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Necessary Secrets
Barbara Phinney








“You’re pregnant,” he said.


“Yes, I’m pregnant, okay? But that’s my business, not yours.” Sylvie tried to push past him, but he stepped in front of the door and kicked it shut. The sharp click echoed through the hot, quiet room.

“We’re not done talking yet, Ms. Mitchell.”

Her head shot up. For the first time she stared hard at him, forcing herself to notice every little detail of his handsome face. If circumstances had been different…

“Please excuse me, Mr. Cahill.”

“Call me Jon. You’re going to see a lot of me in the future.”

She shot a sharp glare at his calm features, ignoring his smooth-as-silk voice.

He continued. “I’m not condemning you for carrying my brother’s child. I’m just telling you I will be a part of its life.”




Necessary Secrets

Barbara Phinney





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




BARBARA PHINNEY


Barbara Phinney was born in England and raised in Canada. She has traveled throughout her life, loving to explore the various countries and cultures of the world. After she retired from the Canadian Armed Forces, Barbara turned her hand to romance writing. The thrill of adventure and the love of happy endings, coupled with a too-active imagination, have merged to help her create this and other wonderful stories. Barbara spends her days writing, building her dream home with her husband and enjoying their fast-growing children.


Dedicated to the soldiers and police officers who have served on United Nations and NATO peacekeeping missions around the world.

My story is not real, but the dangers these men and women have faced are very real. They’ve kept the peace—sometimes making it first—and they have made those countries safer, especially for the children.

This author thanks them.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20




Chapter 1


The small town of Trail, Alberta, always bustled on a Friday. And with a sunny, early-June weekend advancing on the leading edge of a heat wave, the town hummed like a beehive when the canola bloomed.

Sylvie Mitchell parked her car and walked toward the local medical clinic, or more specifically, the small birthing clinic within it.

Sometime in December, she thought. Good timing, at least. With the ranch and campground at its slowest, she’d have more time for the baby.

And by then Andrea would have dragged Dad down to the condo in Mexico, and life would be quiet again.

After thirteen years in the Canadian Army, quiet sounded pretty good to Sylvie.

The squeal of tires cut through the stream of street noise, and she snapped her head around.

One burning, brutal memory bubbled to the surface…. The thick, wet Bosnian snow, the mess of rocks and brush and tree trunks, the strain of dirty brakes as her truck skidded to a slushy stop barely in time. The jolting pop of machine-gun fire. The cold wash of horror as she watched Private Rick Cahill close his eyes for the last time….

A merry shout answered the squeal. Two teenagers, cutting school, no doubt, threw greetings into Sylvie’s recollection, dissolving it. She blinked and hurried into the clinic.

The receptionist smiled when she reached the counter.

“I need to see the doctor,” she told the woman.

“Is it an emergency? We’re booked until next Wednesday.”

“Wednesday’s fine.” Sylvie waited for the receptionist to decide on a time.

The woman glanced up. “What seems to be the problem? Or is it for your yearly exam? I have to allot the right amount of time.”

Sylvie met the woman’s gaze evenly. She’d seen her around the grocery store and such, but the woman wasn’t a born-and-bred local. She may as well get used to stating her condition. And seeing the look of surprise on the faces of the few friends she had when they subtracted the time she’d been home from how far along she was. “I’m pregnant. Almost twelve weeks. I took a home-pregnancy test this morning.”

Her words sounded amazingly smooth, considering the turmoil on which they’d ridden free.

What a shame she couldn’t feel the same placidity about the night of her baby’s conception. Twelve weeks ago, Rick had been alive. In Bosnia, in early spring. What a terrible place and time to conceive a child.

Tears suddenly welled up and a thick lump of something ripened in her throat. Oh, no! Not here.

She continued to stare at the receptionist, an overwhelming horror swamping her as she realized she could break down at any moment. All those years running a quartermaster store, all that time in so many war zones, and now she was as tearful as a two-year-old.

“Here.” The receptionist handed her a tissue.

Sylvie shook her head. “I don’t need it. It’s just the hormones. I don’t cry.” She wouldn’t cry, either, not now, not ever. She’d been a soldier for thirteen years, done three tours of duty overseas and countless training exercises. She’d been the youngest warrant officer in her unit, and each promotion she’d earned was the result of hard work, not tears.

Besides, she had the baby to think about—the only thing left of the man who’d known the risks and had still made love to her.

She turned her head and drew a stabilizing breath. The “man.” Who was she kidding? He’d been barely out of high school, little more than a boy to her, a warrant officer doing her final NATO tour before she took early retirement, which had been offered because the military wanted to downsize.

Not that she was old. She just felt old compared to Rick, who was old enough to father her child and yet too young to drink in some provinces.

On an afterthought, she grabbed the tissue. With a mutter of thanks, she snatched the appointment card and strode out of the medical center, refusing to spare a glance at whoever sat patiently in the waiting room behind her, no doubt watching her fight her impending breakdown.

Rick Cahill. Young, bright, handsome. Eager without being naive, he’d been one of her best storesmen. He’d been a good driver, and a sensible soldier for his age.

And he knew his way around a woman’s body.

The last duty she’d performed in Bosnia was to attend his memorial service.

Her eyes stung and her chest burned as she headed toward the drugstore across the street. Think about prenatal vitamins, Sylvie. Nothing else.

What would the other soldiers under her command have said if they’d known she and her youngest stores-man had been together and that she’d sat in the front row of the chapel tent during his memorial service, carrying their dead friend’s baby?

Thank heavens the military wanted to cut its forces. Thank heavens she’d escaped her unit before she discovered she was pregnant. She would have been repatriated immediately anyway, but the rumors would have whipped up like prairie dust.

She couldn’t have looked them in the eye. Not after realizing the mistakes she’d made.

Not after signing the nondisclosure agreement.

Not after killing Rick.

Nausea surged into her throat at the thought of her cowardice. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she threw a wild look up the busy street. She had to make it back across to her car—and fast—if she was to vomit behind it.

Panic seized her. Would she make it? Standing on the curb, holding back bile, she spotted the receptionist from the medical center lead a man out into the brilliant sunshine. The woman scanned the street until her gaze settled on Sylvie. Touching the man’s arm, the receptionist pointed directly at her.

Oh, boy. She wouldn’t make it now. That guy, whoever he was, would intercept her. He was heading straight into disaster—

Striding across the street like he owned the town, the tall man fixed his stare on her. Rooted her to the sidewalk.

Within seconds he reached her. “Warrant Officer Mitchell?”

She stiffened, thankful the six-inch curb brought her eye level with him. “I’m retired now,” she said after a bitter swallow. “Call me Sylvie.”

“Sylvie?” The man tested the name on his tongue, all the while his riveting gaze drilling into her. “Sylvie.”

Good heavens. The way he said her name conjured up warm, moonless nights when crickets provided the music…and someone in the dark provided the silky caresses.

Her bones melted. Were these hormones going to plague her like this for the next six months? Nauseated one minute, aroused the next?

She forced her voice to stay brisk. “What can I do for you?”

He studied her with eyes squinting against the sun. An incredible, body-weakening image of the fantasy from a moment ago wafted in on the warm southerly wind, as vivid as any nightmare her time in Bosnia still produced on those damned sleepless nights she’d had lately.

She didn’t welcome either vision.

The man stepped onto the curb. Sylvie craned her neck to stare up at him. His ebony hair lifted with the breeze, the same breeze that delivered a warm, lingering male scent to her keen nose. She couldn’t help but inhale it, draw it deeply in and hold it.

“Were you recently in Bosnia?” he asked.

Her jaw tightened and she wet her lips. “Yes.” Most soldiers took Bosnia in stride, a tour of duty that was difficult but necessary.

She’d wished, mostly in the dead of night when the horror returned, that she had the same casual outlook.

The government believed the Former Yugoslavia had been stabilized. They wouldn’t give credence to the small pocket of resistance she’d faced that night, a resistance she knew had friends inside her own camp.

Instead, NATO and the new Bosnian government had discounted those who’d ambushed her truck, diplomatically announcing that the group would eventually negotiate or disperse. No, they weren’t associated with any terrorists. They’d see the light as soon as they realized their actions weren’t getting the media’s attention.

Sylvie couldn’t manage the same simplistic view. Too many frightening, conflicting memories. Begging children and mined areas too dangerous to even graze goats, now overgrown with various self-seeded grains. Food for hungry children that was too risky to harvest.

And Rick, killed in an ambush she could never acknowledge because of that damn simplistic view…and a nondisclosure agreement.

The man cut deep into her thoughts with his smooth voice. “You had a young soldier working for you. A Rick Cahill?”

The sun beat hard on her back. With no breakfast to fortify her, her knees weakened to those of a newborn calf. And her everchurning stomach—

She swallowed again, at the same time locking her knees to steady them. “Yes, Rick worked for me.” How did she manage to sound so calm?

The man’s piercing eyes darkened and the creases between his brows deepened. “I’m Jon Cahill. Rick’s brother. I’ve come to find out exactly what happened to Rick the night he died.”

