“Where’s the boy?” Damien bellowed. “He hasn’t done the grates. That was first on the list.”
Gruff thought Damien’s irritation had a lot to do with the fact he hated the job and had been more than happy to pass it onto someone else, but he was surprised that Lyle had ignored the list. He’d seemed so anxious to help.
“You’d better find him,” Brad muttered, “before Damien has an aneurysm. He’s just the right age.”
He chuckled as Damien cursed at him.
Gruff was more concerned about where Lyle had disappeared to. He searched through the house, worry knotting his gut when they didn’t find him in his bedroom.
He pointed out that in each room their beds were made with fresh linen and the bathrooms were cleaner than he’d ever seen them.
“He’s the best cleaner we’ve had,” Brad said. “We’ll keep him, when we find him.”
“He still didn’t sweep the grates,” Damien grumbled.
Finally they entered the kitchen, and found the table laid for breakfast just as they’d ordered with hot oatmeal on the stove. And stacks of pancakes, waffles, bacon, and eggs.
Damien snorted at the brothers’ cries of joy. “Don’t get used to it.”
Gruff glowered at him. The breakfast had been more than expected, the cleaning was perfect. Damien could clean the damn grate himself. Lyle must have worked himself to the bone to get all this ready. But where was he?
All the brothers sat down and helped themselves to food. Gruff couldn’t eat. Worry coiled in his stomach. Had something happened to him?
Then Harry snorted. “Found your boy.” He pointed over to the far corner of the kitchen, near the mud room.
Gruff squinted and spied Lyle. What was he doing curled up on the floor? He pushed back his chair, had to grab the back to stop it falling over, then rushed over to Lyle. He knelt beside him but, to his relief, Lyle was just fast asleep.
“He’s sleeping,” he said.
“Wake him up then?” Damien barked. “He’s got the grates to clean, the chickens to feed, and the horses to muck up.”
“Then he can chop wood,” Brad added.
Gruff’s hands curved into fists. “No.”
“What?”
“I said no.”
He turned to see them all staring at him in shock. Two of them had spoons halfway to their mouths, the oatmeal dripping into their bowls.
“He is not your servant, not your houseboy, or garden boy, or anything else, and certainly not your stable boy. Those are your jobs, not his. You want a full-time cook and cleaner, find your own boy. Lyle is mine.”
“But we’ve got the trees—”
Gruff cut Damien off. “We have to harvest the trees every year. Get over it.”
He turned his back on his brothers and gently shook Lyle’s shoulder. “Lyle, wake up.”
Lyle blinked, opening his eyes slowly to reveal those beautiful brown eyes. “Hey, Dad…Gruff. Sorry, I just needed a nap. Is everything okay? Is the laundry finished? I just need to iron the sheets. Then I’ll clean the grates.”
Gruff ignored Damien’s crow behind him. His breath caught in his throat. Did Lyle almost call him Daddy? He didn’t dare hope. “You can rest now. You’ve done enough.”
Gruff scooped Lyle as if he weighed nothing and held him close. He turned back to his brothers. “Do you have something to say to Lyle for all the work he’s done?”
“Uh, yeah, thanks Lyle. The bathrooms looked amazing,” Brad said.
“And it’s the best breakfast ever,” PJ piped up. “Thank you.”
Lyle looked at Gruff. “What do you want me to do next?”
“Nothing. You’re going to sleep.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Gruff said firmly. “You need to sleep.”
Lyle sighed and buried his face into Gruff’s shoulder. He yawned and settle down like he belonged in Gruff’s arms.
Gruff stalked out of the kitchen and up the stairs. At the top he paused. He desperately wanted to put Lyle into his bed, but he didn’t want to make Lyle think that was part of his duties too. So he went to the end of the hallway into Lyle’s room and gently placed him on the bed.
Lyle looked worried. “Are you going to throw me out because I can’t keep up with the work? I didn’t mean to let you down. Please let me try again.”
Gruff growled a little, and Lyle shrank back. Angry at himself for scaring the beautiful boy, Gruff knelt in front of him and held out his hand. Tentatively, Lyle put his hand in Gruff’s much larger one. Gruff closed his fingers around Lyle’s and looked into his eyes.
“You don’t have to do any more chores, Lyle. It was wrong of us to make you. You are our guest.”
Lyle looked horrified. “I can’t be that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a kitchen boy, not a guest.”
“You’re my guest, Lyle, not the kitchen boy.” Gruff squeezed his hand. “And now you need to catch up on your sleep.” He tugged Lyle to his feet, pulled back the comforter and pushed him under. “Lie down, and I’ll cover you up.”
“I’m not used to sleeping in a bed,” Lyle confessed. “It’s been a long time since I had a bed of my own.”
He sounded overwhelmed, and Gruff’s heart broke just a little more for him. “Go to sleep, little one. I’ll stay here with you until you do. When you wake you find me, okay?”
“Okay.” Lyle held out his hand, and Gruff took it. “Thank you, Gruff.”
“You’re welcome, boy.”
Lyle’s eyes widened. He gave the smallest of smiles, closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds. Gruff stayed where he was for a long while, Lyle’s hand in his, not wanting to move. Lyle was going to be his boy, Gruff was sure of it, but he wouldn’t push him. Lyle needed to be treated like a precious gem.
Hunger drove him back down to the kitchen, although he knew there would be little food left with all his brothers there. They were still all round the table and, as the conversation stopped when he walked in the room, it wasn’t hard to guess what they’d been talking about.
“You can keep talking about me,” he said dryly.
He was surprised to see his plate and mug still on the table with his usual breakfast foods.
“Oatmeal in the pan,” Harry muttered. “You’ll have to heat it up. We saved you waffles and bacon. PJ ate all the pancakes.”
“Thanks,” Gruff said, choked up, because if he missed breakfast most days it would be gone by the time he got to the table.
“Where’s Lyle?” Brad asked.
Gruff looked over his shoulder as he stirred the remainder of the oatmeal in the pan. “In his bed.”
“Not your bed?” Damien asked slyly.
“Not yet. We haven’t discussed anything.” He glared at his brothers. “I don’t want you stirring the pot until I’ve had a chance to talk to him.”
He would have laughed at the faux expressions of outrage on his brothers’ faces if he hadn’t been serious. He turned back to the oatmeal, waited until it was steaming nicely, and ladled it into his bowl. Then he sat down at his usual place.