Free Husband for Hire by Susan Wiggs

from families that couldn’t keep them yet still cared enough to show up every now and then with a box of chocolates and some comic books.
    Rob knew the Duncans kept trying to locate his mother. At the very least, they wanted her to relinquish her guardianship of him so a family could adopt him. But they never found her, and Rob won awards for being at Lost Springs the longest.
    As he got older, he tried to reconstruct what Peggy Jean Carter’s life had been like. A runaway, she’d had no family to speak of, no education. Jerked around by an abusive man, mishandled by social service agencies. Finally, desperate and broke, she had handed her son over to strangers and walked out of his life.
    Maybe if someone had done one kind thing for his mother, she wouldn’t have left him all those years ago. She might have found the pride and self-respect to pullherself together and meet life head-on rather than running scared all the time.
    Kindness made a difference in the world—that was the enduring lesson of Lost Springs. Maybe that was why he was going to talk Twyla into going to her reunion with him.
     

    R OB AWAKENED to a medley of church bells. He stepped outside his motel room, taking a deep breath. The sky was a brilliant blue, with a brittle intensity that was rare outside this area of Wyoming. It was like being on top of the world or on another planet. The air was so clear, the light so strong.
    Going back inside, he showered and shaved and got dressed in jeans and a golf shirt, then stuck his shades in his pocket. Twyla had said to phone her, but that didn’t seem right. He needed to see her in person.
    After breakfast at the Grill, he started off for the old McCabe place. That was how Reilly, at the feed store, referred to it. “The old McCabe place” sounded quaint, Rob thought, picturing a graceful Victorian house and a manicured lawn.
    As he drove up the pitted gravel drive, he shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that he was wrong. The mere sight of the property gave him an ominous feeling.
    The 1920s wood-frame house was falling apart. Set on the brow of a hill, the place looked worn, the rickety porch rail giving it the aspect of a face in need of dental work. Weathered wood, peeling paint, shutters hanging awry. The only color came from hedges and flower boxes filled with geraniums.
    As Rob got out of his car, a small boy and a large dog came racing down the hill at a rough-and-tumblerun. The dog gave a sharp, protective bark, but Brian hushed him. “It’s okay, Shep. Hiya, Rob.”
    “Hey, Brian. I came to see your mother. Is she busy?”
    “Nope. Me and Mom just got back from church. C’mon in.” Brian stomped up the dusty walk.
    The porch steps creaked ominously beneath Rob’s tread.
    “Hey, Mo-om!” Brian called. “Rob’s here—that guy Mrs. Spinelli bought for you yesterday.” Whistling for his dog, the kid went back outside, the screen door slamming in its frame and creating a shudder that reverberated through the house.
    Rob found himself standing in the middle of an old-fashioned vestibule. The place smelled of lemon oil polish and cinnamon and coffee—some would call it the smells of home, but of someone else’s home, never his.
    He rested his hand on the newel post, dark with age, and the wooden ornament came off in his hand. He swore softly under his breath and was trying to replace it as Twyla came from the back of the house.
    “Hi,” she said, her expression slightly quizzical. “I wasn’t expecting—” She spotted the newel post in his hand.
    “Sorry,” he said.
    “Happens all the time.” She fit the peg in place and smiled up at him. “I keep meaning to fix it, but I’ve never been much good at that sort of thing. Give me a head of hair any day, but home improvement is a complete mystery.”
    A long, awkward pause stretched out between them. Rob noticed that she was wearing a nice yellow dress—for church, he guessed. He wondered if guys in church stared at her