Free Cat Shout for Joy by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

Even the bright new kitchen was not being adapted for a wheelchair; the counters were all standard height, not even a low, easy island where Sam might fix himself a snack, as Ryan had forcefully suggested.
    How simple it would have been to design the job with prime attention to Sam’s comfort. Whatever complaints Tekla had now were irrelevant to the main purpose of the project, and the woman’s arguments were wearing Ryan thin. Demands that they tear out brand-­new work, put in different light fixtures though these had just been installed, replace the new kitchen hardware because Tekla had changed her mind. The arbitrary reversals were at Tekla’s expense, that was in the contract, but the extra time and labor had Ryan and her workmen increasingly frustrated. Even her foreman, big, red-­bearded Scott Flannery, who was usually calm and reined in, was about at the end of his temper.
    Ryan’s nature was much the same as her uncle’s; it didn’t take much for their Scots-­Irish blood to flare up. So far she and Scotty had been circumspect with Tekla, trying not to upset Sam; everyone felt sorry for Sam Bleak. Everyone but his wife.
    It was Ryan’s young carpenter, Ben Stonewell, who pointedly stayed away from Tekla, avoiding trouble. Joe could see how much the woman upset him. Now, after Ben’s evasive behavior in the restaurant patio when he didn’t want to be seen by the Hoop ­couple, Joe had to wonder if there was more about Ben than he was seeing. He hoped not, he liked the shy young man.
    Only Billy Young seemed immune to Tekla’s shrill complaints. Ryan’s thirteen-­year-­old apprentice seemed more amused than angered. Joe had seen Billy, more than once, turn away, hiding a little smile at the storm of Tekla’s raving. Joe watched Billy now as the boy put away the shovels and a pick from where he’d been digging a new water line. The tall boy looked older than thirteen, his brown hair trimmed short and neat, his thin face, high cheekbones, and black eyes hinting at his trace of Native American blood.
    Finished cleaning up, Billy wheeled his bike from beside the garage and moved on up the drive to the street to wait for Charlie Harper. This evening, even Billy had had enough of Tekla.
    The chief’s wife often picked Billy up after work, when she came down from the ranch on an errand. Charlie and Max Harper had been Billy’s guardians since his grandma died; they hadn’t wanted to see him go into foster care. Max usually dropped Billy at work in the morning, throwing his bike in the back of his pickup. The bike got him to school for early afternoon classes; then he was back at work again, on the school’s part-­time apprenticeship arrangement. Now, as Tekla raised her voice louder, Billy wheeled his bike farther away, up the street. She was insisting on different flooring, when the new floor was already down in three of the six rooms.
    â€œThis is not what I ordered,” Tekla shouted.
    â€œThis,” Ryan said, “is exactly what you selected.”
    â€œIt is not. You’re lying! You’re a liar!” Tekla snapped. “You got this cheap stuff at some discount sale!” Her accusation made every hair on Joe’s body bristle. Crouched as he was on the roof, he found it hard not to leap straight down on Tekla’s head.
    â€œI don’t lie,” Ryan said softly, her green eyes steady. “You cosigned for the flooring yourself.” She picked up a square of the sleek golden wood where a pile of scraps had been tossed on the porch; she showed Tekla where it was stamped on the back: “Same manufacturer, same style number, same color: antique oak .”
    â€œI don’t believe you. Where is the order?”
    Ryan pulled both the order and the delivery bill from her pocket. She held them so Tekla could look, but she didn’t hand them over.
    Tekla said no more. Joe dropped down onto the truck