Jon waited for the woman in front of him to answer. All she did was pale dramatically. If he hadn’t seen an obvious faint before, he’d have accused Sylvie Mitchell of offering a distraction to hide something important concerning Rick’s death.

He might still do that.

But her eyes glazed over and one undulating wave wobbled through her body. His wife, no, ex-wife now, had done this exact same damn thing before she’d dropped to the ground. She’d been pregnant with another man’s child.

Jon caught Sylvie Mitchell before she fell. Quickly he wrapped his left arm around her back and bent to shove his right hand under her jean-clad knees. Scooping her up, he marched across the street and straight back into the medical center.

Thankfully, an elderly couple opened all the doors for him, and the startled receptionist who a moment before had pointed out Sylvie, hurried to locate a free bed in the adjoining ward.

“She’s fainted,” he stated, laying her down on the examination bed. A nurse bustled in, shoving him back as she began a quick assessment.

A movement caught his attention. The receptionist had opened the door to leave, but not before eyeing him with open curiosity. Did she expect him to follow?

No way. And he told her so with a sharp frown before she hurried out. Jon turned back to the examination table.

After checking Sylvie’s vital signs, the nurse rolled her into the recovery position. Then she looked up at him. “What was she doing when she fainted?”

“Talking to me. I caught her before she fell.”

“Good thing. She could have really rapped her head.” She slung the stethoscope around her neck. “Her vitals are fine, but I’ll get the doctor to look at her, just in case.” She stalked over to the wide medicine cabinet and pulled out a clear capsule. She returned to the bed, broke it open and shoved it under Sylvie’s nose.

Sylvie flinched. Her eyelids fluttered wide and she batted the nurse’s hand away. “Ew! What the hell?”

The nurse smiled as she discarded the smelling salts. “Works every time.” She peered down at Sylvie before patting her hand. “You fainted. Lie still. I’ll ask the doctor to check you over.”

The nurse left them alone. Jon remained by the window, again speculating on whether the faint had been a ploy to avoid answering his question. The military had pulled every other damn stunt to prevent him from learning exactly what had happened the night Rick died.

Like the night he’d called Rick’s commanding officer. Oh, the man had been more than polite, calling Jon “sir” and showing in his voice the right amount of sympathy and concern. But Jon’s gut tightened with intuition when the man turned vague about the details: investigation still on-going; bad weather that night; trouble finding the truck they’d sent out on detail.

Jon was a police officer in Canada’s biggest city. Lies, omissions, and cover-ups came with the territory, and there were some of each crossing through the phone lines that night.

“Trouble finding the truck?” he’d barked back. “How could that happen? You sent them out on a detail, with a route to follow?”

“The weather was poor, Mr. Cahill,” the commander had answered. “I’m sorry, but the connection is bad on this end. I must tell you, we’re still investigating your brother’s death very thoroughly.”

“What did his supervisor say happened?”

“Warrant Officer Mitchell gave her statement that night, sir, and has already repatriated back to Canada.”

Jon had frowned. “When?”

“The day after the memorial service, actually.”

“Would it be possible to talk to her?”

“Mr. Cahill, I’m not at liberty to say any more—”

The line had gone dead, and Jon wagered it wasn’t because of a bad connection. Not at liberty to say. The commander had been watching too many media interviews on TV.

Why had Rick’s supervisor been shipped back so soon? She sure as hell got out of Dodge pretty damn quick. And why couldn’t they find their own supply truck? Intuition burned hot inside of him.

Now the military would get a lesson in how good the police were with investigations. Finding Warrant Officer Sylvie Mitchell had been a breeze.

Jon focused on the woman lying in front of him, intuition still itching his skin. Something was definitely being covered up.

And Sylvie Mitchell was his last chance to find out what that was. God help her if she clammed up, as well. He walked over to the bed and leaned slightly forward. “Feeling better?”

Her eyes flew open, shock and horror flaring in them. And fear, too?

Fear of what? Him?

His anger dropped away like an icy stone. He wasn’t here to scare the facts out of her. All he wanted was the truth about Rick, something he deserved above all else.

Sylvie Mitchell had better understand that.

Sylvie. The name conjured up the image of a sultry brunette with voluptuous curves and a come-hither smile.

This woman could only be the exact opposite. A blond, she had lean, toned, minimal curves, and no way would he ever expect a beckoning, erotic smile to crack her efficient, porcelain complexion.

“As soon as you started to wobble, I picked you up and carried you over here.”

She blinked around the room. “Where am I?”

He followed her gaze. Judging from the posters and the odd-looking pieces of monitoring equipment, he realized this place must be a birthing room of some kind. “In the maternity ward attached to the medical center, I presume. I haven’t got a lot of experience in this area.” Not wanting to dwell on that fact, he turned back to her. “How do you feel?”

Sylvie inhaled and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the examination table. “Better. Thank you.”

He shoved out his hand to stop her from rising off the bed. She wore a short-sleeved T-shirt, leaving plenty of exposed skin to touch.

Warm, dry skin. And softer under his fingertips than he’d expected from a soldier.

He yanked back his hand. “Just the same, wait for the doctor. There has to be some reason you fainted.”

She shot him a wary look. “I missed breakfast.”

Jon glanced at his watch. “It’s only ten o’clock. What time do you Albertans get up?”

“Early.” She looked the other way. “I run a ranch just outside of town, so I don’t sleep in.”

Jon was ready to shove her back onto the table, should she try to stand. But she didn’t. Rather, with a soft exhalation, she lay back down and shut her eyes.

That was it? Jon waited for more, for anything to stop him from staring at her lean form: her right knee bent; breasts that were still firm enough to curve upward; and a thin line of flat stomach that looked as though it needed warm, moist kisses—

He swung away from her. Hell, maybe he should leave. He’d acted on impulse coming here, and through all the hours traveling, he’d envisioned a different Sylvie Mitchell, a different set of answers and a much different reaction to her.

He shoved aside the attraction. No way would he leave. He was so close to finally hearing the truth he could taste it.

But Sylvie Mitchell looked so vulnerable lying there. He cleared his throat and looked over at her. “Um, do you want me to get you something to eat?”

“Do you want me to throw up on you?”

Her face was so deadpan Jon couldn’t help but smile. Yet the pitiful grin fell away quickly. Oh, cripes, it had been so long since he smiled it hurt his cheeks. “Not really.”

She said no more, only lay there, eyes shut again, totally ignoring him.

“Ms. Mitchell?”

She opened her eyes.

“You knew my brother, didn’t you?”

She blinked. “You don’t look like him.”

Annoyed that she didn’t answer his question directly, he worked his jaw. “He took after our mother. I favor our father.” Both of whom were dead, he wanted to add.

“Rick was so blond,” she added softly, studying his face with a tiny frown. “And you’re the exact opposite.” She raised her eyebrows. “You say you’re Rick’s brother, but frankly you don’t look like him. How do I know you’re telling me the truth? You could be a reporter snooping out a story, for all I know.”

Was there a story to snoop out? he wanted to ask. Instead, and without a word, he yanked his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open onto the narrow area of examination table between them. She lifted her head to peer down at it.

He knew what it said. Jonathan Andrew Cahill. Toronto Police Services.

She slumped back on the bed. Oh, mercy. A police officer in search of the truth about his murdered brother.

Could it get any worse?

“You’re a cop?”

“Like our father, before a drug pusher ambushed him.”

Ambushed? Sylvie rubbed her arms, hoping the sudden goose bumps would disappear. She didn’t need to be an expert in psychology to know that telling Jon his only brother had died in nearly the same fashion wouldn’t be a good thing. Not while this man still carried a frustrated anger so big that she could practically see it roosting on his shoulder like a gargoyle.

“I’m sorry. I remember Rick telling me about him.”

“He was a good police officer. Then some bastard killed him. And two years later that bastard walked out of court a free man.”

What could she say? His bitter tone resounded through the room, bouncing off the walls and bombarding her, over and over. A free man. When his father lay dead.

She silently prayed he’d suggest they meet someplace, at a future date….

Something she could prepare for—or maybe even avoid.

The man heaved a burdened sigh as he picked up his wallet to pocket it. “Look, to say the least, the military has been vague about Rick’s death. I have yet to receive anything in writing. I spoke to Rick’s—and your—commanding officer, and…” He paused, quite distinctly, too, leaving the impression he was tailoring his words carefully. “…all he said was Rick was on a detail with you. Delivering rations to an outpost. The accident occurred in the mountains. Right?”

She studied the ceiling. Delivering rations to an outpost that didn’t exist. Driving around the wrong mountain. “Yes.” She couldn’t look at him and focus on his words at the same time. “I’m sorry Rick died. He was a good soldier.”

Frustration surged inside of him. Damn it, that was it? A short apology for losing a good soldier? He hadn’t come halfway across the country to hear that trite compliment. He hadn’t been told by the chief of police to take all the time he needed to deal with Rick’s death—even if it took all summer—just to hear what a good soldier Rick had been.

And he wouldn’t ignore the suspicion gripping his gut at her brush-off. No blasted way.

