Her Colorado Man by Cheryl St.john Page A

hallway, notifying them when it was time to undress and get into bed. It had rung again, the signal that they’d best be lying down.
    The principal showed up then, a tall, wiry man who always wore a black suit. He admonished them to go directly to sleep and straightaway he turned off the gas lamp on the wall, plunging the cold room into darkness.
    Oftentimes the younger boys or the newly arrived cried themselves to sleep. Sometimes one of them said a quiet prayer, pleading with God for safety or clothing or…family.
    Wes let his gaze touch each boy in this cozy, warm room. Knowing these children would never experience hunger or loneliness or unworthiness gave him deep satisfaction. Their huge enveloping family would always see to it that they were loved and provided for. The fact that they didn’t even recognize it—that they took this security for granted as the only manner of life they knew made the knowledge all the sweeter.
    The only thing missing in John James’s life had been a father. Wes didn’t regret his decision to be that person for him.
    But he wondered what that kind of security and love—what being wanted —felt like. John James was the only person who’d ever cared whether or not Wes stayed, the only one who’d looked at him as though he was someone important. Someone loved.
    And for the first time Wes recognized the responsibility of having someone who cared for him. Accountability like this was foreign, but he liked it. He had more value in his own eyes because of this boy. He would never let him down.
    Wes stood and left, softly closing the door behind him.
     
    Mariah got out of bed and stood for a moment. Her head wasn’t light, and she kept her balance fine. What was wrong with her right now had nothing to do with the knock on the head she’d received. Her jangling nerves and thumping heart were a result of Wes and what had just happened.
    She didn’t want to analyze the experience. She didn’t really want to think about kissing Wes, but she couldn’t help reliving the unique feelings that had flooded her. Considering the kiss after the fact conjured up a panicky feeling she hadn’t experienced at the time. She couldn’t stay in her room right now, couldn’t deal with this unpleasant boxed-in reaction.
    Grabbing her robe, she pulled it on, slid her feet into her slippers and made her way toward the back stairs.
    Her grandfather, still dressed in the clothing he’d worn to work that day, met her halfway. “I was just coming up to see how you were doing.”
    She was glad to see him. “I’m well. I think I’ll warm some milk to help me sleep, though. Why don’t you join me?”
    He turned and took the steps slowly, and she walkeddown beside him. His rooms were on the ground floor now so that he didn’t have to tread those stairs.
    There were still lamps lit in the kitchen and the stove held warmth. She stirred the ashes, added sticks and took a jar of milk from the icebox. Pouring a generous amount into a pan, she set it on the stove to warm.
    Louis sat, and she took a chair at an angle to his. “Your face is flushed,” he said.
    “Probably the heat from the stove.”
    “Stitches look neat.”
    She gave him a rueful grin. “Interesting color, huh?”
    “Half a dozen people assured me you were fine,” he said. “I wanted to see for myself.”
    She got up and poured two cups of warm milk before returning to her seat.
    He gave her a curious glance. “How is it going with Wesley?”
    Mariah raised her fingers from her cup in an aggravated gesture. She glanced toward the doorway. The house was silent, so she answered, “I have a stranger fussing over my son, riding along to work in the morning, eating at our table, pawning himself on my family—and sleeping in my room at night. It’s awkward, and I resent every minute of it.”
    He tapped his knuckles against the tabletop as though thinking before he spoke. “I never imagined anything like this would happen. I never thought