Mr. February by Ann Roth Page A

for a job. I’ll help in any way I can, but this can’t go on forever. You have three months, until mid-June, to find work, save up, and move into your own place. Then you have to go.”
    She’d used a form of tough love that impressed Rafe. Maybe she’d given her brother more time to get his act together than Rafe would have, but at least she’d set an end date. And she’d done it with love and loyalty to JR that had shone through.
    Rafe couldn’t help but compare her to his mother, a woman without a loyal bone in her body or a thought for anyone but herself. Some of his earliest memories were of when she left him alone in the evening, sometimes for the entire night, and then lied about where she’d stayed and with whom.
    Jillian was straight forward and steady. And he hated what her brother put her through.
    With that, he made a snap decision. He crossed to where they stood and joined them. “I couldn’t help overhearing. I might be able to help,” he told JR. “You’ve cleared pastureland, so I assume you can operate a chainsaw and drive a bulldozer.” He waited for JR’s nod then continued. “Before the builder can break ground on my house, I need to clear half an acre of brush and small to medium-size trees. It’s a two-person job and should take ten days to two weeks to finish. You interested?”
    Jillian’s brother brightened right up. “Hell, yes.”
    Jillian’s brilliant smile made Rafe feel ten feet tall.
    “All right, then,” he said. “I go off duty at 0800 Wednesday morning. Why don’t we meet at my property after lunch, and I’ll show you what I want. The following week, you can start.”
    “Awesome. Do I need to find a partner to work with?”
    “That’s taken care of.” Rafe had already contracted with a tree removal expert he trusted, a man who wouldn’t be averse to taking on JR instead of his own assistant—provided Rafe paid extra. He wasn’t about to analyze why he wanted to do this. “His name is Zach, and you’ll meet him Wednesday.”
    “What about the equipment? Should rent my own tools?”
    Rafe shook his head. “Zach has everything.”
    Knowing he’d pleased Jillian made him way too happy. As he ambled toward the aid car, he caught himself grinning and quickly sobered. No sense giving his buddies any ideas when he planned to steer clear of her.
    He climbed into the back of the aid car and buckled in.
    “If I stood in your shoes, I’d be grinning, too,” Gus quipped from the passenger seat. “She’s a looker, all right. Chalk up another score for our resident stud.”
    So much for wiping his expression clean. “You’re one to talk,” Rafe returned. At six feet four, two hundred thirty pounds of solid muscle and an outgoing personality, Gus had no problem attracting women.
    “Jillian didn’t give me that soft-eyed smile.”
    “In case you haven’t heard, she’s on the prowl for a husband.”
    “Ah.” Gus shook his head. “That changes everything.”

Chapter Eight
    ‡
    D elighted with the luscious blue-green glaze and the shimmering gold edging she’d applied to a recently fired sushi set, Jillian whistled. “You are gorgeous, if I do say so.”
    Once she fired the pieces for the second time, a process permanently fixing the glaze, the colors would be even more vivid. The tray and bowls could then be used for sushi or appetizers, or simply appreciated as art.
    Jillian intended to sell it and a bunch of other pottery at the next month’s Art Festival. She would also bring scrapbooks of other work and take custom orders to fill later.
    If all went as planned, she would net a hefty chunk of change. Money she needed. Mainly because, between the loss of income due to the closure of the Artist Cooperative school and the larger than usual grocery bills, courtesy of JR and Chelsea, her bank balance had dropped too low for comfort.
    She carefully arranged the sushi pieces on a shelf to dry undisturbed, where they joined dozens of other recently glazed