His mouth thinned. “Rick was a hell of a lot more than just a good soldier.”

He watched her blink, fear in the gaze she suddenly couldn’t level on him. Fear again? It had to be something else.

“You were with him when he died, weren’t you?”

She said nothing. Jon crushed the urge to grab her and shake her and demand the whole damn, blasted truth once and for all. But, checking his fury, he clenched his fists and stalked to the window.

Finally she spoke, her voice so barely above a whisper he had to hold his breath to hear her. “I’m so sorry. We’d driven—” She checked her words, for what reason, he couldn’t guess. “We’d done similar details before. Got stuck together overnight more often than not because of mudslides or bad weather. Never once had we been ambushed.”

He whirled, his heart pounding, his throat suddenly dry. It took him a minute to find his voice. “Ambushed? No one said anything about an ambush! What the hell are you talking about?”

Horrified, she fell silent again and looked away.

Ambush? Was that what the military was keeping from him? Rick had been attacked, in a country purporting to be at peace.

No. Even ambushes make the news, especially in these troubled times.

He stalked over to her and pressed a fist on either side of the black vinyl table, not caring if he towered over her like a madman. “I want to know about this ambush. Now.”

She wouldn’t even look at him. Swearing internally, he pulled back and raked his fingers through his hair. So close to the truth! So close he could feel it teasing him. How could she shut up now? “Look, Ms. Mitchell. Sylvie. My only living relative has died and no one will give me any details. Do you think that’s fair? Do you think Rick deserves to be forgotten so easily?” He sucked in a long breath in a desperate attempt to control his growing frustration.

Her hand strayed to her belly. The sunlight streaming in the window behind him caught a narrow, glimmering trail of a tear as it escaped her eye. She furtively swiped it away and pushed herself up, this time meeting his glare with equal intensity. “Rick isn’t forgotten, all right? I was there. I tried to keep him alive, but I couldn’t.” She paled, then sagged. Was she going to pass out again? “Now, could you please leave me alone?”

The door swung open and in strolled the doctor. He carried a clipboard and smiled at Sylvie. “Good morning. I hear you’ve fainted.”

Jon glanced at Sylvie. She lay back down and closed her eyes. “Yes, I did.”

The doctor directed his attention to Jon. “Could you please leave us for a few minutes? I won’t be long.”

Jon looked to Sylvie, hoping that somehow she might ask him to stay. But of course she wouldn’t. They were strangers, regardless of the fact she’d been with his only relative up until the moment—

Unable to form the words in his mind, Jon stormed out of the room. He might as well write off talking to Sylvie Mitchell today. But she’d mentioned a ranch outside of town. It wouldn’t be hard to find, despite there being nearly as many ranches here as Stetsons. Maybe talking on her own turf would make her feel less intimidated. And, hopefully, she’d have eaten by then and couldn’t use the excuse of fainting to avoid conversation.

For a tall, strong woman, she didn’t look the type to faint for lack of food. In fact, she looked pretty damn good, period. When he’d spotted her across the street, her creamy complexion had looked healthy, her body toned. Her short, blond hair gleamed with good health.

Her skin soft like warm peaches against his.

Whoa, Cahill. That’s pushing it, don’t you think?

Suspicion still curdling inside of him, Jon stalked down the corridor to the receptionist’s desk. He’d ask for a phone book there. He’d find her ranch.

“Excuse me?”

He turned at the sound of the voice. The receptionist bustled past him and behind the counter, throwing a smile at him as she went. “Don’t worry about her. She’ll be fine. Soon she’ll be outside, enjoying this lovely day. Best way to start the summer, isn’t it, with a great weekend ahead, weatherwise. Do you have her medical insurance card? I’ll need it.”

He bristled at the bright, cheery chatter. It had been a long time since he’d been in a small town. Toronto wasn’t the kind of place where people struck up friendly conversations with perfect strangers. They barely made eye contact. And being a cop, he found himself suspicious whenever someone he didn’t know started talking.

But he wouldn’t ignore the opportunity. “I’m sorry. I don’t have her card. I’m still worried about her,” he said, hedging his way into the conversation. “She’s…not the kind to faint.”

“It happens like this sometimes, but the symptoms should pass soon. You must be a…‘friend’ of hers?” Her stare was openly curious. She stood there, no doubt hoping he would fill the empty silence with an answer.

He forced a brief smile onto his face. Now why should she put so much emphasis on the word friend? He gave her a knowing look. “More than a friend, believe me.” Perhaps this chatty little receptionist could direct him out to Sylvie’s ranch?

The woman smiled back. Abruptly, the doctor strolled behind the counter and dropped a slim file on the desk along with a few sample packs of medicine from his pocket.

Jon glanced at them as they fell onto the file. Prenatal vitamins, in pale-pink wrappers.

Prenatal?

“Give these to Ms. Mitchell, will you, Fleur? And I want to see her in my office first thing next Wednesday morning.” The doctor noticed Jon, and his smile broadened. “Your wife’s fine. Though I suggest you take her home and feed her. She shouldn’t miss any more meals.”

Jon nodded, unwilling to correct the man on their marital status. The mistake could prove useful. “I will.”

The doctor gone, the receptionist scooped up the vitamins and smiled at him. “See? Nothing that won’t cure itself by December.”

His face fell. Talk about hitting the jackpot. All he’d hoped for were directions to her ranch.

Fainting, prenatal vitamins. The look of horror on her face when he spoke of Rick. The hand that slid to her flat belly.

Stuck overnight more often than not, she’d said.

Taking the offered vitamin samples, he strode down the hall. The cure coming in December? A hasty bit of mental math quickened his step. He should have known. Hadn’t his ex-wife fainted that one day and blamed it on missing a meal? Right before asking for a divorce? She’d been queasy all through their meetings with the lawyers. A blessing that had ended in an uncontested divorce.

She’d practically raced out to her lover after that, leaving him at the lawyer’s office with a bitter taste in his mouth.

A mental litany of the secrets she’d kept from him danced in his mind. The path ahead of him was starting to look pretty damn familiar, and while Tanya’s secrets meant squat to him now, Sylvie Mitchell’s were worth a hell of a lot more.

Jon thinned his lips. Did this have something to do with Rick’s commanding officer’s reluctance to speak to him?

His heart pounded in his throat as he swung open the door to the labor room. Damn appropriate room, he’d say.

Sylvie looked up as he strode in.

“Feeling better now?” His tight voice sliced the quiet.

A tiny frown creased her forehead. “Fine, thank you.”

He gritted his teeth as he dropped the pink packages into her lap. “So, is it Rick’s baby you’re carrying, or did you two just talk on those nights you were stuck together?”




Chapter 2


After spending thirteen years in army logistics and supply, Sylvie had met her share of intimidating jerks. Most she either ignored or answered with a blunt, uncomplainable “Yes, sir.”

But cornered in this stifling birthing room, she could do neither. Nor was it in her nature to lie. She had kept herself as honest as possible in a trade that had more thieving bin rats than it had army boots.

Try as she might, she couldn’t ignore the intimidating man who filled the doorway, any more than she could have ignored him when he scooped her up like a child and walked calmly across the street to the clinic.

Oh, she hadn’t been so fully unconscious that she didn’t realize she was being carried. She’d felt his arms around her, the heat of his chest penetrating deep into her…and, well, if truth were told, she hadn’t minded it one bit.

They say one’s whole value system changes when one faints; it certainly had with her. But not to the point of telling this man she was carrying his nephew or niece. What if he asked more questions? What if he wanted to know how serious she’d been with Rick? What if he learned the truth?

She turned her attention to the window, wishing it could open and let in the strong mountain breeze she so desperately needed. “What did the receptionist tell you?”

“Nothing you could use in a formal complaint, if that’s what you’re thinking. I put two and two together. I’m right, aren’t I? You’re pregnant.”

If she opened her mouth, she’d tell the truth, the way she’d always done. She pursed her lips.

Jon continued, his arms folded over his chest. “I’ll take that as a yes. I didn’t know you and Rick were so close. He always spoke highly of you, but in a supervisor-subordinate sense. Or so I understood.”

She slid off the bed, ignoring the sharp pang of hunger that booted away her fading nausea. “Look, yes, I’m pregnant, okay? But as to who the father is, that’s my business, not yours.”

She tried to brush past him, but he stepped in front of the door and at the same time kicked it shut with the heel of his shoe.

The sharp click echoed around the hot, quiet room.

“We’re not done talking, Ms. Mitchell.”

Her head shot up. For the first time, she stared hard at him, forcing herself to notice every little detail of his handsome face.

She’d like nothing better than to fire back that he had no right to decide when she was done talking. She leaned in close….

Too close and way too personal for her liking.

Well, maybe not totally against her liking. If circumstances had been different…

His coal-black hair wasn’t neat the way his smooth polo shirt and pressed pants were. Maybe he was the kind of man who ran his fingers constantly through it.

She peered into his narrowed eyes, recognizing in the dark, brittle-blue irises a hint of Rick. Although Rick’s would have narrowed in the sunlight only, not out of mistrust like this man. She’d rarely seen Rick without one of his trademark, handsome grins. He had trusted so easily, she thought, her stomach tightening again.

