Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | A Cop′s Honor

A Cop's Honor
Emilie Rose


She’d vowed to never trust him again…now he was her only hopeAs a single mom Hannah Leith faces challenges daily—and deals with them. But when her son gets into serious trouble she's out of her league and turns to the man she blames for her police husband’s death, Brandon Martin.Brandon still carries the guilt of his partner’s murder, which only grows heavier when he finds himself growing closer to Hannah and her children. But he’d promised to take care of the man’s family and that is what he will do, even if it means ignoring his own yearning for Hannah.







She’d vowed to never trust him again...now he was her only hope

As a single mom Hannah Leith faces challenges daily—and deals with them. But when her son gets into serious trouble she’s out of her league and turns to the man she blames for her police husband’s death, Brandon Martin.

Brandon still carries the guilt of his partner’s murder, which only grows heavier when he finds himself growing closer to Hannah and her children. But he’d promised to take care of the man’s family and that is what he will do, even if it means ignoring his own yearning for Hannah.


USA TODAY bestselling author and two-time RITA® Award finalist EMILIE ROSE lives in North Carolina with her own romance hero. Writing is her third career. She’s managed a medical office and a home day care—neither offered half as much satisfaction as plotting happy endings. Her hobbies include gardening, fishing, cooking and traveling to find her next book setting. Visit her website, emilierose.com (http://www.emilierose.com), or email her at EmilieRoseAuthor@aol.com.


Also By Emilie Rose (#uf02f770c-629a-511e-973b-54b2167a9257)

The Lottery Winner

Second Chance Mom

Starting with June

The Secrets of Her Past

A Better Man

The Ties that Bind

The Price of Honor

Her Tycoon to Tame

Wedding His Takeover Target

Executive’s Pregnancy Ultimatum

His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction

Bedding the Secret Heiress

More Than a Millionaire

Bargained Into Her Boss’s Bed

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


A Cop’s Honor

Emilie Rose






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


ISBN: 978-1-474-08105-4

A COP’S HONOR

© 2018 Emilie Rose Riddle

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

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


“Brandon...I think it would be best if you didn’t come around anymore.”

A line formed between his eyebrows. She opened the door and when he didn’t take the hint to leave, she stepped onto the porch and waited for him to follow, then closed the panel behind them.

“Belle already loves you. Mason is getting attached. It’s going to hurt them when you disappear. Lingering will only make it worse.”

“Who says I’ll disappear?”

“Me. I appreciate all you’ve done, but I can’t forget...the past or how dangerous your job is.”

His jaw and shoulder muscles bunched. “I promised Rick I’d look out for you.”

“I’m relieving you of that promise.”

He inhaled, long and slow, filling his chest and making it seem even broader. Then he dipped his chin once, sharply. “Take care of yourself, Hannah.”

He pivoted and walked away. Seconds later his truck engine started. Tension drained from her. It left her empty. She walked back inside and locked the door. The engaging dead bolt sounded a lot like a gunshot echoing off the foyer walls. Cutting Brandon from their lives was the right thing to do. For her sake and her children’s.


Dear Reader (#uf02f770c-629a-511e-973b-54b2167a9257),

Sometimes life throws you curveballs. When it does, you have to find the courage to forge a new path—often one you’ve never contemplated before. That’s what happens to Hannah Leith when all her plans and dreams are buried with her husband. For her children’s sake, she must find the courage to start over. But she never anticipated that new beginning would include the man she held responsible for her husband’s death.

As for Brandon Martin, police officer, he never expected to use his investigative skills for his dead best friend’s son. He definitely didn’t foresee being physically attracted to his friend’s widow or suddenly wanting her to become his wife.

I hope you enjoy Hannah and Brandon’s attempts to deny the inevitable.

Emilie Rose


For my dad.

Parkinson’s took his mobility, his speech and his life, but it never took his sense of humor or his kindness.

He’ll always be my hero.


Contents

Cover (#ue174de48-f69b-5251-a199-a37c7ab777cc)

Back Cover Text (#u161a8e2e-5505-5a21-9f14-7c2073b10ab1)

About the Author (#u0f928dd4-595b-5650-90d2-9dc248bf6404)

Booklist (#u8f922c60-02cf-5b06-84da-98c80bd88045)

Title Page (#u526f1bc3-73e5-5563-9218-2c19da078b24)

Copyright (#u60d58679-850f-5331-bf9a-3d1adf80537e)

Introduction (#u0141e672-0337-5088-a982-03a14b0157b3)

Dear Reader (#ue69fa0ed-b620-5a99-b605-81088d8d65e8)

Dedication (#u8d19044e-9db8-5284-8a58-8ebd29659692)

Chapter One (#ub1dc2cb2-3d3a-5a6a-8e34-2807591669ef)

Chapter Two (#u3b111eab-7771-575a-bde1-4dde79bf090b)

Chapter Three (#u38b9cab5-28f4-5fef-a0c2-dcbaf7f9af36)

Chapter Four (#u38b3b0f2-77ed-5445-9e75-967f7d11898f)

Chapter Five (#u41302f1a-3670-53e3-bc4a-ded2b07a837e)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#uf02f770c-629a-511e-973b-54b2167a9257)

HANNAH SANK DEEPER into her Adirondack chair and stretched out her legs. Her foot bumped the empty fire pit, and a few flakes of rust rained onto her ankles. She shifted again, hoping to find a more comfortable position on the hard seat. Her fingertips brushed across the chair’s peeling paint and a sense of futility rose within her.

The furniture and fire pit, like everything else around the house behind her, needed work. A lot of work. More than she could handle or afford, yet she was tackling it one project at a time. But sometimes she felt like a hamster on a wheel, spinning ’round and ’round and getting nowhere.

The old house was home—the first real home she’d ever had. Not that the places she and her parents had lived as her father climbed the army’s noncommissioned officer ranks had been bad, but they’d all been temporary. She hadn’t been free to paint or make any changes in the rented accommodations. And she had never, ever put down roots until she and Rick had bought this fixer-upper.

Rick. She closed her eyes and let the loss roll over her. Five years ago today he’d been taken from her. His death had robbed them of so many future plans as a family, and it had jeopardized their dream of turning this old house into the kind of home their children would remember fondly and always return to. She was trying to hold on to it, but life seemed determined to undermine that goal.

She took a deep breath of humid, hyacinth-and lilac-scented April air and tilted her head to stare at the full moon hanging like a fat beacon in the sky between towering oaks. A gentle breeze swayed the budding branches framing the orb. She pressed her bare soles against the still-warm brick pavers and endeavored to follow the advice she gave clients every day.

Inhale deeply to the count of ten, then exhale slowly. Release the tension by relaxing each muscle group sequentially: her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw, her neck, her shoulders. Knots loosened. Her pulse slowed and her grief settled back to a bearable level.

The click of the back door latch halted her progress. She’d thought both kids asleep before she’d slipped out for a moment of peace. Twisting, she leaned to look around the high back of her chair. The door eased open. Mason stepped onto the deck. Guilt pinched. Was he looking for her?

She opened her mouth to ask what he needed then noticed his backpack and remained silent. Why was he carrying it at this time of night? Where was he planning on going? He turned the knob and silently pulled the door closed. An uneasiness pricked through her. The feeling amplified when he furtively glanced around then tiptoed down the steps, carefully avoiding the squeaky middle tread. He turned for the side gate and clicked on a flashlight.

He wasn’t looking for her. Concern turned into alarm. “Mason, where do you think you’re going?”

He jumped, dropping the flashlight with a clank. The beam flickered and died. “Mom! What are you doing out here?”

The dismay on his face and in his voice confirmed that finding her hadn’t been his objective. Her heart thumped hard and fast in her chest. She rose and crossed the yard. “The question is where are you going at ten o’clock? You should be sleeping. It’s a school night. Your bedtime was nine.”

The sound of crickets filled the air.

“Mason Brandon Leith! Answer me.”

His gaze skittered away. “I...um... I...was going to camp out in the treehouse.”

Lying and sneaking out. Anxiety dried her mouth. She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “The treehouse is that way.”

“I...um...was looking for frogs first.”

Another lie. “Inside. Now.”

“Mooooom,” he wailed.

“Move it!” What had turned her sweet, easygoing ten-year-old son into trouble looking for a place to happen? He’d been suspended twice from school in the past three months for making inappropriate comments to other students then to his teacher, and finally, for sassing the school principal. She knew middle school kids were supposed to be difficult, but she hadn’t expected sixth grade to change her little boy into someone she didn’t recognize.

She followed him into the kitchen. “Where were you going?”

“I told you.”

“You lied. Try the truth.”

His chin jutted out. “I was going to meet a friend...for homework help.”

“At this hour? Who?”

“No one you know.”

That concerned her. “I’ve told you more than once that you’re not allowed to go to anyone’s house unless I’ve met them and their parents—and definitely not after bedtime and without permission.”

“How’s that supposed to happen? You work all the time. Even Grandmother Margaret says—”

“Do not throw your grandmother in my face. I work because I have to. And you’re only required to spend a couple of hours a day in after-school care. It won’t kill you. Anyway, you’re supposed to use that time to get help with your homework.” But the guilt of not being there for them the way her mother had been for her, ate at her.

“You treat me like a baby. I’m not!”

She didn’t bother arguing that he would always be her baby. “You know the rules, Mason. You’re grounded for the week. No TV and definitely no video games.”

“You’re mean! I hate you!”

The dart hit home. Her heart ached and her eyes stung. She knew he was only striking out in anger, but his words still hurt. She stiffened her spine. “Go to your room.”

He charged out of the kitchen and stomped up the stairs. His bedroom door slammed. She winced and hoped he hadn’t woken his sister.

She had to figure out what had triggered the drastic change in his behavior before he ended up in serious trouble. But who could she turn to? Not to the school counselor who’d warned her that the next time her son misbehaved he’d be expelled. Not to her in-laws who’d insisted more than once that Hannah wasn’t a good parent to their grandchildren. Their constant criticisms were hard to swallow.

And she definitely couldn’t turn to a professional—not only because of the cost. She feared her in-laws might warp whatever a psychologist learned into something that could be used against her to make good on their threat to pursue partial—if not full—custody. She didn’t think they had a legal leg to stand on, but Mr. Leith had been golfing buddies with numerous lawyers and judges over the years. She couldn’t even afford to hire an attorney if her in-laws took action. And after witnessing a coworker lose custody of her kids due to something her ex-husband had trumped up, Hannah was afraid to take chances.

She sank into a kitchen chair and dropped her head into her hands. She needed help. But who could she go to? Who could she trust? Only one name came to mind. Brandon Martin. She immediately rejected calling him. She was sure the only reason his name had popped up was because of his connection to Rick and because Rick was heavy on her heart today. But when no other names came forward, her thoughts circled back to Brandon. Would he—could he—talk some sense into her son? She’d recalled that he’d done some work with troubled youth in the past. Her stomach churned at the idea of contacting him.

Her anger and resentment toward Brandon over his part in Rick’s death still festered inside her. As her husband’s partner in the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division’s Computer Crimes Department, he should have never left Rick alone in a suspect’s house. But Brandon had been so focused on collecting evidence to keep his perfect conviction record that he’d failed to protect her husband.

She hadn’t seen or spoken to him since Rick’s funeral where she’d lost control and screamed some harsh truths at him in front of God and everybody. Would he be willing to help her now?

For Mason’s sake, she prayed he would.

* * *

BRANDON SPOTTED HANNAH the moment she entered the park on Friday afternoon. Judging by the scrub suit she wore, she was squeezing him in on her lunch break from the physical therapy office where she worked.

She paused at the wrought iron archway to scan the area. He rose from the picnic table on the neutral turf she’d designated for their meeting and lifted a hand to catch her attention. She spotted him, then after a noticeable pause, marched in his direction like a woman on a mission.

He assessed the changes in Rick’s wife. Hannah had always been pretty—pretty enough to make even Rick’s ugly mug look good. But the past five years had altered her. She’d cut more than a foot from her once-long hair. Shiny brown strands now feathered around her jaw, which happened to be set in a battle-ready, hard line. Her brown eyes weren’t any softer he noted as she neared. She looked thinner. Tired. More fragile.

He nodded but didn’t hug her as he once would have. She’d made it clear the last time he saw her that such gestures were no longer welcome from him. “What’s wrong?”

