Fighting for Elena by Silver James

Author:Silver James [James, Silver]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aces Press, LLC
Published: 2020-02-18T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Pops’s abrupt departure left Elena sputtering, and slightly embarrassed. She could not go around mooning over the man. He obviously was not interested in her. Not to mention how unprofessional that would be. She was here as a case worker. That was all. She had no ulterior motives for inserting herself so personally into the lives of this man and the little girl they’d rescued. None at all. And she would never acknowledge that she was lying through her teeth.

She squared her shoulders and set about moving in. Which didn’t take long. She was placing her toothbrush in the bathroom across the hall when a sleepy-eyed Joy slouched out of door across the way and wandered in. The girl’s head shot up on a gasp.

“Easy, chica,” Elena murmured. “It’s just me. I’m through in here so it’s all yours.” She gave the girl a shoulder bump as she squeezed past. She paused in the hallway. “You like chilaquiles?”

“Like what?”

“Chilaquiles. Never mind. You will. I’m fixing them for breakfast.” And she was. She still had groceries in her car.

“Uhm…okay.” Joy pushed a straggle of hair out of her face. “Where’s Pops?”

“Probably back in the barn doing whatever he was doing when I interrupted him with my arrival. If he doesn’t come back soon, we’ll find him when it’s time to eat.” She flashed a smile and headed toward the broad staircase.

Puttering in the kitchen, Elena learned she hadn’t needed a grocery run. For a bachelor who mostly lived alone, Pops had a well-stocked pantry, refrigerator, and freezer. This was good. It also gave her an idea of what he liked to eat. She came from a big family. Her mama cooked. Her sisters cooked. So did all the aunts. And everyone ate, enjoying food and family the way large, boisterous families did, even if her dad sometimes drank too much beer. This place was quiet. She enjoyed the peacefulness of the country, but she was used to the chatter of her female relatives and the low rumble of male voices from another room.

The house was big, comfortable. Built and furnished for a family. As she deep-fried the corn tortillas, grated cheese, and set out the eggs and salsa, she thought about Pops. David and Rose West never had children of their own. There was nothing in their file about why, but they’d fostered over a hundred children in the fifteen years they’d been married. A few, like Sherman Reardon, who was a member of the fire department now, and his sisters had come due to an emergency in their lives. Others arrived abused and found open arms, no pressure, and a safe home full of love. More arrived full of attitude and anger, unaware that this was their last stop before juvie or jail. Pops insisted the kids work around the place but not like slave labor. Little ones did things like set the table. Older ones worked with Pops around the ranch. Every child—no matter how angry, hurt, or sad—exited Pops’s care with only good words to say.

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