Shaken by the memories she’d conjured up, she stepped back from Jon.

Somewhere from down the corridor, a baby wailed. Jon snapped his head around, listening. The crying stopped almost immediately.

Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at her. “I wonder if it was the father or the mother who picked that baby up. What do you think?”

“I’m sure it was the nurse.” She took another step forward again. “Now, please excuse me, Mr. Cahill.”

“Call me Jon. Because you’re going to see a lot of me in the future,” he said in a smooth-as-silk voice.

She shot a sharp glare into his calm features. “I haven’t confirmed your suspicions, Mr. Cahill.”

“It’s my business to read people’s faces, Sylvie. Yours is no different. I’m not condemning you for carrying my brother’s child. I’m just telling you I will be a part of its life.”

“You didn’t tell me how you came to suspect such a thing.”

“The receptionist gave me a date when you’ll be ‘cured,’ and from your commanding officer, I learned when you left Bosnia. You retired eleven weeks ago immediately after Rick’s memorial service. You’ve been pregnant about twelve weeks, haven’t you?”

What could she say? She nodded.

“You told me you and Rick got stuck overnight more often than not, confirming what Rick had already told me in his e-mails.” He drew in a deep breath, as if controlling some troubling part of himself. “Rick died March twenty-sixth. All of these facts plus the way you reacted when I mentioned him made me suspicious. Am I correct?”

Hunger kicked at her again, but this time she fought off the pangs. She could stand on a parade square for days, shifting very little, never feeling hungry, tired or woozy. Yet today, feeling like the stuff at the bottom of a horse stall, she could barely nod her head.

She managed to anyway. What was the use? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that this guy…with eyes like frozen diamonds, who had cradled her in a way she hadn’t figured she would want to be cradled…he wouldn’t give up until he knew the truth.

“Yes,” she whispered, shocked that she was relenting. “This is Rick’s baby.”

Wait. She’d plowed through a tour of duty in one of the world’s worst war zones without ever weakening, and yet one moment of Jon’s questioning and she’d caved. What was wrong with her?

For starters, she hadn’t plowed through the whole tour of duty without weakening. There was that one night…when she’d thought only of herself. And how she hadn’t wanted to die a—

Jon folded his strong-looking arms across his powerful chest and nodded. Sylvie’s knees wobbled, and she recalled briefly how good it had felt being carried, her head sagging against his firm, warm shoulder.

“Good.” Leaning forward, he took her arm and steered her into the corridor without so much as looking her way. “Now that we have that confirmation out of the way, I’ll drive you home. On the way, you can tell me what everyone said about the age difference between you and Rick. It must be more than ten years.”



Jonathan Cahill was a bastard. And Sylvie knew bastards. They came a dime a dozen in the army. This man cut to the quick, wasted no words and had a damn annoying expectation that his questions would be answered truthfully and immediately.

And he scared her. Rick had told her once that his parents were both dead, leaving him and his brother alone. What he had neglected to tell her was that his older brother was as possessive of Rick’s memory as he was downright nasty.

She would have protested the way he directed her out of the medical center, but she didn’t want to call attention to herself, or her condition.

The hot Albertan sun beat down on her when they stepped outside. How she managed to reach Jon’s rental car was beyond her. Of course, his firm grip on her elbow had helped.

No! She didn’t need his help. She shrugged off his hand and with a deep breath, managed to stay upright as Jon unlocked the car with the touch of a remote control. She took the opportunity of his averted attention to recover her faltering independence. If he had thought of helping her inside, he was mistaken. She threw open the door and climbed in.

Oh, my. Leather seats. Cool, smooth, yielding to her hot, aching form like the surf on the Adriatic beach where she’d taken her four-day R&R, back in November.

Jon Cahill had rented the best car in town.

She sank against the backrest.

“Good thing I parked in the shade,” he said, climbing in beside her and starting the engine. He glanced up at one of the large red maples that lined the parking lot. “It would be hot enough to have you faint again.”

She didn’t comment as he cranked up the air-conditioning.

“Which way?” he asked.

She directed him out of town, uncertainty nibbling at her. She couldn’t imagine the military divulging its secrets, and she doubted that Jon had come all this way to merely find closure. He knew more. Or he suspected more.

He’d said something about not knowing the truth. During the debrief, her CO had told her the military still had to finish their investigation. Considering what she knew, yes, of course, she was expected to keep silent. And for once Sylvie had been in full agreement. She had no desire to discuss what had really happened, especially with Jon Cahill and his obvious deep-seated bitterness.

She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry about your father. My mother died about ten years ago.”

“So you live with your dad on your ranch?”

“Now that I’ve taken over the place, yes. Sort of. I did when I came home on leave, of course.” She sighed at her foolish stumble of words. “I guess I do now. But he and Andrea go south in the winter. A few years ago he remarried. My stepmother…she’s great and all, but…”

“But what?”

Sylvie shrugged. “I don’t know her very well. She’s a lot younger than Dad and loves the great outdoors. They take university students on primitive expeditions all summer long. They’ve been gone for the past two weeks.”

“I see.”

Great. She sounded like a jealous daughter, but she wasn’t. Andrea kept Dad active and alive. She was good for him and had even convinced her father to sign the ranch over to Sylvie, something Sylvie had secretly hoped would happen.

“So you haven’t told your father about your pregnancy yet. And you don’t know how to, either, right?”

“Reading my face again?”

“Among other things.” He turned to her when they stopped at Trail’s only traffic light, and as they lingered at the intersection, his gaze drifted up from her knees, pausing at her hips a moment, before completing the inspection with a journey to her face. “How long will your father be gone?”

“Most of the summer. On and off. And I’m not worried about what he’ll say. Dad is, well, mildly supportive of everything I do. Andrea might want to help a bit too much, but at least she’s never had a baby, so I won’t get too much anecdotal advice.”

He kept staring at her face, as if gauging whether or not she was telling him the truth. Then, as if he’d just remembered he was driving, he noticed the green light and eased the sports car into the intersection.

“What about your mother? Tell me about her,” she asked. He blinked once before answering.

“She died a few years ago.”

Yes, of course. Now she remembered. Rick had told her that lung cancer from too many cigarettes had killed his mother.

“You don’t smoke, I hope,” Jon said, as if reading her thoughts yet again.

“No.”

“Good.”

The traffic lessened as they put the town behind them and brought the foothills closer. Sylvie forced herself to relax, but the effort was in vain. The man beside her radiated the tension of a coiled spring. One sudden shift of the unknown force that held him together, and that spring would fly out like a destructive missile.

Ridiculous idea. He was a grieving man, not a loose cannon. Besides, she could handle loose cannons if she had to. She’d taken leadership courses. She knew—and had practiced—all the styles of leadership. She’d been good at soldiering.

Leaders were made, not born, the military touted, and she’d always believed that. But this man? He would have aced any of those courses. Leadership seemed as sculpted to him as the smooth, tanned skin he wore.

“Turn right here,” she told him, glad she could occupy them both with her directions. Because as soon as they reached her ranch, she’d offer her thanks, her condolences and then ask him to leave.



Jon turned the car when Sylvie pointed to a sign at the start of a long driveway. “Mountainview Ranch Campgrounds,” he read out loud. He didn’t understand. “A campground? I thought you said this was a ranch?”

“It was. And still is. When ranching bottomed out a few years ago, my father cut way back on the number of cattle and decided to diversify. A campground was one of the ideas he came up with. You know, campers wanting to experience ranch life the easy way, with motor homes and wagon rides?”

Jon peered out the side window to his left, noticing the small barn and corral that filled the center of the circular driveway. “And he’s raising exotic animals, too?”

Sylvie let out a short laugh. “Andrea’s contribution was a small petting zoo for the kids. She had to justify bringing a pot-bellied pig into their marriage. Since then, we’ve acquired a mule deer, two llamas and six foul-tempered Canada Geese who never want to fly south in the fall. But the kids love them.”

Jon touched the brakes when he spied a small group of children, who, ignoring the sign not to feed the animals, chucked handfuls of grass over the fence to the llamas.

“You can’t work this ranch alone. You’ve just retired, and now you’re expecting,” he stated the obvious.

“I have some hands. Lawrence is my biggest help, and I had three others, though one quit in the spring. They’re all expected to work both the campground and the ranch.”

“Big ranch?” In one easy sweep, he assessed the house where his nephew or niece would call home. Not a bad location. What kid wouldn’t love a ranch-cum-campground with zoo animals and wide-open spaces? He and Rick had spent their childhood in a postage-stamp-size home in middle-class Toronto.

“Not like it used to be. Only forty-two breeding cows on less than 100 acres, twenty of which are now used for camping.”

“Not much to graze on.”

“No, it isn’t. We grow some silage, but thankfully, because we’re small, we’re entitled to lease a certain portion of federal land. It works out well for us, the government land being el-shaped and connected to our land by a good trail. I used to ride out there all the time.”

“A lot of work?”