She stiffened defensively. “Why do you assume something’s wrong?”

“Because you told me you didn’t want to see me again until hell froze over. It’s eighty-five in the shade here. I doubt hell’s any cooler.”

Her gaze fell and her cheeks flushed peach. “I’m sorry I said that. I was hurting.”

“We all were.” Hell, he’d lost his best friend of twenty years. She hadn’t known Rick nearly as long.

“Right.” She perched on the edge of a bench seat.

He sat opposite her and waited, watching her pick at the table’s rough surface with a short fingernail. Her wedding rings sparkled in the sun. Rick had been gone five years this week, and she still wore the set Brandon had helped his buddy pick out. She tucked a wispy lock behind her ear—all the while refusing to make eye contact. Whatever she had to say, it must be big to require this much courage. But a decade of practicing interrogation had taught him the value of silence and patience.

She swallowed, then her worried brown eyes found his. “Something’s wrong with Mason.”

Concern jolted through him. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“He’s not sick. It’s his behavior.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s back-chatting, saying things he shouldn’t. And he’s become increasingly defiant.”

“Mason’s ten. Puberty’s knocking. With hormones come attitude.”

Her shoulders slumped. She shook her head. “He was such a good boy until...” She took a deep breath then blew it out again, fluttering her bangs. One lock tangled in her long eyelashes and he had to stifle the sudden urge to brush it away.

“He’s been in trouble at school.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Her cheeks darkened again. “He made inappropriate comments to other students.”

“Kids talk junk, Hannah. Nothing unusual in that.” He and his friends sure had.

“No.” She glanced over each shoulder then leaned forward. “His comments were...sexual and crude. I don’t even know where he heard the words he used. Definitely not from me.”

“Movies? Internet?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have cable TV and I’m very careful about what I allow him to watch, and I always supervise his internet time.”

All good. “What about from the men you date?”

“I don’t date!”

Her shock at his question seemed genuine, and the rings would be off-putting to most guys. How long would it take for Hannah to move on? He hated to think Rick would be replaced, but Hannah was attractive, in great shape and only thirty. It was inevitable.

“He probably has a girlfriend.”

“He’s ten!”

“They start early these days, Hannah.”

Her gaze bounced to his then volleyed away again. She bit her lip. “I don’t think it’s a girl.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because if I didn’t make him do so he’d never brush his teeth, shower or change his clothes.”

“Good point. Discovering girls would encourage him to improve his hygiene, and care about his appearance. Have you spoken to his teachers or the school counselor?”

“Yes. They don’t have any idea of the cause. But... Brandon, they’re threatening to expel him if he doesn’t straighten up and I can’t... I can’t guarantee that he will. He’s a handful. Even for me.”

“Have you asked him about sexual abuse?”

She flinched. “Yes. I did. It was an...awkward conversation. He swears no one has touched him inappropriately. And I don’t know where it could have happened...if it had. I don’t leave him unattended or let him go anywhere that I haven’t thoroughly checked out.”

“There’s always church and day care.”

“Both places have excellent reputations, and there are always two adults in the rooms.”

“If this has been going on for a while, why are you calling me now, Hannah? What aren’t you telling me?”

She swallowed, inhaled and glanced around again. “You can’t say anything about this to anyone. Okay? It could...cause problems.” He nodded, knowing if a crime had been committed he’d break the promise. “Mason tried to sneak out Wednesday night.”

That could be cause for alarm, but it could also just be Mason acting like an adolescent. “I snuck out plenty of times as a kid—usually to go somewhere with Rick. What did he have with him?”

“His backpack.”

“What was in it?”

She blinked. “I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you look?”

“No. That’s a violation of privacy.”

“You’re his parent, not his pal. Privacy is a privilege that must be earned.” Or so his parents always claimed.

“I disagree. To teach respect you must show it.”

“When he’s thirty. Right now he’s a kid with problems. You have probable cause and the right to search.”

“You sound like a cop.”

“Because I am one. Either you want my help or you don’t.”

She tipped her head back to stare at the dense leaf canopy. Then she swallowed and met his gaze. “Do you know how hard it was for me to call you? I wouldn’t have if I’d had anyone else.”

Regret twisted through him at the agony on her face. Talking to Hannah had once been almost as easy as talking to one of his sisters. She’d always been smart, informed and funny. “What about your dad or Rick’s parents?”

Her mother had never been part of the picture. Rick hadn’t told Brandon why.

“Dad’s stationed in Italy right now. He’s too far away to visit us more than once a year, and our parenting views...differ. Rick’s parents think I’m a horrible mother. They fuss continually because my kids are ‘ill-mannered and don’t respect others’ property.’ Once a month we visit them or they come here, but...it’s not a good relationship no matter how hard I try to fix it.”

Some things never changed. On his few visits to Rick’s house he’d learned not to touch anything. “I take it their house is still full of priceless collectibles?”

“Yes. In the Leiths’ eyes I don’t do anything right, and neither do my kids. Mason and Belle hate visiting them. But I want them to know their grandparents. I always lived too far away to see mine, and then they were gone and it was too late.”

“What you’re saying is, Rick’s parents are still uptight pains in the ass?”

She grimaced. “Pretty much. They keep pushing me to move closer so they can watch the kids when they’re not in school. What they really want to do is ‘fix them.’ But I don’t want to leave our home.”

Her gaze bounced away. He waited, suspecting the speech she was formulating in her mind would be the core reason she’d called him.

Worry-clouded eyes found his. “The Leiths miss their son, and they’re clinging to my children as a replacement—especially Mrs. Leith. When she heard about Mason’s troubles at school she insisted her precious Richard had never had behavior issues, and if Mason did it had to be my fault. She’s threatened to ‘call in a professional.’ I don’t know if she means a psychologist or social services, but neither would be good. Like you, she assumed I was bringing unsuitable men into the house, and when I assured her I wasn’t, she said he had to be learning his filthy language from me. Which, she went on to tell me, made me an unfit parent.”

“She was always a vengeful bitch.”

She’d tried to get Brandon fired after Rick’s death and throughout the follow-up investigation. Because of the Leiths’ clout with South Carolina’s movers and shakers, it had been a serious threat. He’d had to deal not only with his grief over losing his best friend and the threat of losing the job he loved, but also second-guessing his judgment because he’d let Rick talk him out of following protocol.

“I’m a good parent, Brandon. I do my best to provide for my children. I never leave them unsupervised, and I send them to the best after-school program I can afford. But I saw a friend who was an excellent parent lose custody of her children when her ex-husband manufactured things. What he accused her of wasn’t true, but it cast enough doubt for her to end up with supervised visitation only. Like the Leiths, he’s loaded and connected, and like me, my friend doesn’t have the money to fight. I’m trying to give the Leiths as much access to the grandchildren as I can to keep them happy, but I’m afraid of what Rick’s mom can do with the ammunition Mason is unwittingly giving her.”

The fear in her eyes was genuine, and he understood her concern. He’d seen exactly what she described—great parents losing custody. “Hannah, I witnessed the way you ‘mothered’ for your first five years of parenthood. If that hasn’t changed, there’s no way you could be considered a bad parent.”

“Thank you for saying that. But I can’t risk it. In her grief Mrs. Leith doesn’t always...think rationally. And her friends have clout. I don’t.”

Being a single parent with no backup had to be hard. His family was close. He had his mom and dad, two sisters and two brothers-in-law he could call on at any time for anything. Not that he had ever asked for help, but he knew they’d be there for him if he did—the same way he’d be there for them. No questions asked. He would have been that for Hannah and her kids—if she had let him. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Which brought him back to the problem at hand.

“Was Mason running away?”

“He claims he was going to study with a friend.”

“But you don’t believe him?”

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth and took another one of those breast-swelling breaths. He jacked his gaze north. “No. It was an hour after bedtime. Mason doesn’t make friends easily. And he refuses to tell me this supposed one’s name or where he lives. I’ve asked his teachers, and none know of any new friends he’s made.”

Rick hadn’t made friends easily, either. He’d been a late-in-life, surprise baby. The Leiths hadn’t known what to do with the child they’d brought home from the hospital or how to interact with the brilliant boy he’d become. They’d raised him to be a little adult. Seen and not heard and all that crap.

And then Brandon had come along. He’d intervened on the first day of second grade when one of the fifth graders on the bus had tried to bully the prissy new kid on their route—Rick. Brandon had given the bully a bloody nose and gained a loyal friend. Rick had become Brandon’s sidekick. He’d visited the Martins’ orchard every time Rick’s workaholic parents had let him. Out in the peach groves Rick had learned how to be a kid, how to climb trees, get dirty and make noise—all the stuff he wasn’t allowed to do at home. And Brandon had made sure his geeky buddy learned to defend himself.

Rick should have been here to teach those same lessons to his son. But he wasn’t. And if Brandon had done things differently that day—He pushed aside the familiar weight settling on his chest.

“I’d offer to speak to the Leiths for you, but I’m not high on their good list, either.” They blamed Brandon for turning their brilliant son away from a safe and lucrative, white-collar law career toward a dangerous, low-paying blue-collar law enforcement job. Mrs. Leith had said that if not for Brandon, her son would have gone to college and graduate school and he’d still be alive.

“I don’t think they like many people. But they do love my children...in their own peculiar way.”

“What do you want me to do, Hannah?”

“I need you to talk to Mason—unofficially, of course—and see if you can figure out what’s going on.”

Brandon leaned back. Here it was. The opportunity to fulfill his promise to Rick—to watch out for Rick’s family. But he was ill-equipped for the job. What if he failed? “Hannah, I know almost nothing about kids.”

“You’re my son’s godfather. You have to help.”

Guilt torqued through him. He’d been a lousy godparent. Out of respect for Hannah he’d stayed out of sight and kept tabs on Rick’s family from a distance. “How?”

“Come to dinner tomorrow—unless you have a date—and see if you can figure out what’s going on with him.”

The desperation in her face hit him hard—but not as hard as the jab about a date. Saturday night, and he’d be home alone. Again. He’d yet to find a woman he found more interesting than work. Sure, he dated. But not often. He was tired of the whole game. He met a woman. She pretended to be someone she wasn’t and swore she didn’t mind the danger of his job and didn’t want kids. Then her true colors seeped through.

“Please, Brandon.”

There was probably nothing wrong with the boy that some tough love wouldn’t cure. “I’ll be there.”

He’d never live up to the gratitude in her eyes. But he had to at least try. He owed Rick that much.

* * *

HANNAH’S GARAGE GUTTER was sagging again. Brandon cursed and slowed his truck a hundred yards from the house Saturday evening. The fascia board behind the gutter, and possibly one or more rafters, would have to be replaced, but that meant removing the old ones, painting the new ones and getting it all reassembled without getting caught.

After Hannah had ordered him to stay away from her and her family and refused multiple offers of help from other officers from SLED, Brandon had covertly organized a team of Rick’s coworkers. He and the guys were limited to working the one weekend a month when Hannah and the kids went out of town. That made complicated, multistep projects difficult to complete without getting caught.

Their clandestine activities were aided by the fact that her three-acre lot was heavily wooded, concealing the house on all sides from her neighbors, and those neighbors were the kind who minded their own business.

Privacy had been Rick’s primary reason for choosing the fixer-upper in an older area, although he had planned to clear out more trees to make a bigger lawn for the kids to play on. But he hadn’t lived long enough to finish that project or many of the others on his long list. Brandon kept the small patch of grass in the front yard weeded and fertilized, but he couldn’t do much more without revealing the team’s secret work.

He parked beneath the basketball goal “Santa” had left last Christmas then scanned the house as he traversed the walk, noting the white clapboard siding was still clean from the last pressure washing, and the shutters still looked good, too. He climbed the stairs to the small porch and pushed the button. A bell chimed inside. Seconds later the door opened. A miniature version of Hannah with big blue eyes—Rick’s eyes—stared up at him and regret gnawed his gut. Rick would never get to see how much his baby girl had grown.

The heavy humid air clogged Brandon’s throat. He cleared it. “Hello, Belle. I’m Brandon. Your mom’s expecting me.”

