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worldly goods between Melinda and the IRS. "I'll take off work for the weekend if that's your concern."
    Working the ball in his left hand, he crossed the fingers of his right. He'd have to hire another waitress to perform that magic act. Magic . Right. Joella the Jiggling Genie had scarfed up his brain. He couldn't help grinning, recalling her brash act. If he could afford to fire her, he would, just for the sake of his own mental health. But he needed experienced help, and she sure had a way of brightening the day.
    He'd hire the devil if it would get his boys back here with him. Maybe he hadn't been the greatest father in the world, but now that he was home and could be there for them, he needed to start learning what a father was supposed to do.
    "Maybe when you're better settled in, as we discussed," his mother said. "Your father and I can bring them up, and you can show us around."
    Flint ground his teeth. She'd been there when the kids needed her, latching onto his sons like a mother hen with her chicks. He didn't want to fight her now. "Sure, Mom, that would be good. The town hasn't changed though. I survived it."
    She didn't like being reminded of her country origins, he remembered too late.
    "Just barely." The frost in her voice grew icicles. "If you'd had a better education, you might have made something of yourself. You could have been a banker like your brother."
    "Or sell insurance like Jim, right. Four gold records don't mean a thing. Tell the kids I called. I'll try again tomorrow night." Hurt in more ways than he cared to count, Flint flung the ball at the shelf where the stereo should have been.
    "They have a game tomorrow night," she reminded him. "If you can stagger out of bed before nine on Saturday morning, you might catch them then."
    Okay, he deserved that. He clicked off the phone, dropped his head back against the leather cushion, and stared at the arched rafters of his ceiling. He'd never been around when the boys needed him. Why shouldn't they return the favor? His mother aiding and abetting them didn't help though.
    If he hadn't been such a horny bastard, he would probably never have married at all. His uptight mother was enough to permanently put a man off women. But he'd been just twenty-three when he'd knocked up Melinda, and even though he'd known marriage would be a disaster, he'd done the honorable thing and ruined both their lives for the sake of the baby. Schools needed to teach common sense instead of math.
    The phone rang, and he contemplated flinging it across the cavernous room, but he was used to company, and loneliness didn't suit him. He punched the button. "Last Chance Ranch, Flynn the Barbarian speaking." He waited for the pleasure of shocked silence.
    "Not Flynn the Kung Fu Fighter or Clint the Crooner?" a sultry soprano sang in his ear without hesitation.
    Sopranos weren't supposed to be sultry. Blondes weren't supposed to be quick on the uptake either. "I never crooned," he growled. "I'm just a picker." And a songwriter, but no one cared about that. Besides, he wasn't either anymore. "What did you want, Miss Joella?"
    He wished she had a name like Miss Prune or a voice like rusty hinges so he could keep the employer/employee thing at an icy distance. Just one more example of his rotten luck that he'd inherited a blond sex goddess for a waitress instead of a shriveled-up battle-ax.
    "Your night shift didn't show up, and the boys want to know if it's still okay to play in your back room."
    He thought the cafe closed at three. He had every intention of being home for his sons when they got out of school. "Want to run that by me again?" he asked, just in case something had been lost between his hearing and his imagining of Jo nibbling on his ear.
    "Charlie always let Slim and the boys play the back room if Mary Jean kept the cafe open. But Mary Jean had a baby last week. I've got the lot of them at my place pacing the floor. I can open up the cafe tonight, but I can't do it every