She shrugged, trying to make it appear everything was fine. She failed. And he knew it. It was a hell of a lot more work than she was making it out to be. “We manage okay. Most of the work’s in the late fall, anyway.”

Jon drove up to the main house, following Sylvie’s directions, his eyes focusing on the sprawling bungalow. The house was set apart from the campground office, which sat over to his right. He eased to a stop just as Sylvie threw open her door.

“Thanks for the ride. I feel better already.”

He snapped his attention back to her, scrambling out of the car before she could bolt into the house. “How are you going to get your car back?”

She stopped at his front bumper. “I’ll send the men in later. It’s no big deal. We make trips into town all the time.” After a pause she added, “Like I said, thanks for the lift.”

“That’s it?” Jeez, she couldn’t just expect to cut him loose. “Just thanks?” He clenched his jaw to check his rising temper. “I came here to find out what happened the night Rick died. No one will tell me. Even the death certificate didn’t say one damn thing. Just ‘death as a result of an accident.’ No one’s at liberty to say. I even had to wait to bury him, and I’ll be damned if I’m waiting any longer to find out how he died.”

Her face impassive, Sylvie stared at him while he vented his fury. He took another seething breath and added, “Put yourself in my shoes. After all of that, I find out my brother’s warrant officer is carrying his baby, and you want me to walk away with just a ‘thanks for the lift’?”

He tightened his fingers into painful fists, trying to force his body to stop shaking. When it refused, he stalked up close to Sylvie. Only when she stepped back in an attempt to retake her comfort zone, did he realize how far he was willing to push the issue.

He’d push it all the way, if he had to. He would stay here as long as it took to find out the truth. Hadn’t his chief suggested as much?

He looked down at Sylvie’s face. So clear, with features so fine and smooth it was hard to believe she’d made a career in the army. “How did my brother die? How long had you two been intimate? Was this baby planned between you two? Or did it just happen? Were you planning to marry?”

She went white. Cursing, he grabbed her arm and steered her past the wild tangle of weeds and up the crooked steps of her verandah. Damn, he should have waited before he lost his cool. But she seemed as likely to brush him off as her commanding officer had, as the escort officer had when Jon had driven up to Ottawa to meet the Hercules aircraft that had carried Rick’s remains back to Canada. That man informed him that an autopsy had been scheduled. Jon had even had to wait to bury him. To grieve properly.

At the front door he steeled himself, wondering briefly if he should push himself into her home. “Let’s get you inside. I’ll find you something to eat, all right?”

She jerked her arm back, her eyes wary yet unwilling to meet his. “I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry Rick died. I really am. Good grief, I’m carrying his baby. I wish I could, but I can’t tell you anything about his death. I signed a nondisclosure agreement, and the investigation—”

With a frown and lips that snapped shut, she stopped. He waited, silently urging her on. “That’s all I can say,” she added.

Too hurriedly, he thought.

She shook her head, finally blurting out, “Bosnia isn’t a placid little country, as much as the Bosnian government wants it to be. It’s a war zone, Jon. Soldiers die in war zones. Rick died in the line of duty. You should try to find some comfort in that.”

“Do you?”

She pulled away from him and stalked into the house. The door would have slammed shut in his face had he not been close enough behind her to throw out his palm and deflect it.

He followed her down the quiet hallway. When they reached the kitchen, Sylvie stopped and Jon nearly ran into her. His own gaze trailed after hers as she looked across the kitchen table to an older man, who stood holding a coffee cup.

“Dad?” she said, obviously surprised. “What are you doing home?”



Sylvie tried to smile at her father, to return the warmth in the grin he offered, but her hunger and Jon plowing into the kitchen behind her weakened her feeble attempt.

She watched her father’s gaze linger on her face a moment, then snap to Jon. She cleared her throat. “Dad, this is Jon Cahill. His brother was Rick Cahill. Remember, the…one who died?”

She needed to say more to her father. But now? She couldn’t just blurt out that she was also pregnant with Rick’s baby and that Jon Cahill had driven her home because she’d fainted on Trail’s main street.

No. Dad deserved to be told in a more private setting that he was going to be a grandfather.

How would he react? Sometimes, when she was young, he peered down at her after a long day outside, with a tired look that seemed to ask who she was. There was always something more important to do than to listen to his daughter’s endless, excitable chatter.

Old news, she told herself. Dad’s happy now.

She looked at Jon. “This is my father, Allister Mitchell.” She bustled past them as they shook hands across the table, not wanting to elaborate on why Jon was here, or why he’d stormed into the house after her. But she couldn’t let Jon tell her father, especially in the no-nonsense terms in which he seemed to express himself.

“Jon came to Trail looking for me. He wanted to discuss what happened to Rick.”

Allister nodded. When she first arrived home, Sylvie had given him and Andrea the briefest of explanations. Rick and she had been driving to one of the outposts when a slide had stopped them. Rick had been injured and unfortunately he’d died.

She swallowed. No thanks to her.

Her father had the wisdom to let it go at that, and Sylvie was thankful the military had shut up on the details. After reporting on the death and the memorial service, the media had turned its focus on the other hot spots around the world.

“So, Jon,” her father was saying, “how did you find Sylvie? She doesn’t go into town regularly.” He turned to her. “Why did you go in? Lawrence noticed you didn’t take the truck, so it wouldn’t have been for supplies.”

Lawrence was their old ranch hand. A second father to her. She straightened her shoulders and smiled at Allister. Without Andrea at his side, her father seemed much more approachable. Andrea would fuss too much and take over the whole conversation.

She drew in a deep breath. Delaying the inevitable had never been her way. She’d already delayed acknowledging her pregnancy longer than she should have. Besides, if Jon wanted to be part of her baby’s life, then he may as well see his whole, “newly acquired family” in a clear, transparent light, warts and all. She had no idea what her father would say, and a part of her hoped, for Jon’s sake, that her father would show some of that blunt Mitchell candor that Andrea seemed to have smoothed out so effectively.

She stared at her father, steeled her shoulders and said, “Dad, I’m pregnant. I went in to make a doctor’s appointment.”

Allister’s face went blank. “Pregnant? Who’s the father? It can’t be him—” He pointed to Jon. “You only just met, didn’t you?”

With a sigh and a stifled smile, Sylvie shook her head and threw open the refrigerator door. “No, it’s not him.” She realized how foolish she’d been, blurting out her condition. She had no desire to discuss the circumstances of the conception with anyone, especially with Jon avidly eavesdropping. “It happened in Bosnia. I’ll tell you all about it later. We’ve got lots of time for that. Now, why are you here?”

Disoriented for a minute, he took his time answering, “One of the campers got ill. We carried him down on one of the pack horses, till we met the ambulance at the edge of the highway. Oh, he’s going to be fine, just some bug. Andrea stayed up at the site with the rest of them. I was planning to go straight back out, but…”

She caught his speculative stare. “Go! There’s not much to say, at least until I get my first doctor’s appointment. I’m fine.”

“You look like death warmed over, girl.” He shook his head and turned to Jon. “Did you bring her home?”

Jon nodded. “As a matter of fact, I did. Personally, I don’t think she can do too much around here. You may want to stay back.”

She slammed the refrigerator shut. “Wait a minute! I said I’m fine. There’s nothing you can do, Dad, so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go straight back up to Andrea. I have Lawrence—”

Allister let out a snort. “Oh, Lawrence is busy enough with the campground. And he’s getting too old. Plus, we lost Tyler last month. He was supposed to help you. Can you haul around fence posts and fix up the house by yourself in your condition?”

Oh, dear. She knew where this conversation was heading, and quickly shook her head. “Of course I can’t, but—”

“No, she can’t,” Jon announced. “But I can.”

Sylvie snatched the swear word before it flew from her lips. Instead she glared at him. “You have another job, remember? You’re a cop in Toronto.”

A hint of regret whisked over his features. Regret? Fear? It had happened so fast, she couldn’t be sure.

“A cop?” her father interjected, making Sylvie wish she’d kept her mouth shut and made him think Jon was nothing but a bum off the street. Yeah, in a fine-looking polo shirt and pants that still bore an arrow-sharp crease. Allister Mitchell lived in his own world, but he wasn’t naive. She could no more make Jon Cahill look like a disreputable drifter than she could undo the horror of this past spring.

“I can easily get the summer off,” Jon said. “There are plenty of auxiliary officers looking for extra hours. Remember what I said, back there in the clinic, don’t you?”

The air, warmed by the sun streaming in the window above the sink, stuck hard in her throat. She could read so very easily the warning in Jon’s expression. He will be a part of her baby’s life. Get used to it, his eyes added.

But also, a suggestion of what he’d not said seemed to linger in the air. Who the father of her baby was.

Time stalled. Was he going to tell her father? She wished, however briefly, she’d told him the truth back there in the clinic. Every last detail that would have seen him storming out of Trail and straight to a good lawyer. The military could use a good lawsuit for all they’d done to Rick. Unless Jon chose to sue her, instead.

Sylvie tore her gaze from Jon, catching her father’s raised eyebrows and questioning smile.