A rustle of movement behind her preceded Hannah’s appearance. She looked flustered. Color tinted her cheeks and upper chest. She opened the door wider, revealing an outfit identical to her daughter’s short denim skirt, pink T-shirt and sparkly sandals. But Hannah wasn’t shaped like a six-year-old. Her curves rounded out her clothing nicely, and her legs—

Eyes north, dumbass. “Hey.”

“Hi. Belle, Officer Martin is joining us for dinner. He’s the one you set the extra plate for.”

“Did you know my daddy? He was an occifer, too.”

“Your dad was my best friend. We grew up together. We met when we were just a little older than you.”

“I have a best friend. Her name is Sydney. She sits beside me at school. Mommy packs extra snacks for Sydney because her family can’t ’ford them and the Bible says we hafta share with those less fort’nate.”

He—a master interrogator—had no idea what to say. He glanced at Hannah. Pride and love for her daughter glistened in her eyes. “That’s uh...nice,” was all he could muster.

“Let’s see if Mason remembers Brandon, Belle.”

Rick’s little girl curled her fingers trustingly around Brandon’s then she pulled him inside, towing him across the scarred hardwood floor that Rick had once planned to refinish. A strange feeling, similar to the sixth sense that prickled up his spine before a dangerous encounter, crawled over him. But there was nothing to fear from this house, Hannah or her children. He attributed the weirdness to the fact that he hadn’t been inside since before Rick’s death, and being here now without his buddy felt wrong somehow.

From the moment Hannah had laid eyes on the place she’d wanted it, and with Brandon’s help, she’d sold Rick on the idea of turning the old house into a dream home for him and the big family the two of them had planned to have.

The foyer was clean but worn. A dark wood intricately carved banister curved upward. Rick had wanted to paint it all white. Correction: he had wanted to con Brandon into doing it or pay someone else to. Rick hadn’t been much on manual labor. He’d been more of an egghead who could visualize the most efficient way for others to implement his plan unless it was a computer program. With those he’d been a tireless genius at building them or picking them apart.

But Brandon had been tied up with his first rental property and couldn’t help, and hiring someone required cash—something cops didn’t have a surplus of. Which meant that jobs had to be prioritized and spread out. So Rick had drawn up a five-year renovation plan and been killed two years into it.

Belle released his hand to grab a toy pony. “This is Molly. I’m going to have a horsey like her when I get big.”

“I like horses, too. We have them in the orchard where I grew up. Your dad and I used to race them between the trees.”

“Daddy could ride?”

“Yeah. I taught him how.”

Brandon spotted a dark-haired boy sitting at a desk in the den, staring into a laptop. He didn’t turn when they entered.

“Mason, come and meet Officer Martin.”

The kid jumped, then punched buttons and quickly shut down the computer. Too quickly? He twisted their way and déjà vu hit Brandon hard, hurling him back to his childhood. Mason was a miniature Rick. Those familiar blue eyes were wary. The cop in Brandon immediately asked why and if it was related to his school issues? But he dismissed the questions. Hannah had introduced him as an officer and a lot of people were uncomfortable around cops.

Brandon crossed the room and stuck out his hand. “Mason, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Brandon, a friend of your dad’s.”

Mason showed no sign of recognition. His expression soured. “My dad’s dead.”

Brandon suppressed a flinch at the inevitable stab of pain. “I know. I’m sorry.”

He was sorry in more ways than the boy would ever know.

Hannah cleared her throat. “Mason.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Mason added at the prompt and shook Brandon’s hand.

“Your dad was good with computers. What do you like to do on them?”

The kid froze then snatched his hand back. His gaze slid left. “Nothing. Just look at stuff.”

That warning prickle intensified. “What kind of stuff?”

Mason swallowed and shrugged. He focused on a point beyond Brandon’s ear.

“Games? Instant messaging? Chat rooms?” Brandon prompted, endeavoring to keep his tone friendly and casual, but red flags were flapping wildly in his subconscious.

Mason shook his head vigorously. “Mom doesn’t allow any of that. It’s just research. For papers I have to write.”

Hannah patted her son’s shoulder. “Mason’s in the accelerated Language Arts class.”

“Your dad was smart in Language Arts. He really liked to read. Sometimes he helped me with book reports.”

The kid rolled his eyes. “Is dinner ready? I’m starving.”

Hannah opened her mouth as if to protest her son’s rudeness, but Brandon caught her gaze and shook his head. No point in alienating someone he was here to study. “I’m hungry, too. Lead the way.”

Hannah’s expression turned apologetic. “I hope you don’t mind baked spaghetti. It’s one of the few things my picky eaters like.”

“Sounds good.” He stopped on the threshold of the dining room. The once dark walls and wainscoting gleamed white. “You painted in here.”

“We’re working our way through the list, slowly, but surely.”

“We’re going to paint my room ’morrow,” mini Hannah chirped.

Brandon heard opportunity knocking. “Oh yeah? Maybe I can help. I like to paint.”

He glanced at Hannah for confirmation. She nodded.

“I’ll be here first thing in the morning.”

Hannah shook her head. “We won’t get home from church until 12:30.”

“I’ll be here when you get home.”

“Don’t you go to church, Occifer Brandon?”

Was the half-pint channeling his mother? “I’m usually working. But tomorrow I’m off. And I can’t think of a better way to spend the day than painting with you.”

Belle beamed. Hannah and Mason looked less than thrilled. But Hannah had asked for his help, and she was going to get it.


Chapter Two (#uf02f770c-629a-511e-973b-54b2167a9257)

HANNAH WAS HAPPY to see the end of the meal. Belle had chattered almost nonstop, but that hadn’t been enough to cover Mason’s monosyllabic responses to Brandon’s questions. Even though Brandon had appeared relaxed, Hannah doubted he’d missed her son’s rudeness, and she was sure she’d hear about it—the same way she heard about it from her in-laws—as soon as they left the table.

“Mason, go take your shower. Belle, pick out your pajamas and a book.”

The children left the room, Belle skipping, Mason moving at a slower, rebellious pace. Hannah missed the days when they both raced up the stairs like a thundering herd and all she had to worry about was one of them falling and getting hurt.

After the footsteps faded Brandon hit her with a somber look across the table. “He wasn’t thrilled to have me here.”

Hannah bolted to her feet and started stacking dishes. “It takes him a while to warm up to strangers. Just like his father. But I really appreciate your efforts to draw him out.” When Brandon rose and grabbed what she couldn’t carry she protested, “You don’t have to do that.”

“In my house, if you eat, you clean.” He followed her into the galley-style kitchen and set his load in the sink.

She hadn’t had a man in this room since Rick’s death. And even then, preparing the meal and cleaning up afterward had been her job while Rick had played with the children or watched TV. Brandon’s shoulders were broader than Rick’s had been, and he took up more space. His presence made her feel claustrophobic in the narrow area between the counters.

Brandon rinsed a dish and offered it to her. She jumped into action. Her hip bumped his as she bent to open the dishwasher, and her pulse blipped erratically. Nerves over what his take on Mason’s attitude might be. That was all it was. She was certain.

“Brandon, I’m sorry, but until I renovate this kitchen there’s only room for one of us in here, so...if you don’t mind...”

He scanned the room. “I forgot you wanted to knock out some walls.”

“Just that one.” She pointed to the wall dividing the den and kitchen.

“Did Rick ever get that structural engineer’s report he talked about?”

“Yes, but kitchens are expensive projects, so it’s pretty far down the list.” And now it was off it completely because one salary would never be enough to cover the cost.

“Could I see the report?”

She sighed. If it would get him out of the way, she’d give it to him. Crossing to the built-in desk, which she rarely used, she opened the file drawer, flipped through the folders and extracted the file.

“You’re still organized, I see.”

“Yes. Here you go.”

“Thanks. I’ll read it after I take a look at the computer.”

Anxiety burned in her chest. “You won’t find anything. Like I told you, I have all kinds of parental controls on it, and—”

“Then you don’t have anything to worry about.” He retrieved the laptop from the den and brought it to the kitchen table then pushed a button and the machine hummed to life. “Do each of you have separate log-ins?”

“Yes. That way the programs we use are on the desktop and my bill paying is out of the kids’ reach.”

“Do you ever sign in as Mason to see which sites he visits?”

“No. I trust him.” She didn’t need to see Brandon’s lips compressing to know he didn’t like her answer—especially given she’d demanded his help. “I don’t know his password.”

“No problem.” Long fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard.

She rinsed the remaining dishes and loaded the dishwasher, trying hard to ignore him clicking away. What if he found something? If she confronted Mason with it he’d know she’d gone behind his back and invaded his privacy. How would he react? The way her mother had? She tamped down the fear. Brandon wouldn’t find anything on the computer. She was too proactive for that.

“I’m in,” Brandon stated.

She stilled, water dripping from her hands into the sink. “How did you get in without his password?”

“I signed in as the administrator.” He looked back at the screen then frowned. “Mason’s history has been deleted. Did you show him how to do that?”

Her anxiety level climbed. “No. Maybe the computer is set to automatically delete the browsing history?”

Click. Click. Click. “His account is.” More taps. “Neither yours nor Belle’s is. It’s not the computer’s default. If you didn’t set it up this way, then Mason did.”

“But why...?”

“Exactly.”

Acid burned the base of her esophagus. She dried her hands. “I...could ask him.”

But if she did, then he’d know she was spying on him. And spying on someone was a violation of trust that couldn’t be forgiven or forgotten.

“You think he’d tell you the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Your hesitation says differently. Hannah, he’s a kid doing something he wants hidden. Let me talk to him.”

“No! I don’t want you interrogating him like a criminal. He’s a little boy.”

His jaw shifted. “Then let me take the computer with me so that I can find out what sites he’s been visiting. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

“That’s spying.”

“That’s parenting. If you want to know what’s driving his behavior and you won’t let me take the computer, then at least let me install some software that’ll track his activity. He’ll never know it’s there.”

Fear tightened her chest. “I’m not violating his trust like that.”

He shut down the computer, set it aside and stood. In three strides he was by her side. Close. Too close. She had to tip back her head to look at him. He wasn’t as tall as Rick, but he was...imposing in his breadth. Dark evening stubble shadowed his jaw and his eyes were...intent. She shuffled backward and nearly tripped over the open dishwasher door.

He reached out, but she caught herself and held up her hands before he made contact. “I’m fine.”

“Hannah, I can’t help you if you won’t let me. Mason is probably nothing more than a curious boy looking at porn, and he’s picked up some of the language. But it could be more. And software is the easiest way to find out what’s going on.”

“You’re just paranoid because of your job chasing cyber criminals. But my son isn’t a criminal.” Then another thought dried her mouth. “He won’t be able to tell you logged in as him, will he?”

“No. Think about a tracking program. It’s your best bet.”

“No software. I want you to promise me you won’t do anything to violate his trust.”

Frustration radiated from him, pleating his brows and making his shoulder muscles bunch. “Hannah, we’ve covered this.”

“Promise me, Brandon. I want Mason to feel he can come to me with anything, and if I go behind his back he won’t feel that way.” She saw opposition in his face. “If you can’t make that promise, then leave and don’t come back. I have enough problems with the Leiths trying to undermine me. I don’t need you doing the same.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Fine, I agree. But only as long as I don’t think he’s in danger or a crime’s being committed. If I suspect either of those, then I’ll do whatever it takes to keep your son safe. I owe Rick that.”

Mason wasn’t committing a crime. As his mother, she’d know if he was. Brandon’s half promise wasn’t the unconditional one she wanted, but it would have to do. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. And while I’m here I’m going to check out the gutter over your garage. It’s sagging and it needs to be repaired before you have water damage.”

He swung around and left the kitchen before she could protest. The old adage “give ’em an inch and they’ll take a mile” came to mind. She’d invited Brandon back into her life. She hoped she didn’t regret it.

* * *

BRANDON RETURNED HIS ladder to the bed of his truck on Sunday morning. He had come over early to work on Hannah’s gutter. As he’d suspected, the gutter repair was going to involve more than hammering a couple of nails. Good thing he’d gone ahead and brought the necessary materials.

He bent to check his face in the side mirror and winced. The mug reflected back at him wouldn’t win any beauty contests. His right eye was swollen almost shut, his upper lip looked ready to burst and an assortment of other bulges puffed out his cheeks and chin. He gingerly touched the worst spot beneath his eye and swore. It hurt. Hell, his whole face hurt. But a promise was a promise. He hoped he didn’t scare Belle.

