Mary Beth took the opportunity to get away from her persistent ex-fiancé. Bobby Joe had always made a point of sticking to an argument, however minor, until she gave in, even if only just to shut him up. And this one had been major.

As little as she cared for baseball games, she preferred joining her father in the den to continuing a useless conversation with a man whom she doubted she had ever loved. You could not be in love with one man and yearn for another’s touch the way she had.

When Howard and his daughter had disappeared into the other room, Bobby Joe turned on his mother. “You could have defended me.”

“I’m not sure you deserve it.”

“You too? Is anyone going to cut me some slack on this?”

His peevish tone made Alma shake her head. She gave him a weary look as she placed the roast on the counter and began unwrapping the foil covering.

“Get Parr to talk to her,” Bobby Joe continued. “For some reason he’s decided to be her champion. She might listen to him.”

“That’s a thought,” Alma said. She moved the roast to a platter and poured the drippings into a saucepan to start making beef gravy. “I’ll ask him after dinner.”

“What’s on your mind, Mother?” Parr handed his mother the large platter that had held the sliced roast.

“Nothing,” Alma answered. “Why do you ask?” She was busy loading the dishwasher.

Too busy to look up, apparently.

“Stop hedging,” her son demanded.

“All right.” She straightened and frowned at a stack of plates before she met his gaze. “I want to ask you to do something for Bobby Joe.”

Parr nodded, which wasn’t a yes. She would have to tell him more.

He watched her scrape the plates and fit them into the rack. He’d offered to hire a maid for her several years ago when he was financially secure at last, but she had adamantly refused and continued to refuse. She’d said that she didn’t want strangers in her house being paid his hard-earned money for doing things she enjoyed doing.

Alma seemed to be stalling. Parr cleared his throat. “Okay. What is it?”

If her request had anything to do with his brother’s beautiful redhead, he did not want to help.

“Talk to Mary Beth,” Alma implored, her dark eyes searching his. “Ask her to give Bobby Joe another chance. She seems to be . . . well, hesitating about forgiving him.”

“Can you blame her?”

“No, of course not. It’s just that I think she ought to be concerned about more than Bobby Joe’s little sin.”

“Meaning?”

Parr suspected what his mother was thinking and knew she was right. He, Parr, could not allow what had happened between him and Mary Beth to go any further. He had no claim on his brother’s woman, even if she were willing.