“What do you think, Sylvie? It’s your ranch, now. If he can do the work, there’s no reason why we can’t hire him for the summer.”

There were a thousand reasons why they shouldn’t hire Jon Cahill. He wanted the truth from her about Rick, the details of Rick’s last hours, not a sterilized military version.

All those shameful details.

And he wanted to be a part of her baby’s life.

No. This baby was hers, not his. She would give it life, love it and raise it all by herself. She’d managed a career in the military by herself, and she’d managed to grow up without her father being around when she needed him. She would manage her new career as mother equally fine.

Without Jon Cahill, thank you very much.

“Well, Sylvie?” her father prompted.

Sylvie dared another look at Jon, half-afraid his intensity and tenacity might snare her. Those blue eyes seemed stronger, reflecting the determination he practically exuded from every pore on his strong body.

“Do I have the job, Sylvie?” As if purposely designed to contrast his powerful stare, his tone turned quiet, persuasive.

There was that silky version of her name, too.

This was insane. But to protest too much would be akin to suicide. Jon Cahill’s suspicions would soar through the roof if she kept refusing to hire him when she so obviously needed help.

“All right,” she found herself saying. He wanted the job, well, he could have it. She’d keep him so busy this summer, he’d ache to return to the easy life in Toronto. And every night when his head hit his pillow—out in the bunkhouse with the rest of the men—he’d be out like a light, forgetting, or regretting, that he’d ever told her he wanted to be a part of his brother’s child’s life.

A smile grew slowly on his face. It wasn’t much, but it did reach his eyes.

Her skin warmed and tingled in a subtle primitive answer, and those damn horrid hormones prickled under her skin again. For one stunning moment he did look just like Rick.

What had she got herself into? One night of fear and she’d broken her cardinal rule of never getting involved with another soldier.

She’d admired Rick, liked him, and had wanted him to excel in his career. But she hadn’t wanted an intimate relationship with him.

So why did you? Because of that you got him killed. The words arced across her brain, firing up another horrible wash of memories.

“Excellent.”

Mercifully, Jon’s words cut through her thoughts, and she blinked up at him. The smile, however, had slid from his eyes, leaving only cool, smug resolve.

He’d won, and he knew it, the bastard. He indicated the chair in front of her father. “Let’s get you something to eat. Then while you’re showing me what to do, you can tell me all about Rick.”




Chapter 3


“So, where are you staying?” Sylvie asked Jon before biting into the sandwich she’d thrown together. Her father had headed back out to Andrea and all the primitive campers. She’d given him a brief kiss and short hug, complete with a reassuring smile. Then she’d practically dived into the refrigerator.

Expressionless, Jon answered her question. “I’m not staying anywhere. As soon as I pulled into town, I headed into the nearest building to see if I could find out where you lived.”

Her stomach settling and accepting food now, Sylvie swallowed her bite. “Which was the medical center, right? How convenient I should have just left there.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “It’s the first thing you see when you enter town. And it’s big enough to service the whole community. I took a gamble that you might have gone there to find a doctor for yourself when you retired.”

She took another hearty bite of her sandwich. He was right about her needing a doctor. Being in the military had meant all her medical needs had been taken care of. “Good guess.”

Jon took the pitcher of milk and poured a large glass for her. “I never guess. I study people and use common sense.”

She grimaced at the milk. “Then you should be fully aware how I feel about people pampering me. I can pour my own milk, thank you.”

One corner of his mouth lifted up. “No need to get in a snit. I’m just being polite. I was hoping to get a cold drink, too.”

“Help yourself.” With one finger, she shoved the untouched glass toward him. “I guess now that you’re working here, you’re expecting to stay in the bunkhouse. Right?”

He shoved her glass of milk back in front of her. After helping himself to one of the glasses drying on the rack by the sink, he poured himself the rest of the milk. “Absolutely. Does that pose a problem for you?”

“What if I said the bunkhouse was full?”

“I’d buy a tent and stay at the campground.”

Of course he would. “I’ve told you all I can about Rick. So what do you hope to achieve here? It’s not to earn any extra money. Your job in Toronto must pay five times what I can pay you.”

“I told you I want to be a part of Rick’s baby’s life. But you don’t want me around. If I work here all summer, maybe I can convince you I’m sincere.”

She laughed, despite herself. “I knew that much. I can see you’re sincere at everything you do.”

He didn’t share her laugh. Which was just as well. Her sarcasm hadn’t meant to be one of those cute, tension-breaking quips.

He drained his milk. “Sylvie, your baby needs a father in its life. Its own father is dead, your father could do the job, but a child needs more than a grandfather who likes to camp and is ready to retire with his younger wife. I want the chance to prove to you I can be that father figure for your baby.”

She gaped at him. A father? The idea of a cozy trio bombarded her, smashing the comfortable discussion. She swallowed down her latest bite. Jon, a father to her child? He didn’t have a clue what he was saying, or the extent of what had happened to bring him here. He wouldn’t be offering if he did. “How are you going to do that? You’re the uncle who lives in Toronto. And what makes you think I can’t provide a father figure for this baby?”

His eyes narrowed. “How, by scouring the high school for another kid Rick’s age?”

She shoved back her chair and stood. “You’re talking yourself out of a job, Cahill.” She swung away from him, snatching her plate as she went. Only when she’d reached the sink and had fired the plate into it, did she count to ten.

Every swear word she’d ever learned rose in her, but she continued counting. Eight, nine…

“I’m sorry.” Jon walked around the table and stopped beside her at the sink.

She looked at him, battling the fury roiling inside her.

“I was out of line.”

She swung around to find him frowning at her. When he turned his attention to the vista seen from her kitchen window, she grabbed an opportunity to study his profile.

A straight, strong nose centered his even features. Rick had that same handsome profile, but his face hadn’t had the age and life experience to season it, as Jon’s had.

Good grief, Rick had been so young. For a second she could so clearly picture him, right where Jon now stood, his whole body focused on his task as he drove through the wet snow and mud….

Moments before they slammed into the landslide that had been deliberately set.

An hour or so before they’d done the unthinkable. A few hours before he’d died.

Before she’d gotten him killed, just to satisfy a selfish, ludicrous desire.

Sylvie swallowed the hard lump in her throat and fought off another stinging round of shameful memories. From the moment they scrambled into the back of the truck, to await the Quick Reaction Force, the truth and the official report diverged widely.

She would never bridge them, either.

Jon turned to face her once more. Mercifully, Rick disappeared from her mind as she watched Jon’s eyes moisten and cloud over. “Sylvie, I’m really sorry. I should never have said that crap about high school. You and Rick must have cared for each other. A lot, if you’re carrying his baby. And to watch him die….” His voice faded into a hoarse whisper. “You two were lovers. I’m only the brother.”

Something clamped hard around her heart. She wanted nothing more than to corral the ache and the shame and all the guilty memories that dogged her every minute. She clenched her jaw, fighting the mix that wouldn’t be corralled.

Seeing the torment, Jon swore and hauled her into his arms. She went stiff, taken aback by his sudden compassion, but he did not relent. He pulled her tighter still, pressing her head into the side of his neck, as he drove his hands and face into her short, unruly hair.

She could smell the faded scent of his soap. He’d missed a spot when he’d shaved that morning and it scraped her temple. For one instant Jon Cahill was human, suffering like her. She’d known him for two hours and already unwanted empathy forced her arms to wrap around him.

She tried her best to comfort him. He tightened his grip on her further, and strangely the embrace eased the aching within her instead.

“Thank you,” he said into her hair. “Thank you for giving me this chance.”

For the next few minutes they did nothing but hold each other. Every part of his front touched her. He’d managed to shift his feet to enclose hers, and from his ankles up, his body fed hers with comfort. The whole long, firm length of him.

She sighed. Too soon to be offering such personal comfort, a part of her warned. He pulled back, only enough to see her face. She lifted her head, expecting to see tears still welling inside of his eyes.

But the look wasn’t angry or grieving or anything she’d expected. Her heart reacted first, tripping up into a higher gear, as though it knew exactly what the look on his face meant before she even understood it herself.

His eyes, already dark in color, deepened, heating and stirring embers inside of her that should be left to grow cold. They’d sparked to life once, and look where she now found herself?

Jon’s gaze dropped to her parted lips, and then back up, slowly roaming her face, as if in search of something.

Then, with smooth precision, Jon lowered his head. He was going to kiss her. And she wanted to feel those smooth, firm lips on hers.

Panic burst inside of her. He didn’t want to kiss her. He couldn’t. They shouldn’t. He wasn’t thinking about it. Was he?

As if arcing across to him, the panic flared in his own eyes. He pushed her away, driving his fingers into his hair, looking around the kitchen at everything except her.

He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you show me what you want me to do? You can ask this Lawrence guy to show me the bunkhouse later, okay?”



He’d nearly kissed her! What the hell was he thinking of?

He wasn’t sure if he even liked her, for Pete’s sake. She was far from the woman he’d mentally pictured Rick would end up with. On the exterior, Sylvie seemed like most single women in positions of authority.

But there was also a part of her that kept pushing him, provoking him…telling him both openly and subliminally that he would never learn what really happened the night Rick died.