He checked his watch. Hannah should be home from church any minute. As if on cue, her minivan came up the driveway. Hannah parked outside the garage. Mason bailed out of the side door, scowled in Brandon’s direction then did a double take and smirked. “How bad does the other guy look?”

The kid thought he’d been in a fight. He decided to play along. “There were about fifty of them. And I’m still standing.”

The boy’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened.

Hannah stopped as she rounded the hood, a horrified look on her face. A flowery sleeveless dress fluttered above her knees, displaying long, tanned legs. She looked good. Really good. He squashed that thought and noted that Belle wore an identical dress.

“Fifty yellow jackets,” he elaborated. “They nest in the ground. I ran over their hole this morning with my lawn mower.”

Belle tugged his hand and pointed at his face. “Does it hurt?”

He wasn’t going to lie. “Yeah. But not as bad as it looks.”

Hannah moved closer, concern puckering her forehead. “Have you removed the stingers?”

“The ones I could reach.”

“You have more?”

“Some of the bast—buggers got in my shirt.”

“Have you taken an antihistamine or put anything on the wounds?”

“I didn’t have anything but antiseptic.”

“I have a first-aid kit. Come inside. I’ll fix you up then you can go home.”

“I promised to help paint, and I don’t break promises.” Except for the one he’d made to Rick. But he was righting that now. Hannah had reopened the door. He wouldn’t let her close it again.

“I don’t think you should exert yourself.”

“I’m fine, Hannah. I’m not allergic. Just ugly.”

“Did you pour gas in the hole and set it on fire?” Mason asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Was Mason a firebug? That would suggest even bigger problems. “No. You have to do night ops to kill yellow jackets.”

“How come?”

“Yellow jackets return to their nest at dusk. After dark they can’t see as well and they’re less likely to attack. I’ll hit all of them at once with chemicals that’ll fog them to death.”

“Can I watch?”

Bloodthirsty little rascal.

“No,” Hannah replied before Brandon could. “It’s a school night.” Ignoring Mason’s “Moooom,” she swung her gaze to Brandon. “Come inside.” He followed her in. “Wait in the den. I’ll get the first-aid kit. Mason, stay with Brandon and watch for...anything unusual. Belle, put on the painting clothes I laid out for you.” Hannah left. Two sets of footsteps ascended the stairs.

Mason studied Brandon’s face as if he’d never seen anything like it before. “There are bites all over. You look like you’ve been beaten up.”

“You ever been in a fight?”

The boy’s expression turned defensive, cagey, putting Brandon on alert. “Maybe. You’re not going to like, die or something if I leave the room, are you? I’m hungry. I need a sandwich.”

“Go ahead. If I was going to drop dead from anaphylaxis I’d have done it by now.”

Mason headed for the kitchen. His actions confirming what Brandon suspected. The boy was evading providing a direct response. So Brandon followed him and leaned against the doorjamb. “Do you know how to defend yourself, Mason?”

Wary blue eyes whipped his way. “Why?”

“Because your dad didn’t. I had to teach him.”

“Why?” he repeated and grabbed a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly from the fridge.

“He was having trouble with a bully. I don’t like bullies.”

Mason paused with his knife above the peanut butter jar while he mulled that over. “Would you teach me to fight?”

“To fight? No. To defend yourself? Sure. There’s a big difference in the two. Hand-to-hand combat is always a last resort for when you have no other choice. It’s better to walk away if you can.”

The answer earned him an eye roll. Mason returned to assembling his sandwich. “You’re only saying that cuz you’re a cop. I’d be called a pussy if I ran.”

“Name-calling doesn’t break bones but fighting can. I’m saying it because you’re built like your dad. Not a lot of muscle yet. I don’t want you to get your butt kicked or to get suspended from school. You’ll have to use your brain instead of brawn.”

Another eye roll.

Hannah returned with a small box. She took in the situation. “Did you offer Brandon a sandwich?”

“Want one?” Mason asked with his mouth full.

“No, thanks. I ate before I came over.”

Hannah aimed a dark look at her son for talking while chewing, then turned to Brandon. “Pills or cream? I’d recommend both.”

Brandon recognized the pink bottle she displayed. “Antihistamines knock me out. I’ll stick with the topical.”

“Take off your shirt and have a seat.” He did as directed then sat at the table. By the time he had his shirt fabric bunched in his hands, she’d set down the box and held a playing card. Her gaze ran over him. She blinked, hesitated, then licked her lips. He caught himself watching her pink tongue and mentally kicked himself.

“Where are the ones you couldn’t reach?”

“Back.” The word came out gruffer than intended.

She whirled a finger, signaling him to turn. He twisted in the chair. “There are three and two stingers are still in.”

He felt the rasp of the card across the first bump, then the second. A moment later the coolness of the cream hit his inflamed skin, accompanied by a twinge of pain caused by the light pressure of her touch. Then the warmth and slow caress of her fingertip registered.

“Turn around,” she ordered before he could figure out what was causing him to have difficulty breathing. Was he having a delayed reaction to the venom?

He turned and found himself at chest level. The neckline of Hannah’s sundress dipped low enough to reveal smooth skin and a fine gold chain that disappeared between her breasts. His lungs locked. He swallowed—hard—then closed his eyes and forced a breath into his tight chest. Her scent, combined with a hint of flowers, filled his nostrils. His mouth dried. He opened his eyes and searched for safer territory. He spotted a quarter-inch thread standing out from the seam of her dress on her left shoulder and fixated on it. But then his mind took an unexpected detour. What would happen if he pulled that thread? Would the dress fall from her shoulder?

“You’re lucky you’re not allergic. With this many stings this could have been a life-threatening situation.”

His attention lasered in on the gentle stroke of her finger on the thin skin beneath his eye, then she moved on to the sting on his cheekbone, smoothing small circles over the puffy flesh. His pulse jackhammered with near-deafening force against his eardrums.

Delayed reaction to the venom.

She rubbed the lump beneath his earlobe and the one under his chin, and his respirations shallowed and quickened. The pressure descended from his chest to his groin. What in the hell was wrong with him? This was Hannah. Rick’s Hannah. And getting a woody in response to her was unacceptable. But there it was, straining against his zipper. He held out his hand to take the tube from her.

Ignoring his silent request she squeezed out more cream. “Sit still, Brandon.”

He gritted his teeth against the pleasure/pain and gripped the T-shirt in his lap so tightly he’d probably imbed permanent wrinkles into the cotton. He hoped like hell Hannah didn’t notice his condition.

She brushed the tender, swollen flesh of his upper lip and a lightning bolt of sensation shot south. He jerked out of reach, sucked in a sobering breath and snatched the tube from her hand. “I’ll get the rest.”

She stilled. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

What was that song lyric? Hurt so good? “No. But we need to get painting. Put on your work clothes. I got this.”

Looking as relieved as he felt, she stepped back. “Well...if you’re sure. The guest bathroom is—” She shook her head. “You know where it is.”

“Yeah. I do.” His momma had raised him to stand whenever a lady entered or left the room. He did so, but he kept the T-shirt in front of his crotch until Hannah left.

What in the hell had just happened? And how could he make sure it didn’t happen again? He mentally shook himself and caught Mason watching. “Put on your painting clothes, kid. After we knock out this job I’m going to wipe up the basketball court with you.”

The kid glanced toward the den. “I need to work on my project.”

“More online research?” The computer was in the den.

“Yeah.”

If Hannah was going to paint upstairs and Mason was going to be on the computer downstairs, then the kid wasn’t as supervised as Hannah thought. Brandon filed that away and went into the bathroom to treat the remaining stings.

Once that was done he climbed the stairs. As he reached the landing the spare bedroom door opened. Hannah, wearing a T-shirt that had seen better days, cut-off jeans a thread longer than indecent and sneakers, stepped out. She’d changed clothes. Behind her he spotted the dress she’d been wearing draped across the corner of the bed he’d slept on a few times when Rick’s renovation projects had run late into the night.

He assembled the clues. “The master bedroom is downstairs.”

Her gaze flicked away then returned—evasive, like her son’s. “I can hear the children better up here.”

“What happened to that fancy monitor I gave you when Belle was born? Camera, sound and the whole deal?”

She shifted, drawing his attention to her legs. He hoisted his gaze north. “I’d have to come up anyway if they needed me during the night. It’s easier not to have to race up the stairs when I’m groggy.”

She no longer slept in the downstairs master suite she’d shared with Rick. “When did the move take place?”

“Does it matter, Brandon? We have work to do. Belle’s room will probably take several coats...unless you’re not up to it.”

A challenge to distract him. He recognized the technique but followed Hannah into Belle’s room without comment. The six-year-old stood in front of an easel with a paint-by-number set attached. “What’s that?”

“While we’re painting the walls Belle will be creating artwork to hang on them.”

“It’s going to be a ballerina,” the girl said and twirled, making her little plastic paint smock fan out. “Like me.”

“I’m sure it’ll look great.” He turned his attention back to Hannah, who’d bent over to open a can of paint. The pose hiked her shorts up, revealing even more leg, and caused her shirt to gape. Her bra was pink. The knowledge paralyzed him.

“Honey, run down and eat your lunch. I left it in the refrigerator for you. You can paint when you’re done.”

Belle skipped off.

Brandon pulled himself together. “Mason says he’s going to work on his project instead of helping.”

“That’s right. He has a paper due Friday.”

“But you’ll be up here.”

Her eyebrows dipped. “Yes.”

“That means he’ll be unsupervised on the computer.”

She bit her lip again then took a deep breath, stretching the worn-thin shirt. “Only for a little while. Your point?”

“You can’t watch your kids one hundred percent of the time. No parent can. Let me install the software.”

“No. Absolutely not. Do not bring it up again, Brandon. I’m going to grab a sandwich. You can get started or wait for me.” Then like Mason, she walked away, deftly avoiding the conversation.

Which left Brandon back at ground zero. With nothing. He was certain the boy was up to something, but pushing would get him booted out and ruin any chance he had of keeping his promise to Rick.


Chapter Three (#uf02f770c-629a-511e-973b-54b2167a9257)

HANNAH SWALLOWED THE last of her sandwich and tried to diagnose her reluctance to return upstairs.

Touching Brandon had been...unsettling. And that made no sense. As a physical therapy assistant she touched people all day, five days a week. She’d dealt with plenty of men as attractive, if not more so, than Brandon, but none of her patients had ever elicited a frantic pulse or the shakes.

Maybe her jitters had been caused by low blood sugar. She hadn’t eaten since before Sunday school. And if that was the case, then she’d have no problem with him while they painted.

Satisfied with her explanation, she released a pent-up breath and directed her attention to her daughter. “You all set, sweetheart?”

Belle scrambled up from the table. “Yes, Mommy.”

“Then let’s go paint your room.”

Together, she and her daughter climbed the stairs. Brandon had taped off the windows in their absence. When she met his hazel gaze her heart thumped an extra beat and her pulse kicked up. Then her hands started shaking. If it continued she wouldn’t be able to paint straight lines along the ceiling and baseboards. She needed to give her blood sugar time to level out before attempting something that meticulous.

“I’ll roll if you’ll cut in,” she suggested.

“Got it,” he replied and positioned the stepladder in the far corner.

She took one final look around the room. The last time she’d decorated in here had been a month after Belle’s birth. She and Rick hadn’t wanted to know their baby’s sex before delivery. That meant no personalization. Afterward, caring for two children with Rick’s hectic schedule, not to mention their tight budget, had limited Hannah’s decorating to hanging a border of pastel merry-go-round horses on the builder-beige walls. Now her baby girl wanted pink walls with ballerina pictures. That was no surprise considering she’d started dance classes this spring.

“Are you starting here?” Brandon stood beside her, one dark eyebrow cocked.

She startled over his proximity. How had he crossed the plastic drop cloth she’d spread on the floor after removing most of Belle’s furniture so quietly? “Yes. I’ll go clockwise if you’ll go the opposite.”

She winced when she looked at his face. He had to be hurting. Each time she’d touched him he’d flinched. When she’d finished he’d been one big knot of muscles. The professional side of her had wanted to massage the kinks loose, but the personal side of her had rejected the idea. He wasn’t her patient.

Brandon was a trouper to work through the discomfort, and for that, she was grateful. But he had a point about Mason being on the computer. Under the guise of checking her email while she was downstairs, she’d ensured her parental controls were still in place before letting Mason have the laptop.

