The Magnificent Seven

“It’s not video time until after lunch.”

Taylor scowled and kicked the table leg with her swinging foot.

Heather took a deep breath and turned back to the table. A few minutes later, while showing Patrick how to connect the numbered dots on a page, she heard Taylor jump up from the table.

The child ran for the back door—the door they’d all been warned not to use—twisted the bolt and threw open the door. A scream ripped from her throat as she disappeared from sight.

Heather reached the opening and stared four feet down at the pile of boards and rubble where the girl had landed. “Taylor! Are you all right?”

Mitch scrambled down the ladder from where he’d been ripping off boards and bounded over the debris to his daughter. Crying indignantly, the child sat and raised her bleeding knee.

“Honey, didn’t you hear me tell all of you not to come out that door?” he asked.

Heather stared down at the top of his head. “She heard you, all right.”

He glanced up. “What happened?”

Taylor wiped hair away from her eyes and glared at Heather. “She’s mean. I don’t like her. I wanna go back to our grampa’s ranch.”

“Taylor, Heather is not mean. You can’t go back until we all go back together tonight. Heather is taking care of you during the day while I work. I explained that.”

She managed to make her chin quiver. “She tried to make me draw pictures I don’t want to color.”

Mitch propped a small ladder from the ground to the doorway above. He picked up Taylor. “Let’s get this cut cleaned and bandaged.”

Heather moved back and watched him enter the kitchen and sit his daughter on the chair she’d earlier occupied.

“Look what I made, Daddy.” Ashley held up the picture she’d drawn.

Mitch praised her artwork and accepted the plastic first-aid kit Heather supplied. He paused in cleaning his daughter’s knee to survey Heather’s expression.

Feeling helpless, she merely raised a brow. He must feel this way all the time.

Taylor immediately started to cry again. “My leg hurts!”

Mitch met Heather’s gaze, his confusion obvious. “Here, let me get a bandage on, and you can go rest for a while.”

“Can I watch a video?”

“Sure, as long as you’re sitting quietly.”

Over his shoulder, Taylor gave Heather a smug look and allowed her tears to subside.

Heather did a slow burn. “It’s still lesson time,” she said. “I planned videos for after lunch.”

Mitch straightened. “Couldn’t we bend the schedule just a little to accommodate today’s problems?”

“May I have a word with you alone?” she asked.

“Can I have a cookie, too?” Taylor asked.

Mitch glanced from his daughter to Heather.

“They haven’t had lunch yet,” she supplied.

“Excuse us for a minute,” Mitch said. “Girls, you sit here while I talk to Heather.”

Wondering all the while what she’d gotten herself into, Heather followed him into the living room. He led the way, as though he’d taken charge of this situation, and his assumption ruffled her.

“It seems to me that constantly bending the schedule—and the rules—is the main problem here,” she said in a low, controlled voice.

His expression darkened. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I know they’re not angels. I haven’t known what to do with them most of the time. But I think they need a little flexibility.”

“Maybe it’s stability they need.”

His eyes seemed to soften. And his voice, when he spoke again, was laced with a combination of vulnerability and tenderness. “Can’t there be both?”

Four

H eather took a deep breath. She was a stickler for details, she knew that. She functioned best with order and discipline. Her children had always done fine under her leadership. But they had seemed to blossom more since they’d been at the ranch—since their days weren’t consumed with rigorous schedules. Perhaps there was a compromise.

She drew herself up and looked Mitch in the eye. “All right.”

She led the way back to the kitchen. “We’ll take a break and have some free time,” she said to the children. “You can watch a video or draw or anything you want until lunch.”

The kids looked at each other and grinned cheerfully.

Mitch gave her a grateful smile, then turned to have a few words with his girls. Within minutes he headed back outside.

By lunch Heather’s nerves were still on edge. She prepared sandwiches and sliced fruit and ushered the children out the front door for a picnic on the side lawn, where they could be entertained watching the workers.

“I don’t like tuna,” Taylor complained, peeling back her bread and wrinkling her nose.

“Me neither,” Ashley agreed. “I want skettios.”

“I’ll get some skettios for later in the week, but for now, we’re having tuna.”

“I don’t like it,” they chorused.

“Then don’t eat it.”

They looked at one another and blinked. Taylor looked back. “You’re not gonna make us eat it?”

“Nope.”

Taylor nestled onto the checkered tablecloth as though she’d won a battle. “What do we get, then?”

“There are chips on your plate and apple and orange slices.”