And still, he’d wanted to kiss her?

Jon followed Sylvie out the door, the horror of his intentions smacking him like the dry, mountain air.

At home, he and Rick had never been competitive. He’d been preparing for college when his mother had announced her pregnancy. He’d just turned seventeen when Rick was born, his arrival a joy in the household. Jon had accepted his younger brother from the moment Rick first spat breast milk down the back of his favorite shirt.

This sudden need to kiss Sylvie wasn’t born of jealousy. He refused to believe that. So what the hell was it born of, then?

Outside, the sun beat down on them. Squinting at Sylvie, he asked, “Do you have a hat? It’s hot out here. You don’t feel faint, do you?”

Sylvie stopped at the fence that enclosed the nearest paddock. She spun her heel in the dirt to face him. “Let’s get one thing clear. First up, pregnant women can vomit at the drop of a hat and then feel like heaven for the rest of the day. I know. I’ve had eight weeks of doing just that. And secondly, I’ll let my doctor and my own good sense tell me what I should and shouldn’t do. All right?”

Good. She’d raised that defensive wall again. He needed that. “I don’t want you to embarrass yourself in your own backyard, that’s all.”

She returned to her walking. When they reached the small barn closest to the house, she threw open the door and stepped into the dark building. He followed.

“I’ll give you one thing, Jon. You’re not intimidated by a tough woman, are you?”

He stepped into the dimness after her. “There won’t be much you can do or say that will faze me, sweetheart, so don’t bother scaring up all your worst military habits to try and oust me. My ex-wife was a social worker in Toronto’s Chinatown. She was every bit as tough as you and I managed to hold my own with her.”

“Before or after you two divorced?”

If he’d expected capitulation, he’d have been as big a fool as he’d been during his farce of a marriage. His ex-wife had been pregnant, into her second trimester and he hadn’t even noticed. Had she hidden it that well, or had he just stopped caring?

Ahead, Sylvie had become a shadow in the dimly lit barn. But he saw enough to notice her hand stray to her still-flat belly.

He crushed the urge to swear. Loudly. At Sylvie. She had exactly what he wanted. She could give him Rick’s last hours, make that connection—be that connection—to his lost brother. She carried his only living relative and…she was also keeping a secret. He’d worked with enough suspects to know the difference between those who openly admitted they weren’t going to talk, and those with a secret to keep.

But Sylvie fitted both and it pissed him off.

Inhaling the smells of hay and animals, he became thankful that she couldn’t make out his features and guess his thoughts, in case she could read him as easily as he read her.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he searched for the words to gloss over the memory of that day his ex-wife announced she was carrying some other social worker’s child. “My ability to hold my own with my wife had no bearing on our marriage or our divorce. We simply grew apart, living separate lives until she announced one day she was moving out. I couldn’t think of a single good reason for her to stay.”

She studied his face, exactly as he expected her to. “And you’re telling me this because you want to show me you’re sincere, right?”

For a moment he wasn’t sure if she believed him or not. His words didn’t even ring true in his own ears. “I’m not telling you this to prove anything. You asked,” he finally answered.

She shrugged and turned her attention to a small room nearby.

Anger swelled in him. All of this foolishness could be avoided, if Sylvie would tell him what he wanted to know. “How did Rick die?”

Sylvie stiffened as she swung away from him. “I told you I can’t talk about it. I signed a nondisclosure agreement. You’re familiar with those, aren’t you? Legally binding documents that say you can’t say anything—even if you want to? Look, I know you’re hurting, but recounting Rick’s last hours isn’t going to bring him back. It’s only going to torture you.”

She didn’t meet his steady gaze. She was hiding behind a rule, a contract, just like his ex-wife had hidden behind her own privacy when he’d asked her who the father was.

Sharply, he pulled the anger in. He wasn’t angry with Tanya. She’d been lucky enough to find love again quickly. Her baby had been a shock and a complication, and he still wasn’t sure how to take it, but now he focused on the fact that the kid would be loved and cared for.

Would Sylvie’s baby have that good fortune? Of course. Whether she realized it or not, Sylvie was already displaying strong protective instincts. She wanted Rick’s baby…and she didn’t want him.

A knot formed in his stomach. “Your candor isn’t going to shock me, Sylvie, so don’t try to use it as a weapon.”

Her expression suddenly softened. “Rick was like that, too. Never bothered by my forthrightness. I admired that in him. A lot of soldiers resented me and my attitude. I could never figure them out. They didn’t mind women in the army, and would say we had to be ‘one of the guys.’ So I was one and they resented that. But Rick didn’t care. He was—” she paused “—reasonable.”

The knot tightened. “Reasonable? That’s all you have? Rick was a hell of a lot more than reasonable. He had to have been to father that child of yours!” He tried to clip his growing irritation, but hell, how could she just tag on some blasé term?

Sylvie reddened, a reaction he hadn’t expected to see. He plowed on, regardless. “Rick must have cared for you. He wasn’t the kind of person who would screw a woman simply because it felt like a good idea.” The coarse words tasted bitter on his tongue. He hated them. But looking at her go from red to white, he was glad he’d struck a nerve.

“I know what Rick was like. We did talk when we were stuck alone in that truck.”

“You did more than talk.”

“What we did and why we did it are none of your business.” She narrowed her eyes. “Who are you really mad at, here? Me, Rick, or the ex-wife you grew apart from?”

Any sharp retort he had inside snapped back at him like a taut rubber band. She spun away from him and bustled into a small room.

“We keep all the tools in here,” she gritted out. “I need you to fix the zoo paddock first. Bruce, he’s the pot-bellied pig, keeps slipping under the fence. He’s already dug through a camper’s garbage. I’m thinking that if you take some of the wire that’s behind the barn and bury it where he’s been digging, we should thwart him good. When you’ve done that, the front steps need nailing down again.”

She was ready to leave him to his chores, stalk right past him, in fact, when she frowned at his clothes. “You should change.”

He looked down at his shirt. He had packed one set of old shorts and a couple of T-shirts, in case he could squeeze in some jogging, but that was all. He hadn’t figured he’d be sticking around all summer.

He looked into the toolroom. Well, at least he’d still be exercising.

“Sylvie?” A voice called from deep within the barn.

She slipped past Jon. “Yes, Lawrence?”

Jon followed her out of the toolroom. A tall, wiry, white-haired man appeared. He looked at Jon with a sharp frown.

Sylvie made the simplest of introductions. “Jon is the brother of one of the soldiers I knew in Bosnia.”

Lawrence nodded, silently taking in Jon and his toodressy-for-the-barn clothes. The old man turned back to Sylvie. “Heard you puking again this morning.”

Jon also looked at him. Apparently, the idea of mincing words didn’t exist on this ranch.

“You’ll notice Lawrence has learned the Mitchell art of diplomacy,” Sylvie said. “He’s worked for my father and grandfather.”

“I’m too old to beat around the bush.”

Sylvie drew in a long breath, steeling her shoulders at the same time. “I’m surprised you’ve waited so long to say something. I’m pregnant, okay?”

Lawrence shrugged and headed into the small toolroom, talking as he went. “You want me to do the wagon tour tonight? The sign-up list at the office is full.”

“Yes, thanks.” She shut her eyes, and Jon watched her swallow.

Behind both of them, Lawrence chuckled. “Hard to believe after all those rough roads and ol’ army trucks, you’re brought to your knees by a homemade prairie schooner and a simple pregnancy.”

“Thanks, Lawrence, you always make me feel better.”

He turned to Jon. “Here camping?”

“Sylvie offered me a job for the summer.”

“Really?” Lawrence squinted at him. “Can you ride?”

Jon glanced over at Sylvie, who also waited for his reply. “I did a two-year stint with the mounted unit in Toronto.”

Lawrence quirked an eyebrow at Sylvie, who added, “Jon’s a police officer in Toronto. But he’s only needed here to do the yard work and general maintenance. I don’t see any reason to have him riding around with you all day.”

“Then you may want him to run into town with you. The shipping company called. Your unaccompanied baggage has finally arrived.”

“Good. It’s about time.” She smiled at Lawrence. Hardly broad, it was gentle, patient, so different. “Why don’t you help me with it? I have a gift for you in it.”

Lawrence chuckled and smiled back.

Now that was interesting. She was obviously very attached to the old man. Jon tucked that mental note away for future possibilities.

But the old man shook his head. “Not today, I’m afraid. We’ve got four stupid head of cattle that have broken through the fence and wandered up the trail. They gave three hikers quite a scare when they chased them.”

Jon spoke up. “I’ll take you into town, Sylvie. It’ll give me a chance to buy more appropriate clothes. And you can get your car, if you’re feeling up to driving home, that is.”

At his subtle challenge, she shot him a suspicious look. Then, catching sight of the uplifted corner of his mouth, the look shifted. Her smooth, lush lips parted, her eyes widened.

The mote-filled air around them heated and thickened. And the moment lingered.

Jon stared at her. In his line of work, he only ever saw the innocent, haunted look Sylvie now wore on the faces of child victims.