“You washed the walls after removing the border?” Brandon asked.

Of course he’d remember the border. He’d loaned her his level and shown her how to mark a straight line for hanging the paper. “Last week.”

Brandon lifted the lids on each of the paint cans and poured all three into an empty five-gallon bucket. Nine years ago she’d messed up Mason’s room because one of the batches of paint hadn’t been mixed correctly. She’d ended up with a streaky mess of slightly different shades of the same color paint on the walls. After she’d bought replacements, Brandon had shown her the trick of mixing all the buckets beforehand to ensure a uniform result. It had been an expensive lesson—that was the only reason she recalled it so clearly.

His muscles bulged as he lifted the heavy bucket and carefully poured some of the pink liquid into a rolling pan for her and then a smaller pail for himself. The veins lining his hair-dusted forearms and biceps were a sign of his good muscle tone. He’d always been brawnier than Rick, and more adept at doing the physical stuff that this old house required. And he’d never been stingy with his time even though he had his own projects.

He expertly used his brush to catch any drips then looked up and caught her watching him. “You okay?”

She blinked and felt her cheeks warm. “Yes.”

Why was she so focused on him? She had a job to do and a limited amount of time to get it done before the children needed attention. She slid a roller onto her handle and pushed it through the thick liquid and then onto the wall, but the mindless back and forth action wasn’t enough to erase the realization that Brandon had been a part of every major project she and Rick had completed together on this old house.

Brandon had been the one who’d taught both her and Rick how to paint, build swing sets, plant shrubs and grass and to safely replace faulty outlets and faucets along with countless other chores. If Brandon hadn’t known how to do it, he’d been the one to liaise with the contractors for them because he spoke their language. She and Rick would have been lost without him. They never could have taken on this house without him.

So even though she’d banned Brandon from their lives for five years, he’d been here all along, embedded into the walls and the soil around her home. But that didn’t mean she could forgive him for not watching Rick’s back—no matter what the preacher had said this morning.

“Mommy!” Belle’s panicked cry almost made her drop the roller.

“What is it, baby?”

“I messed up. I painted the wrong color in the nine spot.”

“It’s okay. When it dries you can paint over it.”

“But I want to do it now!”

Tired eyes filled with tears. Because they’d moved Belle’s furniture yesterday, Belle had stayed in Hannah’s bed last night. That meant her baby girl hadn’t slept well and was cranky today.

Brandon descended the ladder to survey the disaster then cut his eyes Hannah’s way. “If you’ll get me a cotton swab I’ll show you how to fix it.”

Hannah hurried to retrieve one from her bathroom. Brandon took it. Their fingers brushed, and that unsettling sensation swept through her again. If her sudden agitation wasn’t caused by low blood sugar, then what was it? The only other time she’d felt like this was when Rick had—

No. It was not desire. Not for Brandon. She staggered back a step—away from the man and the idea.

“You fixed it, Occifer Brandon!” Belle’s excited cry yanked Hannah out of her unpleasant thoughts. Her daughter threw her arms around Brandon and hugged him.

Hannah blinked. She’d completely missed his magical fix. Her confusion must have shown in her face because Brandon winked and displayed the paint-stained cotton swab with a smile on his swollen lips. That smile/wink combo made Hannah’s stomach flip.

“The acrylics are water-soluble. A little dab’ll do ya’. Knock yourself out, kiddo.” He ruffled Belle’s hair and she beamed.

Hannah marveled at how good he was with her daughter. Not many single men would be. He returned to the ladder and Hannah’s gaze followed, fixing on the muscles stretching denim as he climbed. She flushed hot all over and her palms moistened. Her tongue felt thick and dry, then panic quickened her heart as she acknowledged the undeniable. Her reaction to Brandon Martin was...sexual.

Her libido had been buried with Rick. It was a sick, cruel joke that her womanly needs had been resurrected by the man responsible for putting her husband in his grave. The one man she could never trust with her future because he’d already ruined her past.

* * *

BRANDON POINTED THE water hose at a paint tray and absently surveyed Hannah’s backyard while he formulated a plan. He had to build a rapport with Mason if he wanted the boy to trust him enough to confide in him. Putting some distance between him and Hannah wasn’t a bad idea, either.

Three hours confined to the same small room with her had totally screwed with his usual ability to block out distractions. He’d been aware of every move she made, every sigh and every sound. The only time he’d been able to relax was when she’d left the room to check on Mason. Even then he’d wanted to follow and observe her interaction with the boy to see if the kid was hiding something. But he was trying to respect the boundaries she’d marked.

He finished washing up the painting gear and debated going home. But he had a job to do, and cutting corners on an investigation had never been his way of dealing with complications. He stored the materials in the garage and reentered the house. He found Hannah in the den standing behind the sofa and reading the laptop screen over her son’s shoulder.

“I need Mason for an hour.”

She turned, a furrow between her brows. “For what?”

“To help me remove your sagging gutter then replace the fascia board and paint it.”

“Do I have to?” Mason asked with a put-upon expression.

“If you help, you get to use my nail gun.”

Mason perked up. “For real?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Hannah replied simultaneously and shot Brandon then Mason a dark look. “Nail guns are dangerous and you are not allowed on the roof.”

“Mooooom.”

Hannah ignored her son’s protest and turned back to Brandon. “I don’t have the board, and the building supply stores close early on Sunday. Maybe we should call it a night.”

She wanted to get rid of him. Not happening. “I brought the materials with me, and Mason can do what I need from the ladder. No need to get on the roof. And I wouldn’t let him use the nail gun if I couldn’t teach him how to use it safely.”

Reservations filled her eyes. “Brandon, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Hannah, he’ll be fine. Trust me.”

The corners of her lips turned down.

Belle tugged his hand. “What can I do, Occifer Brandon? I want to help, too.”

He couldn’t help but smile at those big, earnest eyes. “You can make sure we rehang the board straight when we get to that part.”

Belle nodded enthusiastically. “I can do that.”

He glanced at Hannah and caught a look of such unadulterated love in her eyes for her daughter that it made his chest ache. He’d seen the same look in Rick’s eyes—like he thought his kids were miracles. Brandon had never felt that way about anyone and wasn’t sure he wanted to. Seemed like keeping a door open for pain and disappointment to slip in. He shook off the negative thought.

“Whatdaya say, Mason? We’re burning daylight.”

The boy bounded off the sofa, ditching the laptop with no reservations. He wouldn’t have done that if he had something on it to hide. He raced to the garage.

“Stay off the roof,” Hannah called after him.

Brandon stepped closer to Hannah and bent his head so Belle wouldn’t overhear. “You asked for my help, remember? Let me do what I do best.”

“But—”

“The only way I’ll get him to open up is by spending time with him and building a rapport.”

She hesitated, then nodded.

Brandon tracked after Mason. When he reached the garage, the boy rolled his eyes. “She treats me like a baby.”

“Get used to it, kid. I’m thirty-two and my mom still does the same thing.”

“For real? But you’re a cop.”

“Moms only do it because they love us. And your mom has to be mother and father for you, so she’s trying twice as hard to be a good parent. Cut her some slack. Let’s get the gear from the truck.”

When they reached his vehicle Brandon donned his tool belt then lowered his small compressor to the ground. He slung the hose over his shoulder and hefted the nail gun. He could carry everything himself, but he wanted Mason to feel as if he was part of the process. “Loop the extension cord across your shoulder like I did the hose and grab the other end of this board.”

They carried their load to the garage and dumped it. “Now we need the ladders. I’ll get one if you’ll get the other.”

Mason did so without argument. Together they set up on opposite sides of the open door. Brandon climbed the ladder. “I’m going to pull this end of the gutter down and lower it to you. Hold it and try not to let it crimp while I release each section. That way we can reuse it.”

“If you were such good friends with my dad, why’d you quit coming around?” Mason asked while Brandon was trying to pry the first gutter spike free. The question jarred him so much that when the spike broke free suddenly he almost fell from his perch.

Did the boy not remember the funeral fiasco? Maybe not. He’d only been five. Brandon formulated an abbreviated version. He met Mason’s gaze. “Because I remind your mom of your dad, and that hurts her. She asked me not to visit.”

“Why’d you show up now?”

He couldn’t tell the truth. Lying was a slippery slope. “Because I missed you.”

“Well, don’t get the idea I need a dad now. I’ve been fine without one.”

The false bravado wasn’t a surprise. He descended the ladder and handed Mason the end of the gutter. “I’m sure, as man of the house, you’ve had to be fine. I still have my dad. But he has a disease. I worry about losing him every day, and I can’t imagine life without him. It must be tough.”

“What’s your dad got?”

“Parkinson’s. It steals a little of his strength at a time. And eventually, it’ll take him entirely. What’s worse is that his mind is as sharp as ever, and he’s aware of every inch of ground he’s losing. I’m fortunate to have him, and I make sure he knows that.”

He moved the ladder, climbed and repeated the process with each additional spike. Mason kept silent until Brandon removed the last one, then he blurted, “Have you ever shot anyone?”

A vision of the perp standing over Rick’s body and the blood pools spreading across the floor flashed across his brain. The sudden pressure on Brandon’s chest felt as if a beam had dropped on it. “Once. I try to avoid that.”

“Are you scared to?”

That day he’d wanted to empty his clip into the guy who’d killed Rick. The only reason he’d managed to stop after one shot was because he wanted to see if Rick was still alive. “No. I value life—mine and others’—and my job. Shooting someone without cause jeopardizes both.”

“Have you ever beat up anybody?”

Another tough answer, but truth often was. “Yes. But never for the sport of it. When I’ve hit someone it’s because I was defending myself or someone else. Again, fighting is—”

“I know, I know. A last resort. Jeez. I heard ya’ the first time.”

Brandon lowered the last end of the gutter and helped Mason carry it to the grass beside the driveway then stopped beside the boy. “Is there someone you think needs beating up now?”

A darting glance was a telling glance. “Who, Mason?”

“Nobody.”

“C’mon, everybody wants to pop someone sometime. Is a kid bothering you?” No answer.

“At school? On the bus?”

Mason hustled to the compressor. “Are you gonna show me how to use this thing or not?”

The refusal to answer was an answer. But the kid wasn’t ready to talk. Brandon let it go and offered Mason a hammer. “We’ll get to the power tools soon enough. First, we need to remove the rotten fascia board and check the rafters for decay. If we find any we’ll have to cut the bad board away and sister on a good one.”

“Huh?”

Success. Confuse the subject then offer assistance. Gaining trust, whether it was a suspect’s or a boy’s, was all about strategy. And Brandon had his mapped out. It wasn’t the best or fastest option, but it was the only one Hannah’s restrictions permitted.

“That’s what your dad said the first time I asked for his help. I’ll teach you what you need to know. Just like I taught him. But you have to listen, follow instructions and trust me. Then and only then will I let you use the saw and nail gun. Can you do that?”

The question was about far more than carpentry, but Mason wouldn’t know that.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Over the next hour Brandon guided Mason through replacing and repainting the rotten boards, with Belle’s occasional input, and then he stood back. “Not bad for your first day wielding a nail gun.”

Mason offered the first genuine smile Brandon had seen from him. “It was pretty cool. I’m hungry. You hungry?”

Progress. Mason was asking about his welfare. “I don’t think your mom’s expecting me for dinner. But let’s ask her about me coming back later in the week to show you how to rehang the gutter.”

“Okay.” Mason hustled inside.

They found Hannah and Belle in the kitchen. The smell of bacon filled the air and Brandon’s stomach grumbled.

Hannah glanced up from the frying pan, and the wariness in her eyes engaged his protective instincts. “Thank you for letting Belle hold the level. She’s talked nonstop about it since she came in.”

“No problem. She was a big help.” He winked at Belle, making her giggle, then pulled out his phone and hit the calendar app. “If weather and my case load permit, I can come back Wednesday to finish the job.”

Hannah shook her head. “We can’t do Wednesday. Belle has dance lessons.”

“Where does Mason go?”

“With us.”

“To dance lessons?”

“There’s a quiet place for him to do his homework,” she defended.

Poor kid. “Let me keep him here so he can help me with the gutter.”

Hannah pulled one corner of her bottom lip into her mouth. It was a habit he’d noticed too many times today.

