”
The door opened as Michael touched the knob, and a much bigger, older teenager stood there. They could have been carbon copies of each other, but it was sort of like shoulder angels and devils. One of them had a tentative smile, while the other one wore a wild frown.
“This is the guy that’s supposed to be making things to where we can go home?” the frowny one asked.
Michael sighed. “Zane, we’re never gonna get to go back. You fucked that up. This is home now. It’s your fault, so get used to it.” Michael turned to him, rolling his eyes dramatically. “This is my big brother. He’s an asshole.”
“I will kick your ass, kid.”
“You’ll try.” Those were brave words, even if the tone ledEllis to believe that he knew full well that his big brother was much bigger and absolutely angrier.
“I swear to God.” Zane stepped up into Michael’s space, and sure as shit these two were fixin’ to throw down. This was going to be a problem, because Ellis was afraid he was going to have to get involved when he heard?—
“Boys, that is enough.” The voice was sure, sharp. It was attached to one beautiful son of a bitch who filled the doorway in between the foyer and the rest of the house.
He blinked. Jesus Christ.
“Fine,Ichabod.” Zane rolled his eyes and stomped off, and Michael’s cheeks went bright red.
“Forgive my son. He is having trouble adjusting.” Mr. Silver Fox held out one hand with a smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Not your fucking son!”
He took the man’s hand, shocked as hell to find it callused and rough and strong. He knew the guy was from the city and wasn’t much into carpentry or doing work around the ranch, obviously. So he’d expected someone executive, clean-cut, lean. Possibly wearing Dockers.
Not solid and broad shoulders and built like a brick shit house.
Standing there barefoot in old jeans and a flannel shirt covered in…glitter paint—the guy was like a rainbow lumberjack.
I’m Ellis McIntyre. Pleased to meet you.”
“Ichabod Miller-Johns.”
He’d seen that hyphenated name, and he knew a little about the situation, but he played dumb. “So you’re Mr. Johns’s son?”
Okay, that felt weird.
“No, sir, I am Mr. Johns son-in-law. My husband was Mr. Johns. The son. He passed away a few years ago.”
Which he also knew. Chris Johns had battled leukemia on and off his entire life before it had finally won.
The question was, why would Vic have given away his ranch to his dead son’s husband when there was a stepson right there wanting to take over? Maybe he simply wanted to make sure his grandbabies were taken care of.
“I know it’s a wild scenario, but Vic loved these babies, and he wanted the ranch to be here for them.”
Okay, so maybe itwasstraightforward. “Well, that’s nice. Where did you wanna do the interview?”