Innocent? Surely he was mistaken. He had to be missing something here. Damn it, something to do with Rick?

He stared harder at her, silently willing her to speak. Tell me what you can’t say, Sylvie.

She blinked away the haunted expression, and immediately the coolness returned. “Sure we can go now. I’m fine.”

No, she wasn’t, his intuition whispered. Jon pursed his lips into a tight line. Maybe the look had been a product of heat and hormones. Pregnant women glowed, they said.

“Then it’s settled,” Lawrence said, oblivious to the disturbing undercurrent flowing between Jon and Sylvie. “Better take the truck.”

Jon mentally yanked himself from his thoughts. He gave Sylvie his best poker face. “Yeah. Ready?”

Sylvie cleared her throat and nodded. She walked past the two men, Jon pivoting to watch her leave.

Was she really a victim here? She had been in the truck with Rick when it had been ambushed. Victim was the correct word.

So why was he here, waiting for just the right moment to squeeze out the private secrets of Rick’s last hours, in total violation of the legally binding agreement she’d signed?

What the hell kind of person was he?

A man in need of the truth, that’s what. The truth from a woman keeping more than a secret hidden inside of her.

“Oh, hey, Jon,” Lawrence interrupted his desperate thoughts. The old man scratched a stubby growth of beard. “Um, the library is right beside the shipping company. I’m going to call in and have a few books signed out. Would you mind picking them up while Sylvie’s getting her stuff? Under the name of Lawrence Fawcett. The librarian will know.”



Sylvie shoved open the barn door and escaped outside, inhaling the mountain breeze with hope it would clear her mind. She hadn’t wanted to go into town with Jon, suspecting he’d find it the perfect time to pump her for details she’d rather not give. Rather not? More likely, never give.

But when he lifted one corner of his mouth, with challenge in his eyes, she’d felt a stirring within.

God, he was gorgeous. It hadn’t really struck her until that moment. Suddenly, one night of passion—one of the most inappropriate events ever—had transformed her from…

She swallowed. From cool virgin to full, sensual woman.

Her temples pounded. She hadn’t wanted to get involved with Rick.

Until she faced death as a virgin.

Oh, Lord. She’d been so incredibly selfish. A man was dead just because she hadn’t wanted to die a virgin, and now she was pregnant, alone, and of all things, fatally attracted to her one-time lover’s bitter brother, who was hinting that he wanted to be a father to the child.

Wasn’t that dandy?

Directly in her vision stood the back of the house, or more pointedly, the kitchen. Had Jon actually considered kissing her? No. It was grief, and the way the shadows played on his face. For all she knew, he’d mastered the hungry sexual look years ago, and now wore it as a matter of habit.

“Are the keys in the truck?”

She jumped, knocking her attention from the house to Jon, who’d slipped up beside her, completely unnoticed.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She tried to look calm. “It’s all right.”

The truck sat silent in front of her, its dark-green paint faded in spots by the brutal Alberta sun. Beside Jon, in a truck, while he drove?

His dark profile would show his concentration on his driving, like Rick’s had.

A sharp squeal cut through the hot air. She spun around to find the source.

Immediately Jon caught her arm. His warm fingers wrapped around her elbow as he pointed to the part of the front yard they could see. “It’s just the pig entertaining the kids. Relax.”

She sagged, letting out a whoosh of air. Of course. It was just Bruce. It wasn’t that night—

She offered Jon a foolish, wobbly smile. “Bruce is the camp favorite. But I swear if he roots through one more bag of garbage, there’ll be a pig roast on the next long weekend.”

Jon’s eyebrows creased together ever so briefly before he smiled and released her elbow. “Shall I drive?”

“No,” she snapped. Abruptly she cleared her throat and stiffened the smile she’d forced on her face. “Thanks. I’ll drive. I know where to go.”



When they reached the shipping company, Jon threw open the cab door. The bright sun beat down on him as he turned to face her. “I’ll just go get those books Lawrence asked for, then I’ll be straight back. Don’t lift anything, even if they say you have to, okay? I’ll do it.”

He threw her the firmest look he could summon after the relaxing ride back into town. She merely shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Jon climbed out and slammed the door. Sylvie had been quiet on the trip in. Her insistence on driving hadn’t struck him as odd, until they sat inside the old rattletrap and he’d realized that it was possible the last time she’d been riding as a passenger in a big truck was with Rick. And Rick, being the subordinate, would have done the driving.

She hadn’t wanted Jon to drive, and he understood her choice.

Walking across the pavement and through the scattering of various cars, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Thankfully, he had the experience of Toronto in the dog days of August. Now that was hot, especially in a bulletproof vest and dark pants. Here was a dry heat, he told himself. Tolerable.

So why didn’t he feel cooler? It was just barely June, for crying out loud.

A chorus of laughter and noise greeted him as he entered the library. An elderly librarian was reading a story to a circle of youngsters, all of whom yelled out excitedly when a question arose in the book’s dialogue. Preschool morning, he presumed. He walked up to the counter. “I’m here to pick up some books for a Lawrence Fawcett.”

The librarian nodded and pulled three books from under the counter. “They’ve already been signed out, so you don’t need anything. Here’s the slip saying when they have to be back.” She showed him the narrow paper before tucking it into the top book. “Tell Lawrence I’ve bought a whole bunch of new westerns he might be interested in. Especially after reading these books.”

Jon glanced down at the short pile, his eyes widening. Breastfeeding—Nature’s Way. He lifted the book and read the next title. A Father’s Guide to Surviving Pregnancy. Almost too scared to look, he lifted the second book and peered down. Pregnancy and Birth—An In-Depth Look at the Details. Wonderful. Why couldn’t Lawrence have asked Sylvie to fetch them?

He scooped up the books. Jeez, she’d just told him this morning. Was Lawrence already planning to be Sylvie’s labor coach? Dazed, he walked back to the shipping company, stopping only to dump the books on the front seat of the truck. Over the hood he spied Sylvie, lifting a large duffel bag over her shoulder. At her feet were two large barrack boxes and a rucksack.

What the hell was she doing?

He swore, long and loud enough for her to hear him. “Damn it, woman, I said I’d do that!”

He jogged over to the cement docking ramp and leaped up to glare at the young, pimply faced worker beside her. “What’s wrong with you, anyway? She’s pregnant, you know. And you’re making her lift all of this by herself?”

The worker blinked. “No, sir. I was going to put it all on a pallet and forklift onto her truck. I didn’t know she was pregnant. Sorry.”

Jon drew in a tight seethe. Of course he wouldn’t know. And he bet Sylvie wouldn’t ask for help.

Sylvie threw the lightly stuffed bag onto the wooden pallet the worker had hastily retrieved. “Good grief, Jon, quit ragging on the kid. I know my limitations, all right? This duffel bag’s practically empty.”

“The rest of it will be heavy. I know. I’ve got all of Rick’s stuff still sitting on my living room floor.”

She grabbed the shipping order and scrawled out her signature, tearing off her copy with the ease of someone who had worked in shipping all her adult life. Folding it with clipped, jerky movements, she snapped, “You still have his stuff in your living room? I packed his boxes two days after he died. They left by Hercules aircraft the day we had his memorial service. Isn’t it about time you sorted through that stuff? You’re only delaying the inevitable.”

Without waiting for his answer, she stalked down the steps to the truck.

Her expression still grim, she backed up the pickup, lining it up beside to the dock. Behind Jon, the young worker, now in the forklift, threw him a cautious look before carrying the pallet down a long ramp. When he reached the truck, he loaded the baggage onto the truck’s bed. “Um, I need the pallet back sometime, Ms. Mitchell.” He turned to Jon. “Is this all right?”

“Fine,” he muttered. Her stuff looked exactly like Rick’s. Rick’s stuff had had bright blue strips of cloth tied to the handles of the barrack boxes and duffel bag. Probably in order to easily recognize them in the sea of olive green Jon could imagine lined the floor of a Hercules cargo plane.

Sylvie’s strips of material were the same color.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. Yet his insides chilled him. He hadn’t received Rick’s stuff until six weeks after he’d buried him. And then, sick of not getting the answers he needed, and encouraged by his chief, he’d dumped his brother’s effects into his living room and called the airline. All that was left of Rick’s life had been sitting in his living room for almost a month.

Damn it, Rick deserved better.

Jon searched the horizon, a flat line broken up by the outline of the library beyond. Could Sylvie be right? Had he been delaying the inevitable? But to go through all of Rick’s things, every last scrap? What the hell would he do with it all? Longing ached his bones. Damn it, Rick, why did you have to die so young?

He studied Sylvie’s profile in the back window of the truck as she peered into the bed at something. How had she felt, sorting through her lover’s clothes and uniforms, packing up his personal items?

Being one hell of a woman, Sylvie would have managed, just as she’d manage parenthood. But she couldn’t give her baby the one thing he deserved: someone who could tell him about his father.

Already he was thinking of the kid as a male. A boy, a lively blond boy just like Rick. A boy who needed a man in his life, like Jon and Rick had needed their own father even before some coward killed him.




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