“Please, Mom? Brandon’s teaching me to use his tools, and I really want to learn.”

She looked surprised by Mason’s enthusiasm. “Okay. But you have to promise to do your homework.”

“I will. I swear.”

Her gaze swung back to Brandon. “Do you um...want to stay for supper? It’s breakfast night. We’re having bacon, eggs and pancakes.”

Hannah’s forced smile couldn’t hide her lack of eagerness for his company. And he couldn’t blame her. He needed some time to get his head back on straight. “Thanks, but I’ll have to take a rain check. I need to get a few things done before work tomorrow. See you Wednesday,” he offered to the room in general.

Belle slid off her stool and rushed him. She wound her little arms around him and squeezed. “Thank you for painting my room, Occifer Brandon. It’s bootiful.”

“You’re welcome. Your picture is going to be perfect on the wall.” The urge to stay hit him hard. But he had to go. This wasn’t his family. It was Rick’s.

No matter how much he’d enjoyed spending the afternoon with Hannah and her children, there were too many risk factors attached to him. If his job didn’t get him killed, he’d still have the cloud of Parkinson’s hanging over his head.

Brandon had read extensively about the future his father faced as the disease progressed, and having loved ones wipe his butt was not in Brandon’s plan.

He could never be a family man.


Chapter Four (#uf02f770c-629a-511e-973b-54b2167a9257)

BRANDON HAD SPENT Monday and Tuesday convincing himself that his out-of-line thoughts about Hannah had been a fluke. He arrived at her house Wednesday evening, determined to prove his point.

The front door opened. Belle, wearing a pink headband, leotard and tutu and her sparkly sandals, darted out toward him. She hurled herself at him. “Occifer Brandon!”

He swung her into the air then set her down. She weighed more than the twins, his four-year-old niece and nephew, but squealed the same. “Hey, kiddo. How’s the room?”

“Prettiful!”

Her made up words were...cute. Mason stepped onto the porch. The sour expression he usually greeted Brandon with was absent. “Mom’s inside. She’s all in a tiz about leaving me here. Like you’re gonna kill me or something.”

“I’ll try not to.” Brandon fist-bumped Mason then followed the kids through the foyer to the den.

Hannah hustled around the room, gathering her purse, a sweater and a tiny pair of dance slippers. The pink band in her hair matched Belle’s, as did the shoes on her feet and the fitted T-shirt skimming her slender curves, but the resemblance ended there. A khaki skirt hugged Hannah’s hips and revealed her long legs. There was nothing girlish about her figure.

The inappropriate reactions he’d hoped were a one-time deal shot through him like an Amtrak train. His heart clickety-clacked against his sternum, and adrenaline sped through his veins. Déjà vu. Damn.

She glanced up, spotted him and stopped. Her lips parted and her breasts rose with a quick inhalation. Color tinted her cheeks. “Hi.”

“Sorry I’m late. Last-minute conference call.”

“Thanks for texting and letting me know. We’re still okay for time. Are you sure you don’t mind staying with Mason?” Her words came out in a breathy rush—the kind that made him think of urgent middle-of-the-night whispers. And that was just wrong.

“Nah. I need his help. It’s a two-man job.”

Behind her back Mason gave him a thumbs-up. Teamwork. Progress.

“We usually grab dinner after dance lessons, but there’s sandwich stuff if y’all get hungry before I get home. Make yourself comfortable. If there’s anything you need, anything at all... Except I don’t think I have beer and I know I don’t have anything stronger, but—”

“Hannah.” He held up a hand to stop the flood of words. Despite what she’d said, she wasn’t at ease giving him full run of her home. Her hit-and-run glances and the pink-painted toenails curling in her sandals revealed her agitation. “I’ll get dinner for Mason and me, and I don’t mix alcohol with power tools. Take your time. You and Belle should have a girls’ night out dinner.”

“Oh. Well... I don’t know.”

“Do it, Mom. Go to that dumb salad place,” Mason encouraged. “You know...the one I hate and you love.”

Smart. The kid was trying to get them some extra tool time.

“Okay then... I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” Her attention shifted to Mason. “Listen and behave.” Then she hurried Belle out the door.

“You owe me, kid,” Brandon said.

Mason’s gaze turned wary. “For what?”

“For getting you out of going to dance with your sister.”

“Oh yeah. Thanks.” Mason scuffed his shoe on the floor. “Sisters suck.”

“Not always. Wait until she starts learning to cook. You’ll have more cookies and cakes from her experiments than you ever dreamed of, and most will be edible. Then when she’s a teenager she’ll bring home her friends. Pretty, datable girls, paraded right through your door. What’s not to like?”

Mason’s face turned red. “How do you know?”

“I have two sisters.” He checked his watch. “I’m ordering a pizza. You interested?” The magic word could make most males smile.

“Pizza! Heck, yeah.”

“Who delivers here?”

Mason shrugged. “We never get pizza delivered.”

He couldn’t have scripted a better answer. “Boot up your computer and let’s look it up.”

“Can’t you do it on your phone?”

He’d anticipated the question. “It’s easier to see a menu on a larger screen.”

“Why do you need a menu for pizza?”

“Because I want to order more than just pizza. Hang with me, kid. I’ll teach you a few things.”

Mason bought his excuse and quickly logged on. The boy executed a search without any instructions from Brandon. Then he pivoted the screen for Brandon to see. “These are our choices.”

Brandon pointed to a familiar name. “Your dad and I used to eat here. Food’s good. It’s not a chain. May I?”

At Mason’s nod, Brandon reached across him and used the touchpad to open the restaurant’s menu. “Large, all-meats okay with you?”

“Sounds great!” Mason said enthusiastically. “Whenever we get pizza we have to get plain cheese. That’s all Belle will eat. And it’s cheaper.”

Brandon hated the idea of Hannah having to watch every penny. He deliberately closed the window and straightened, then stopped, feigning a puzzled expression. “Wait. Did the phone number end in two six or six two?”

“Uh... I don’t know.”

Brandon clicked on the arrow that would bring up the search history. As he’d expected, it came up blank. “The URL’s not there.”

Mason’s fingers poised over the keys. “I can get the website back up.”

“Is your computer set to delete histories?”

Tension invaded the boy’s face and body. “Um...yeah.”

“How do you know how to do that?”

Mason hunched over the keyboard, ducking his chin. “I learned at school. I have to take a computer class every year, and they make us erase our histories so the next class can’t cheat and use our answers. So I do it at home. Out of habit. Because I do it every day at school. That’s all. Nothing else. Just habit.”

Plausible answer. But it didn’t explain Mason’s sudden wariness or why he’d used so many words and spoken so fast. Excessive explanations usually meant the subject had something to hide.

Mason found the page. Brandon dropped the subject. There was a time to press for more info and a time to ease up. If he didn’t want Mason on the defensive, this was the latter. He dialed the number and placed the order for pizza and the garlic knots Hannah used to love.

“Pizza won’t be here for forty minutes. Let’s see if we can get the gutter hung before the rain or the pizza arrive.”

Mason abandoned the computer easily and followed him outside. The lack of hesitation made Brandon question whether the computer was the root of the problem. No, there were too many clues implicating the device as a link.

The air was thick and heavy with a pending storm. They gathered the tools and set up in front of the garage. Brandon talked about anything but computers for half the job then asked, “You keep looking at the woods. Are you expecting company?”

Mason dropped his hammer. It clattered loudly down the aluminum rungs. “Ummm. No. I’m never here on Wednesday nights. Nobody would be looking for me.”

The kid sounded a little defensive. Brandon searched for a neutral subject. “Right. Ballet. Do your mom and Belle always dress alike?”

Mason’s face screwed up like he’d bitten into a lemon. “Yeah. Belle’s idea. She loves it. I think it’s stupid.”

“It’s kind of cute.”

Mason faked a vomiting sound.

“Could be worse, bud. They could make you wear the same color.”

“I’d shoot myself first.”

“You have any guns in the house?” Rick had owned several.

“No. Jeez. It’s just a sayin’.”

Brandon held the level and waited for the boy to retrieve the hammer and get back into position. “Do you have any friends in this neighborhood? I didn’t see bikes, toys or basketball goals in the other yards when I drove in.”

“Nah. Only old people live on our street.”

That shot down one theory. “What about behind you?”

Mason stiffened. “I don’t know.”

Looked like the friend he’d been going to study with wasn’t fictitious. “I just wondered if you have anyone to shoot hoops with.”

“Nah. Somebody left the net here one Christmas. Mom says it was Santa.” The sarcasm in his voice and the accompanying eye roll silently voiced his opinion about that.

“Not buying that, huh?”

“No.”

“You ever shoot?”

“Sometimes. I’m not very good.”

“Your dad and I used to play together.” Mason said nothing. Brandon let a few more minutes pass, then asked, “Do you like computers?”

“I guess.”

“Your dad was good with them—probably the best I’ve ever known.”

“Why do you keep talking about my dad?”

“Because he was my best friend for more than twenty years. More like a brother. He was a big part of my life. I miss him.”

“Well, I don’t even remember him, and he wasn’t a big part of mine. So stop it. Okay? Pizza’s here.” Mason scrambled down the ladder and headed for the delivery vehicle just entering the driveway, ending the discussion.

It pained Brandon to hear that Mason didn’t remember his father. Rick had been too great a guy to be forgotten—especially by his own son. Brandon resolved to find a way to rectify that situation. That meant he now had two assignments: figure out where Mason’s bad behavior originated, and help him remember his father.

* * *

“I WAS ABOUT to call you,” Lucy said when Hannah bustled Belle into the dance studio’s waiting area. “You’re never late.”

Hannah checked her watch. “Hi, Lucy. We’re not late, but we are cutting it close. Is Ella feeling better?”

“No. That stomach flu has knocked her out. She’s staying with my mom while Celia gets her groove on.”

Hannah glanced through the window overlooking the dance floor to Celia, Lucy’s youngest. She’d worn her dress-up tiara tonight. Belle would be begging for one on the way home.

“I hope you and Celia don’t come down with it.” Then she turned to Belle. “Hurry and put on your slippers, sweetie. The other girls are already lined up.”

Belle did as asked then dashed through the door and galloped across the room to the barre to greet her friend Celia. Hannah scooped up her daughter’s sandals and sank onto the bleachers provided for parents. Her pulse was racing, but only because she’d been rushing and because she was having second thoughts about leaving Brandon in charge at her house. It had nothing to do with the man himself. Nothing at all.

Lucy scanned the room. “Where’s Mason?”

“At home.”

Red eyebrows shot skyward. “Alone? Given what’s been going on, is that wise?”

Hannah took a long, calming breath. Aside from Brandon, Lucy was the only one who knew about Mason sneaking out. Her friend’s question was understandable. “I left him with a former colleague of Rick’s.”

“A cop?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess Mason won’t get into anything.”

Hannah glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Hope not.”

“So who is this colleague?”

“Brandon Martin.”

Lucy’s green eyes and mouth rounded. “It’s-his-fault, Brandon Martin?”

Hannah put a finger to her lips and nodded. She didn’t want her business shared.

“I thought you hated his guts,” Lucy whispered.

“Hate is a strong word.” But accurate. For years she’d channeled all of her anger from grief toward Brandon. “He’s Mason’s godfather. And I didn’t know who else to ask. He and Mason are fixing the sagging gutter over my garage door.”

“Ooh. He’s a handyman? Is he single?”

She shot Lucy a level look. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“If you’re determined to keep your fixer-upper, you have to admit, you could use a man around.”

“For repairs, yes. For anything else, no.”

“But—”

“Even if I didn’t hold him responsible for Rick’s death, the fact that he’s a cop makes him off-limits.”

“That’s only two strikes.”

The third was that Brandon made her feel things. Womanly things. She would never let herself fall in love again. Falling meant landing—hard—when it ended. And sex...well, for her, love and sex went hand in hand. “This isn’t baseball. Two strikes is enough.”

“Girl, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

Lucy was a single mom with an active social life. She fell in and out of love every few months and shared all the juicy details with Hannah. At first, the guy was Mr. Perfect and she’d extoll his virtues. Then she started to see his flaws and Hannah heard about those, too. She was convinced her friend was more in love with the idea of love than the practice of it. It seemed like she always wanted romance’s version of new car smell.

“I’m not missing anything. I love my kids. I love my job. I love my house. Life is good.”

“C’mon.” She leaned closer. “Don’t you miss sex?”

Embarrassed, Hannah again checked to see if any of the other parents were listening, but they were too engrossed in their cell phones to care.

“No.” Yes. But it wasn’t just the physical act she missed. It was all the rest: the companionship, the adult conversations, having someone who shared her hopes and dreams and understood her need to put down roots—deep roots. But no matter how great her relationship with Rick had been, nothing could fill the gaping hole his death had left behind. Her children had been too young to suffer much then. They weren’t now, and she would never put them through the loving and losing hell she’d endured. Which meant that bringing a man in—one who might leave—was out of the question.

“But—”

“Lucy, watch the girls.”

The peace lasted five minutes. “Maybe if you did something at church besides volunteer for nursery duty you’d meet a guy.”

“I know you find it hard to believe, but I’m not looking.”

“Men with babies have wives,” she continued as if Hannah hadn’t spoken. “If you’d teach the older kids’ class you could meet some single Christian dads who no longer have that wife attachment.”

“News flash. I don’t go to church to pick up men.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Girl, you are blind to so many opportunities. Just think who you’d meet if Mason played sports.”

“He doesn’t like sports.”

“Then sign him up for a scout troop or a science club.”

Hannah stuck her fingers in her ears. “La la la.”

“Scoff if you want, but I’m worried about you. You spend too much time alone.”

“I’m with people all day.”

“I meant in your downtime.” She paused briefly before her next question. “So, is Brandon attractive?”

Hannah’s ears burned. She shot her friend an end-of-my-patience glare that would have silenced her children.

“That blush answers my question, but FYI, I meant for me, not you. I’m in the relationship Sahara right now. Invite me over after dance tonight. Introduce us.”

“No!” Hannah spoke so loudly that the other mothers looked up from their gadgets. She didn’t know why she felt so strongly against the introduction. “He’s not your type. He doesn’t go dancing or hang out in bars.”

At least he hadn’t back when he and Rick had been friends.

“He’s a desk jockey?”

With that body? Not likely. “He’s a cop who worked with Rick, remember?”

“Then he’s my type. And who are we kidding? I’ll consider any man who is relatively intelligent, gainfully employed and in decent shape.”

The problem was, Lucy might do more than date Brandon. And then Hannah would have to hear about the physical side of their relationship in excruciating detail. No, thanks. She turned away from Lucy. “Oh look. They’re practicing pirouettes. Aren’t they adorable?”

She could feel Lucy watching her, but she didn’t turn or do anything else to encourage the conversation. This class couldn’t end soon enough. But once it did, she’d be going home to Brandon. To Mason, she hastily corrected. To Mason. Brandon was just a temporary affliction she must endure until she figured out what was going on with her son.

* * *

THE STORM THAT the day’s humidity had promised broke loose on the drive home. As if she wasn’t stressed enough about seeing Brandon again, Hannah had to fight through almost zero visibility and pounding water on the roads, grabbing and pulling her tires. She needed new wiper blades and tires. Pushing that worry aside, she pulled into the garage, heaved a sigh of relief and wiggled her fingers. They were cramped from having a death grip on the wheel.

Belle sprang from the car and sprinted into the house. Her daughter ran everywhere. Where did she find the energy? Hannah followed more slowly, pausing a moment to register the lack of water falling over the open door before she pushed the button to close it. She passed through the laundry room and dropped her purse on the kitchen counter.

The aroma of Italian food assailed her, making her wish she’d eaten more than a salad after dance class. She hustled to the den where Belle was chattering nonstop and demonstrating the new steps she’d learned tonight for Mason and Brandon. Both males reclined on the couch with an open, empty pizza box on the coffee table. Mason was wearing different clothes now and looked like he’d had a shower.

Brandon’s smiling gaze transferred from Belle to Hannah, and a surge of...something...shot through her. Relief that Mason looked relaxed and content instead of combative. That was all it was.

Brandon rose. “She’s quite a talented ballerina.”

“Yes,” was the only thing Hannah could squeeze out through her tight throat. Why did his smile and gentlemanly manners make it hard to breathe? Then she realized it was because his jeans were damp and clinging to his—Ahem.

“We saved some garlic knots for you. They’re keeping warm in the oven,” he said.

She looked at the box and recognized the familiar logo. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation and her mouth watered. “From Giuseppe’s? I haven’t eaten there in years.”

He turned to Mason. “Your mom was bloodthirsty. She used to threaten me with bodily harm if I ate the last garlic knot.”

The pressure in her chest increased. “That was a long time ago.”

He shrugged. “They’re as good as they used to be.”

Mason perked up. “Brandon said we had to save the rest for you. But if you don’t want ’em...” He started to rise.

“I do.”

“Dang.” Her son flopped back down, a picture of total dejection.

Brandon cut him a look. “How can you have room for more food?”

Mason grinned, looking so much like the sweet child she loved that it choked Hannah up all over again. “I’m a growing boy. And man, you worked me hard.”

Which reminded her... “I see my gutter is fixed and draining properly.”

“You should have been here, Mom. Right after we finished, a big bolt of lightning lit up the sky, then it thundered so loud it sounded like a bomb went off. The ladders rattled. We barely got the tools into Brandon’s truck before the bottom fell out. We got soaked!”

That explained the shower and clean clothes. Her son’s sullen attitude was gone. Brandon had managed a miracle. “Thank you for your work. Both of you.”

“I put the wet towels in the washer,” Brandon added. “Added to the stuff you already had in there, it was enough to run a load. So we did.”

“The machine’s pretty easy to work,” her son, who had never done a load of laundry in his life, volunteered. “Brandon showed me how. And he says I can help him with more stuff if you’ll give him a project list.”

It took a moment for her brain to recover from the shock of her son being eager to do chores. “Um... I’ll work on that.”

She didn’t want to be beholden to Brandon or have him hanging around her house or washing her clothes. Asking for help with Mason had been hard enough. And that was all she wanted from him. But how could she refuse when her son sounded so happy about being included? And then the guilt kicked in again. He needed a man’s influence. And she couldn’t give him that.

“Did you finish your homework?”

Mason’s crestfallen expression revealed his answer before he mumbled, “Most of it. All I have left is math.”

“Get to it.”

He slouched out of the room. Thunder shook the house, drowning out the sound of Mason’s heavy footsteps tromping up the stairs. The lights flickered.

Then because she couldn’t handle more of Brandon’s silent smiles she turned to her daughter. “Belle, you need to have your bath and get ready for bed. Go on up. I’ll be there right after I see out our guest.”

“But, Mom, can’t Occifer Brandon tuck me in?”

“No.”

“Sure,” he replied simultaneously.

Hannah shook her head. She needed him gone. “You don’t have to do that. I know you need to get ready for work tomorrow.”

“I can stick around until after you give Belle her bath. A few more minutes won’t kill me. It might even give the worst of the storm time to pass.”

Suddenly, she felt mean for wanting to throw him out into the deluge. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I have a niece and nephew, twins who just turned four. I can handle reading a bedtime story.”

“Yippee!” Belle charged upstairs before Hannah could come up with an excuse.

The lights blinked again and Brandon frowned. “Do you have frequent outages?”

“Enough.”

“Where do you keep your flashlights? I’ll get them out in case you lose power while you give the ballerina a bath.”

“In the laundry room drawer, but I usually use the hurricane lamps on the mantel. Matches are with the flashlights. What did you find out from Mason?”

“Very little. Gathering info is a finesse job. It’ll take time, but I’ll get to the bottom of it. Do you know the families who live on the street behind you?”

“No. Why?”

“Mason kept checking the woods. I’ll see what I can get on your neighbors.”

“Why?”

“Just a hunch.”

“What kind of a hunch?”

“Nothing concrete.”

The lights went out before she could press for more. Belle cried, “Mommy!”

Brandon pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and hit the flashlight app. Hannah had left hers in her purse on the kitchen counter.

“Wait here. I’ll get you a light.” He left and returned a moment later with a box of matches. “Your flashlight batteries are dead. Do you have more?”

“Mason dropped the flashlight the night he tried to sneak out. I suspect it’s the bulb.”

After lighting the kerosene lamps, he handed her one. “Take care of Belle. You have city water and a gas water heater. She can still have her bath. I’ll check on Mason.”

Of course Brandon knew all the details about her house. He’d been a huge part of the purchase process. If not for him, she would never have been able to convince Rick to buy the old home she’d fallen in love with the moment she’d seen it. Brandon had been the one to shadow the inspector, and when Rick had been daunted by the amount of work the house needed, Brandon had pointed out that the previous owners had already done all the expensive renovations, leaving only cosmetic projects incomplete. He’d helped Rick make and prioritize the renovation list.

That Brandon had been such a huge part of their lives had made his failure to protect Rick even more difficult to comprehend.

They climbed the wide stairs side by side. Wind rattled the windows and whistled under the eaves. It was comforting to have someone else here to help with the weather this nasty. And that was crazy, because she’d handled every previous outage just fine by herself. She pushed that feeling aside, and on the landing, they went in opposite directions—her to her daughter, him to her son.

After giving Belle her bath and dressing her for bed, Hannah left the lamp on the table and headed for Mason’s room. Brandon had one hip parked on the corner of her son’s desk. Both he and Mason looked comfortable together. Even though she hadn’t made a sound Brandon looked up. “He has Rick’s head for numbers.”

“Yes. He does. Belle has picked out her book. She’s waiting for you. I’ll take over here.”

He rose and crossed the room. Their shoulders brushed as he passed, and static electricity zapped her, making her gasp. Brandon paused and their gazes met in the darkened room. The electricity between them had to be due to the storm. She hustled to Mason’s side and settled in to check homework, but her thoughts were anything but settled. She kept listening for sounds from Belle’s room.

Finally, Mason closed his book. “He’s pretty cool. Brandon, I mean. I can see why Dad would have wanted to be his friend. He knows stuff.”

She didn’t want her son comparing the men and have Rick come up short. “Yes. He does. But your daddy did, too. He was smart in a different way.”

“If you say so.”

“I’m going to leave the light with you. Be careful. It’s an open flame and fuel—”

“Moooom, I know!”

She returned to Belle’s room but paused outside the door to listen as Brandon read a much-loved tale using different voices for each character. Undetected, she observed the reflection of the man and child in the bed via the mirror hanging over Belle’s dresser.

Brandon was propped against the headboard, book in hand, looking as if he belonged there. His long legs, crossed at his ankles, were on top of the quilt revealing his sock-covered feet. Her daughter lay trustingly beside him with her folded hands beneath her cheek, eyes heavy lidded and close to sleep. A pang of yearning hit Hannah so hard it took her breath. Rick used to read in bed, and Hannah had often fallen asleep at his side.

How would it feel to be curled against Brandon’s side as trustingly as Belle? She shook her head. Thoughts like that were disloyal to Rick. Her husband had never known the simple joy of reading stories to his daughter. He’d been killed on the eve of Belle’s first birthday. Pain and regret rolled through her.

Then she realized Brandon had gone silent. She caught him watching her in the mirror and she couldn’t look away. Her pulse quickened. Why? Why did he have this effect on her?

He closed the book and eased from the bed. After gently covering Belle, he gathered his boots off the floor and the lamp from the table and joined her in the hall.

“She’s out, but she fought it,” he whispered. Lamplight and hushed voices engulfed them in intimacy.

His attention shifted behind her—to her bedroom. It lingered, scanned. Lightning flashed, illuminating her bed and the half-dozen throw pillows that hadn’t been there when he’d last slept in that same bed. Lord, she didn’t need to think about him between those same sheets.

Then his gaze swung back to her. The flickering light picked out the golden flecks in his irises. She felt vulnerable even though he couldn’t possibly know that her obsession with pillows was because she couldn’t bear to sleep in an empty bed.

He lifted his arm, the one holding the light. Her breath caught. An image of Brandon propped against her headboard flashed in her mind. Only in this picture his chest was bare and his legs were beneath the covers. Heat rushed through her.

The atmosphere changed, becoming as electrically charged as the storm raging outside. Her heart pounded harder, but it was barely audible over the thunder rumbling the house.

“After you,” he said.

What was wrong with her? He was indicating the stairs, not the bedroom. She blamed her unwelcome thoughts on her conversation with Lucy. She did not want Brandon. Not in that way. She had to get him out of her house. She turned and quickly descended the stairs. On silent feet he followed her, the edge of his circle of light nipping at her heels. In the foyer he set the lamp on the console table and stepped into his work boots.

“So you’ve read bedtime stories before,” she said to break the awkwardly intimate silence.

“I read to the twins sometimes when they stay with my folks to give Mom a break. And, once in a while, I get suckered into reading at the library on Cops and Kids day.”

She’d like to see that. No! She wouldn’t. “Why aren’t you married with children of your own by now, Brandon?”

He finished tying his laces then straightened, looming over her in the murky light. The corners of his mouth curved downward. “Two reasons. My job—you, more than anyone, know the risks that entails—and my dad.”

Yes, she knew the dangers of police work. And she needed to remember them. Right now. “What does your father have to do with anything?”

“He has Parkinson’s disease. It’s not believed to be hereditary, but the doctors can’t be certain of the cause. One day he’ll need ’round the clock care for his most basic needs. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

She was familiar with the disease and had worked with several afflicted patients in the past. “What stage is he in now?”

“Stage two. He’s still mostly independent, but he’s starting to need help. Not that he’s willing to admit that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It is what it is. You play the hand you’re dealt. You’ve done a good job of that, Hannah. Mason and Belle are great kids.”

The praise, something she heard so rarely, choked her up, made her eyes burn. But she would not cry in front of Brandon. “I wish Rick was here to see them.”

Brandon’s flinch stabbed her with guilt. She hadn’t intentionally used the spiteful barb to push him away, but distance between them was for the best. When she’d seen him so comfortable with Mason and then again with Belle he’d made her ache for something she would never have again. A partner, someone with whom she could share the joys and burdens of parenthood.

That wind-down period at the end of the day when you rehashed what had happened and planned for the future was tough. That was when loneliness enveloped her. And, yes, as much as she’d tried to deny it, she did miss intimacy. But taking a lover as casually as Lucy did just wasn’t part of her makeup.

Brandon’s lips compressed. “Make your project list, Hannah. I’ll be back. And we’ll get to the bottom of what’s troubling Mason.”


Chapter Five (#uf02f770c-629a-511e-973b-54b2167a9257)

BRANDON THREW DOWN his pen in disgust late Friday afternoon, pushed back from his desk and stabbed his fingers through his hair. He had shit for brains today. He’d tried repeatedly to focus on the case files on his desk, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t wipe what he’d seen Wednesday night from his mind.

For a split second while standing on the landing outside Hannah’s bedroom something hotter than the hurricane lamp’s flame had flickered in Hannah’s eyes. Want. Need. Hunger. And for the span of a dozen racing heartbeats, he’d been tempted to give her what she desired. Because he’d wanted it, too. Then he’d come to his senses. He’d tried blaming the heat in her eyes on the reflection of the lamp’s fire. But he wasn’t buying it.

Circumstances were throwing them together and causing the craziness. It had been five years and she didn’t date. That meant she didn’t have sex. She needed a man. Any man. Except him—the man she blamed for her husband’s death. It didn’t matter that she needed his help with Mason right now, a basic distrust—because he’d let her down, because he’d let Rick down—lay just below the surface.

His dry spell hadn’t been nearly as long as hers, but it had obviously been too long if he was looking at Rick’s wife that way. He needed to rectify the situation. He reached for his phone but didn’t pick it up. He had no interest in dialing any of the numbers in his contact list, and he wasn’t interested in a casual pickup.

As if his thoughts had activated the device, his cell phone vibrated on the desk. He glanced at the screen. He had a text message from his mother.

Hello, dear. Jessamine and Logan are flying into town for the weekend. We’re going to have an impromptu cookout. Are you able to attend?

His mother’s habit of always texting in complete sentences and with proper grammar made him smile. His youngest sister and her new husband lived in the Florida Keys. He didn’t get to see them often. He liked Logan, his brother-in-law, but a guy always had to keep an eye out for his baby sister’s welfare.

Depends on day and time. Helping Hannah, he tapped back.

Hannah? Are you dating someone new?

He cringed. He could practically feel her excitement even though they were miles apart. She’d made it clear she wanted more grandchildren. He’d also made it clear they wouldn’t be coming from him. But she wasn’t listening.

Rick’s Hannah.

I thought she wasn’t speaking to you?

His parents had been at the funeral and witnessed the blowup.

She needs help with a project.

What kind of project?

His mother had been a schoolteacher until she’d quit at the end of the last school year to help his father around the orchard, and she understood kids better than anyone he knew. He would like her advice. He debated filling her in. But that was a face-to-face conversation. Not a texted one.

Home maintenance.

Truth, just not the whole truth.

You could bring her and the children to the cookout. They are welcome and we would love to see them.

Given Rick had practically grown up at their house, the sentiment was no surprise.

I’ll relay message. When’s dinner?

Saturday night. Come early. Your father will need assistance, but don’t let on that you’re helping.

Will do.

He put down the phone. It immediately vibrated again, but this time “Hannah Leith” flashed on the screen, sending a jolt through him.

Need u 2 come over. NOW.

A freefalling sensation hit him, not unlike what he’d experienced the one time he’d stupidly let Rick convince him to try skydiving. He grabbed the phone and hit her number. This wasn’t texting material, either.

“Hello?” The whispered response was almost inaudible.

Adrenaline pulsed through him. People whispered on the phone when they were in danger. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“It’s me. Mason. Mom doesn’t know I swiped her phone. There’s water all over the kitchen floor. Something busted. She wants to call a plumber, but she told her friend Lucy we can’t afford it this month. She’s kinda upset. I think she might cry.”

Relief doused panic. Water and tears he could handle. “The cutoff valve is in the pantry. Bottom left corner. Turn off the water. I’m on my way.”

He grabbed the file he’d been working on and shoved it into his briefcase. Thankful the rest of the team had already left to begin whatever their Friday night entailed, he signed out and headed for Hannah’s. Twenty minutes later he pulled into the driveway. Mason was waiting for him on the porch.

Brandon grabbed the toolbox he kept in his truck. “Did you turn off the water?”

“Yeah. I umm...didn’t tell Mom I called you. She might be mad.”

“If she is, I’ll handle it. You did the right thing. Let’s see what we have.” The kitchen floor resembled a soggy quilt of multicolored, saturated towels. Hannah stood over the sink wringing out one. Her drooping shoulders screamed defeat. Her lavender scrub suit was wet at the bottom and down the front. The thin fabric clung to her—

“Occifer Brandon,” Belle cried out when she spotted him. Brandon welcomed the distraction.

Hannah stiffened and turned. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard you needed help.”

Hannah shot Mason a scolding look then nodded. “Clearly, I do.”

Oblivious to the tension in the air, the little ballerina sprang from her stool and splashed across the wet floor to wrap her arms around Brandon’s hips. He set his tools on the counter and hugged her back. She was, of course, dressed in the same hue as her mother. He liked that. But he couldn’t see his sisters ever doing it.

He crossed to the sink, squelching on wet towels with each step, and stopped beside Hannah. Her breath caught, her head tipped back and her lips parted. Standing only inches from her, her scent infiltrated his nostrils, addled his brain. He mentally shook himself. “I need to check under the sink.”

“Oh. Right.” She jumped out of the way, landing with a splash on a wet towel.

He opened the cabinet. “Dry here. That leaves the dishwasher and the refrigerator as water sources.”

He straightened and addressed Mason. “My dad taught me to check the easy fixes first. Since fixing the dishwasher means pulling it out from under the counter, I’m going to start with the fridge.”

“I’ll help.”

“First, try this.” Brandon cupped his hand beneath the water-in-the-door spout and pushed. It clicked but didn’t dispense anything. “This looks like the guilty party. Now I need your help, Mason.”

He didn’t really, but including the boy was a calculated move. Mason sprang forward, and together they rolled the fridge away from the wall. Brandon spotted the problem immediately, but instead of reacting, he asked, “What do you see?”

It took Mason a quarter minute. “The icemaker thingy is on the floor.”

“Bingo. Hoses don’t usually detach by themselves, but this one did.”

Hannah groaned quietly. “It might not have been by itself. I dropped Mason’s field trip permission form between the counter and fridge this morning. I pushed the fridge aside to retrieve the paper.”

“You might have jiggled the waterline loose. Grab my tools, Mason. I’ll show you how to fix it.”

Five minutes later the job was done. “Kids, carry the towels to the washing machine for your mom. Then Mason, you can turn the water back on.”

They hustled into action. Hannah stood with her hands wrapped around her middle. The gratitude in her eyes hit Brandon square in the solar plexus. She made him feel like a rock star when he was only a guy with a wrench. “Thank you for finding the leak. But more than that, thanks for making it a teachable moment and letting Mason fix it.”

“No problem. It’s what my dad would have done. He put tools in our hands as soon as we were able to carry them and taught us how to repair rather than replace. Besides, if the hose came loose once, it might again. He’ll know what to do next time.”

“We both will.” She shifted on her feet. “I’m sorry he called you. I hope he didn’t interrupt a date or something.”

Brandon stifled a wince over his lack of a social life and ducked into the closet to turn on the water without waiting for Mason. “I’m glad he did. It was past time for me to leave the office, and it’s important that Mason knows he can ask for help. I want to help, Hannah. But like Mason, you have to be willing to ask. Mind reading isn’t one of my skills.”

She ducked her head and plucked at her damp shirt. “I’m not very good at asking. My father raised me to be independent.”

“With him deployed as often as he was, I’m sure you had to be. Good thing you’re not too old to learn new tricks. Although you are pushing thirty-one. That’s cutting it close,” he teased.

Her gaze snapped back to his, surprised at first, then filling with amusement. A self-deprecating smile twisted her lips. “Thanks for making me feel ancient. My birthday isn’t for a few more weeks, and I’m still younger than you.”

He laughed. That was the old Hannah—quick with the comeback.

“Can Occifer Brandon stay for dinner?” Belle asked.

Hannah’s expression filled with dismay. “We’re only having hot dogs, sweetie, and I’m sure Officer Brandon has other plans.”

A smart man would go home. He, apparently, wasn’t that man. “I love hot dogs, and somebody needs to man the grill.”

He waited to see how Hannah would get out of that one. “The grill probably won’t work. I haven’t used it since Rick... Cooking outside was his domain.”

“Do you have propane?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mason’s old enough to take over. We’ll check it out.”

“Okay, then,” she replied with a noticeable lack of excitement. “Brandon, I need to pay you for what you’ve done and for the boards and whatever else you bought to repair the gutter.”

After hearing she couldn’t afford a plumber, the last thing he would do was take her money. “I had extra supplies laying around from fixing my rental houses.”

She shook her head. “They still cost you something, and your time is definitely worth—”

“Hannah, I don’t want your money.”

“I insist—”

Once again, opportunity knocked loud and clear. “There’s a way you can repay me. My parents are having a cookout tomorrow. I want you and the kids to come.”

He knew her answer before she opened her mouth. Refusal was stamped all over her from her puckered brows to her folded arms and even the curling toes of her bare feet. “No. I... I wouldn’t be comfortable.”

He held up a hand. “Hear me out. I told you my dad has Parkinson’s. He needs help. But he refuses to admit it. He’s losing ground, but he hates the physical therapist his doctor recommended. That means he doesn’t go. I want your professional opinion on his status. If you could evaluate him without him knowing what you’re doing and give me suggestions for managing the changes overtaking his body, it would be a great help.”

Compassion filled her eyes. She bit her lip. “Denial of the diagnosis is common. I guess we could drop by for a bit.”

* * *

EVEN THOUGH SHE’D been a guest at Rebecca and Thomas Martin’s home more than a dozen times, Hannah didn’t want to be here. She didn’t know how to act without Rick. But she followed Brandon’s instructions and circled the backyard, trying to keep up with her eager children.

A white board fence enclosed the large grass area. Beyond that border row upon row of peach trees, laden with fruit, stretched as far as she could see. Off to one side outbuildings, including a barn and a chicken coop, blocked her view.

“Ponies!” Belle squealed and tugged on Hannah’s hand. But Hannah held tight.

“Four-wheelers,” Mason called out with equal enthusiasm.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/emilie-rose/a-cop-s-honor/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.